He’d gone over the cost estimates as well as projected income potential, making notes to review with his men of business tomorrow. With that accomplished, he set the proposal aside and stood to stretch his cramped muscles. A good swim later in the day would help relieve the tightness, though nothing eased and centered him as much as Cecilia.
His fingers brushed the black crepe around his arm, and a barb of guilt pierced him. It was wrong, somehow, to experience such happiness in the wake of losing his father, yet he couldn’t stop himself from being with Cecilia, and living for their stolen time. Existing in a double life, rife with secrets, gnawed at him. He could say nothing to his mother, and would never write of it in his letters to friends from Oxford.
But he wanted to shout it from the roof of Tarrington House: he’d found a woman he cherished beyond reason.
No one could learn of their liaison. Masters of the house could indulge in affairs with governesses, receiving nudges and winks and approving thumps on the back from their fellow aristocratic men. The risk was hers, and hers alone.
He would be praised for his manliness, but society would condemn her for immorality. It was the worst kind of hypocrisy that, though they were both willing participants in their affair, she would be the outcast, losing her employment and rendering her unable to find any other work. The school she dreamed of would never come to be. He had to shield her from that fate.
Even though Cecilia deserved far better than stolen moments, that was all he could give her.
He oughtn’t brood over the future, and should accept gratefully what he had now. Yet he wanted more. He wanted her always, to fall asleep beside her and wake with her in the full light of morning, perhaps someday to start a family, and walk hand in hand in full view of the world.
Until yesterday, he hadn’t known what he truly meant to her, and now that he did, his chest tightened with the futility of his wants and wishes. The best he could hope for now was holding off his mother’s push to see him married. He hated the thought of taking any woman who wasn’t Cecilia to his bed.
There was a tap at the door, disrupting his thoughts.
“Enter,” he said.
Vale stepped into the study. “Forgive me for the interruption, Your Grace, but there is a current matter which requires your attention.”
More accustomed now to being the person the staff turned to for direction, Owen asked, “What is the current matter?”
“A caravan of genteel individuals was en route to a gathering in the country when one of their carriages developed an issue with its axle. They were not far from Tarrington House when this situation arose and, knowing you were in residence, it was suggested they stop here and prevail upon the household for assistance.”
Owen frowned. “Much as I’d like to provide aid, we’re in mourning and not receiving anyone.”
“So I explained to them, Your Grace, but I was asked to relay to you the fact that the individuals in the damaged carriage are Lord and Lady Sulgrave.”
“You might have told me that first, Vale,” Owen said, though there was no reproof in his voice. The viscount was an old friend of his late father—in fact, the two had been in the same block of boys at Eton many decades ago.
Though it wasn’t the custom to entertain guests so soon after a death in the family, for such an unusual situation, an exception could be made. Besides, it would be a fine way to honor Owen’s father by playing host to his friend.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” The butler dipped his head in dignified contrition.
“Of course, they are welcome to make use of our staff to repair their carriage. While they wait, we’ll need refreshments for Lord and Lady Sulgrave and their companions. The day is quite pleasant, so see that the company is brought out to the terrace. And inform the duchess that we are to have visitors. She can determine whether or not she’ll want to visit with them, and if she deems it appropriate for my sisters to greet our guests. How many of them are there?”
“I believe there are two other couples with them, as well as three unaccompanied gentlemen, a widow, and her companion.”
“Be certain that the cook prepares enough food and drink for everyone.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Vale bowed before retreating.
Once he was alone, Owen walked to the pier glass over the fireplace and tried to retie his neckcloth into some measure of tidiness. He had a habit of picking at the fabric around his neck when reading, which helped him focus, but also had the unwanted consequence of making him resemble a wild-eyed poet of the Romantic bent. As the heir, he could afford to appear slightly less than ducal, but now that he was the duke, he needed to look suitably distinguished.
Half an hour later, he stood on the terrace with Lord and Lady Sulgrave, as well as their companions, partaking of tea and a bewildering array of pastries and sandwiches. It never ceased to fill him with wonder how adept Tarrington House’s cook was, with her ability to provide a bounty of refreshments in such a short amount of time.
The company was on their way to Viscount Sulgrave’s country estate, some fifty miles north, and brought with them tales of London. Most everyone had cleared out of the city as the summer heat had descended, but a handful of the ton remained to complain about the weather and ennui.
“You were quite right to flee the moment Parliament was in recess,” Sulgrave said before taking a bite of scone. “What a decided bore London is until September.”
“His Grace is especially fond of rural life,” his mother said from beneath her parasol. She had opted to join the guests, which came as no surprise. Owen’s father used to jestingly complain about the number of galas the duchess insisted on hosting throughout the Season, as well as house parties during the summer. “Lately, he is happier here. It is the fresh air that agrees with him.”
Smoothing his expression, Owen sipped at his tea. His mother had no idea that, though he did enjoy being in the country, his happiness had one source: the woman currently ensconced in the schoolroom.
“Yes, the countryside is so good for one’s health,” Sir Kenneth Whelan said from his place by the stone balustrade. He was a hale man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, with fair hair and tanned skin. “When Lady Juliet and I were raising our daughter on the Continent, we kept her away from unhealthy cities as much as possible.”
“We did compromise,” Lady Juliet added with a laugh. She wore her dark brown hair in an artistic arrangement, with fresh flowers tucked in amongst the combs. “A few weeks in a city here, and then a month in the country so we could all restore our constitutions. There’s nothing like a good ramble to balance one’s humors.”
“Very true,” Owen said noncommittally. This company was pleasant enough, but how much better it would be to sit on the terrace with Cecilia, unafraid as they enjoyed their tea in the summer afternoon. He could see the sunlight gilding her hair, watch with overt fascination as she brought her cup to her lips, and run his fingers back and forth over the softness of her wrist.
“My own daughters often take exercise in between their lessons,” his mother said. “Their governess believes it is important to strengthen their minds as well as their bodies, and I agree with her progressive stance. Difatti, I think we are just at the hour when my girls will take a pause in their studies to for some air. I will tell their governess to bring them out to us.”
She waved a footman over to her and conveyed her instructions. At her directive, the servant bowed and left the terrace.
“I always loved it here at Tarrington House,” Viscount Sulgrave said, looking around. “One of the finest estates in England, and the best fox hunting too.”
“We don’t hunt foxes here anymore.” Owen tried to keep from sounding too cool, but he’d always abhorred the practice of chasing a defenseless animal on horseback, with hounds eager for blood.
“Since when?” one of Sulgrave’s older male guests asked.
“Since I became the duke,” Owen answered. Going through the duchy’s many holdings,
Owen had been pleased to confirm his understanding that when his father had inherited the title, he had divested from the Caribbean, and withdrew financial support to shipping lines making their fortune through repugnant practices. Sadly, his father had neglected to end the custom of fox hunting on the estate’s grounds, but Owen had seen to that.
Conversation continued, and though he participated as much as would be expected of him, in truth he had little interest in discussing London gossip. He had too much work awaiting him to spend with these relatively genial people, and if he wasn’t going to work, taking a quick nap would refresh him so he could give Cecilia all his energy tonight. Last night, she’d whispered that the scene in The Scoundrel’s Willing Captive involving a blindfold had always intrigued her…
He straightened and smiled with genuine warmth when Maria and Ellie appeared at the French doors. They came forward, looking at the glamorous visitors with interest. His sisters huddled close to their mother, resting their heads on her shoulders and accepting the duchess’s maternal caresses.
“What darling children,” Lady Juliet cried. “They remind me so much of my Lisbetta.”
“She’s in finishing school,” Sir Kenneth said.
Owen’s restless gaze moved toward the French doors. Pleasure filled him when he saw Cecilia stepping out from the house and onto the terrace. Seeing her again banished any impatience he’d felt from entertaining the London visitors.
A governess would not ordinarily join in conversation between the family of the house and their guests, however, which was a damned shame—she had far more interesting things to say than the entire nobly born lot.
Her expression was reserved as she hovered at the periphery. The urge to walk to her and take her hand was so strong he curled his fingers into fists.
“Miss Holme,” the duchess said genially. “I trust you do not mind a change in your usual schedule for the girls.”
“Change is always welcome, Your Grace,” Cecilia answered after curtsying. “It keeps the mind from calcifying.”
“Miss Holme is your governess?” Sir Kenneth asked.
Color drained from Cecilia’s face, leaving her ashen and waxy. Owen fought with the urge to go to her side, hating that he couldn’t show the depth of his concern for her.
What could have shaken her so badly?
Somehow, Cecilia managed to hide her shock well enough to answer with an even, composed voice. “Sir Kenneth, Lady Juliet.”
Owen’s mother looked from Cecilia to the Whelans. “Oh, that is right! You were her prior employers, and provided her with an excellent character.”
Cecilia managed a faint smile. From the corner of her vision, she saw Owen take a step toward her, yet when she held up a discreet hand urging him to stop, he remained in place.
She had prayed she’d never see the Whelans again. With their preference for living on the Continent, and with her in the English countryside, she’d believed it almost impossible their paths would ever cross.
Yet here they were. A single word from them could obliterate her reputation, and end her dream of establishing her own school.
That was all it would take…a hint, an insinuation, and she’d be ruined.
Owen turned to his mother. “Madre, Miss Holme looks tired. She ought to have some rest, and making her stand outside in the hot sun is unfair.”
“Bensì.” The duchess waved her hand. “You may go, Miss Holme.”
Cecilia curtsied before turning and disappearing into the house. God above, if only she could simply run and run. It offered no true solution, and yet the instinct to flee snapped at her heels. With each step, she choked back tears.
Owen caught up with her on the first floor as she made her way to the back stairs that led to the upper servants’ quarters.
“Miss Holme, wait,” he called softly.
She stopped, but didn’t face him. He pulled open a door to a small, seldom used parlor, and motioned for her to go in. She did so, her movements stiff, unable to look at him.
Because she knew the terrible truth now. She’d tried to remain blind, yet there was no denying it now. If Sir Kenneth so much as suggested there had been some impropriety between her and him, everything was lost. And if by some grace he didn’t speak of her past, she had her future to consider.
Once the door closed behind her and Owen, he stepped nearer, reaching for her. She slid away so that his fingers grazed her wrist.
“I could tear his fucking throat out,” Owen growled.
“You wouldn’t hang for his murder,” she said lowly, “but you’d be imprisoned, and he’s not worth the loss of your liberty.”
“Damn it, Cecilia, will you look at me?”
She turned. Surely her eyes showed the depths of her hopelessness.
His expression was tormented. “Tell me how to make it better.”
“Dukes can do many things, but they have no ability to change the past,” she said without emotion. “I feel no shame in it, but no one can ever know.”
“Stop referring to me as a duke,” he snarled.
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and for the first time, she took no pleasure in the depths of his dark eyes—because he would soon be lost to her. “That’s what you are. A duke. And I am only a governess. The world will always see us as that—a man with power, and a woman who can be used and discarded.”
“You are more than that to me.” He took her hands in his. “And I don’t care what the world thinks.”
“That’s your privilege, while I have far less of that privilege.” She squeezed his hand, as though trying to grip tightly to the feel of him. “Long ago, I thought I was done with illusions, but that’s not so. I’ve been deceiving myself, gulling myself into believing that you and I could go on like this. I was wrong, though. Terribly, terribly wrong.”
“Cecilia,” he rasped. “No.”
“We must stop this, Owen.” She spoke with surprising firmness. “Now. All of it. No more meetings at the cottage. The Whelans reminded me of the truth. If I am to have any possible chance of opening that school, I cannot be your lover. The risk of discovery only increases the longer you and I continue our affair.”
“I don’t care if we never fuck again,” he said fiercely. “I only have to hold you, and talk with you.”
Her eyes were hot and damp. “That is worst of all. Because it fools me into thinking that I am yours, and you’re mine, when we both know that we must be nothing to each other.”
To say it hollowed her out like a cave. Within, she was empty and howling.
“You will never be nothing to me.” He ran his thumb over her cheek, catching a falling tear. “You’re…you’re everything.”
She shook her head. “Stop. I implore you. Don’t say another word, and for the love of God, don’t be kind to me. My heart can’t withstand that torture.”
“Cecilia—”
“It’s Miss Holme now,” she said, “or, better yet, never speak my name again. Please.” With a sob, she pulled away from him and stepped to the door. Placing her hand on the wood, she said without looking at him. “They’ll be wondering about you downstairs. You need to see to your guests.”
Before he could stop her, she wrenched the door open and dashed into the corridor. Behind her, he took three strides in pursuit, then he stopped.
They had begun as instructor and student, yet it went so much deeper than that now. She’d taught him about his power, and he’d learned how to wield it, but had taught her, too. She learned from him how to fully inhabit her own capability. In so doing, he had shown her something no one before ever had. She could be celebrated for her strength.
She needed that strength now, when she’d lost him forever.
Chapter Ten
Owen drew a breath before knocking on the open door to his mother’s private study.
“Entra,” she said.
He strode into the chamber just as his mother looked up from her ornately carved escritoire, a pen in her hand. A faint smile curved he
r lips.
“How you walk now,” she murmured. At his puzzled frown, she explained, “With the confident steps of a man. The time you spent in London changed you, I think.”
It was not the city that had altered him—that had been Cecilia’s doing. Once, he might have entered his mother’s study diffidently, but there could be no room for hesitation where Cecilia’s future was concerned.
“If there’s any resemblance between me and the person I was last month,” he answered, “it is purely external.”
His mother regarded him, her dark eyes almost exactly like his, from the shape to the color. Right now, her gaze was unreadable.
“Do you recognize this?” From his pocket, he pulled the farthing. “Babbo gave it to me a decade ago.”
She rose from her escritoire and walked to him. As she peered at the farthing, her mouth formed a wry shape. “He told me of it, that night. What he hoped to teach you through such a small coin. He wanted so badly you to become a fine man.”
“He may be disappointed,” Owen said grimly.
Instead of offering him placating murmurs, she tilted her head and said, “It is not for the dead to judge us. The most important judgment comes from within.”
“The world judges us, too, cara mamma. This farthing tells me so. It tells me nothing I do is for my sake alone.” He held the coin tightly between his fingers. “It tells me of the weight of my responsibility—and that includes who I choose to be my wife.”
His heart thudded, but he was not afraid. “Were there objections when babbo married you?”
“So many voices raised,” she said with a wry look. “All the pallid English protesting that it was not proper to marry a girl from Napoli. But your father and I, we loved each other too fiercely to heed them.” Her expression softened, and grief flashed like a dark banner against the sky.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 31