by Syrie James
Thirdly . . .
Thirdly, she couldn’t be angry with him because . . . well, because he was so incredibly, bone-meltingly handsome.
Kathryn wasn’t the type of woman who swooned over a good-looking man, duke or otherwise. But from the moment she’d arrived, every time his dark blue eyes had come into contact with hers, she’d felt a shiver go down her spine and her insides had done this little, inexplicable flippy thing.
And the way he spoke! Since childhood, she had always loved the sound of an English accent. She’d been living in London for years—you would think she’d be inured to its effects by now. His voice, however, was so deep and masculine, so soothingly, enchantingly upper crust and lyrical and . . . commanding. Every word that issued from his mouth was like the confident, golden note of a magical lyre. She could sit here and listen to him speak all night, even if he were doing something so prosaic as reading aloud from a dictionary.
Which was absolutely ridiculous. Kathryn would not, could not, be attracted to this man. She certainly had no desire to get involved with him—or with any man, for that matter. She had come here in a strictly professional capacity. Whether she ever worked for him or not, she was determined to remain professional.
Which reminded Kathryn that she was here, apparently, on a wild-goose chase.
It wasn’t fair. Even if this were no more than the intended interior renovations, working on this project could change everything for her.
Up to now Kathryn had, for the most part, been nothing more than Mr. Patterson’s hired hand, executing designs and drawings at the office after her employer met with the clients. This time, though, Mr. Patterson couldn’t take credit for her work, since she would be doing it right under the nose of the client himself. This would finally give her something to put on her résumé. It could open doors to the next level of architectural achievement, the kind of work she’d been dreaming of doing for years.
She couldn’t give up. Not when she’d come all this way with such high hopes.
Why, she wondered, had the duke said no to the project? He hadn’t given a reason. She felt certain it had nothing to do with her being an Atherton heiress—he hadn’t made that connection, apparently. He had, however, said he might be interested in renovating at some point. Kathryn grabbed on to that slight chance like a lifeline.
“Lord Darcy,” she began, “I understand that you’ve just suffered a great personal loss and I am so very sorry for it. Your brother set this process in motion, and you have no obligation to proceed. But you implied that you are not totally averse to undertaking renovations to St. Gabriel’s Mount someday. Why not now? Clearly this is something your brother felt was important. If you will forgive me for saying so, based on the little I’ve seen of the castle, it is rather in need of an update. I would venture to say it’s been at least fifty years since anything was done.”
“Possibly longer,” he admitted.
“Which means,” she went on rapidly, “that the kitchens are out of date. Think how pleased your cook would be with one of the more modern cooking ranges. I’m sure you’ll be inviting guests to St. Gabriel’s Mount, and if nothing else the rooms could use a new coat of paint and freshly upholstered furnishings. Great strides have been made of late with new kinds of lighting as well. Even in a location as remote as this, with your own generator, you could provide electricity to select rooms with the flip of a switch.”
His eyebrows lifted at that with guarded interest. “Wouldn’t that be rather costly?”
She loved the oh-so-British-y way he said rather costly. “Not as much as you might think.” Pausing, Kathryn added, “Is cost a consideration?” From the moment of her arrival, she’d had the vague sense that there might be some problem with the family’s finances. The place was so threadbare. “If so, I feel certain Mr. Patterson would be happy to discuss a financial arrangement that would suit you.”
“No,” he insisted abruptly. “That is to say, there are no financial difficulties, I assure you.”
She was glad to hear that. “Very well, then. Is it the timing that’s at issue? I presume you have a great deal on your plate just now, Your Grace. We can make this as small an endeavor as you wish, whatever is most convenient for you. What would you say if I took a few days to draw up some sketches with a few suggested improvements?” She gave him a quote for her hourly rate, a modest fee compared to what other architects charged. “If you decide not to proceed, no harm done, that will be the end of it.”
He frowned, drumming his fingers on the desktop. “Miss Atherton. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I really do. And I realize that you have come a long way to meet with me. But although St. Gabriel’s Mount might admittedly be due for improvements, as I said before, I do not see myself embarking just now on such a project with you.”
With you. His last two words seemed to vibrate in the air, a testament to the true reason behind his disinclination. Kathryn held back a sigh. Struggling to sound matter-of-fact, she raised her eyes to meet his. “Is it me you object to, then? Do you not wish to work on the project because I’m a woman?”
That appeared to catch him off guard. His cheeks flushed and he looked uncomfortable. “I . . . no . . . I didn’t mean . . . that is to say . . . well, in all honesty . . . I have never heard of a female architect. And even if I did wish to renovate, I’m not certain I would feel comfortable . . .” His voice trailed off and he averted his gaze.
And there it was.
The room suddenly felt stiflingly hot. A trickle of perspiration trickled down between Kathryn’s breasts, and she cursed her tight stays and heavy jacket. She couldn’t count how many times she’d been in this exact same situation. Dismissed out of hand, her potential and abilities entirely discounted, simply because of her gender.
She found herself briefly wishing, and not for the first time, that she’d been born a man. This all would be so much easier. But, she reminded herself, she was proud to be a woman. Proud to be attempting to be the first in her field.
It was difficult to be the first at anything. She’d read that the first woman doctor, some forty years ago, had undergone incredible prejudice to get a foothold in that profession. Female physicians were still fighting the good fight. Well, Kathryn had come this far. She wasn’t going down without a fight. Somehow, she had to convince this man of what she and women like her were capable of.
“When you think about it,” Kathryn returned in a firm tone, “it’s rather astonishing that architects have historically been men. By its very nature, the practice requires extensive drawing capabilities, an accomplishment drilled into every well-bred lady from a young age. An excellent imagination is also key—and dare I suggest that many of my gender are in possession of an imagination equal to or greater than men?”
Lord Darcy opened his mouth as if to refute that, then closed it again. “That may be,” he finally allowed. “However—I admit, having spent most of my life at sea, I have no experience working with architects—but as I understand it, the profession demands a thorough understanding of engineering. And, I image, a familiarity with building codes and such. Areas which are all strictly under the purview of a man.”
“If I may beg to differ, Your Grace,” Kathryn replied. “I have studied engineering and architecture. I am well up to date on all the latest building codes.”
“Is that so?” He looked astonished, but still unconvinced. “Good for you, Miss Atherton. I am impressed. Nevertheless, is it not true that an architect, in discharging his duties, must work closely with construction crews? I have seen any number of building sites and thought them to be dirty, boisterous, and rather dangerous-looking places—hardly the environment for a woman.”
“Constructing or remodeling a building can indeed be noisy and filthy, and on occasion even hazardous, Your Grace,” Kathryn returned with a smile. “However, over the past two years, I have seen too many such sites to count.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d always had to sneak onto the site to view the progress be
ing made on plans of her own design. That wouldn’t exactly help her case. “I’m not afraid of risk. I’ve stood ankle-deep in debris and exchanged stories with the rowdiest of men on the crew.”
“Have you indeed?” Lord Darcy ran a hand through his short, dark hair, studying her. “You amaze me, Miss Atherton, you truly do.”
As their gazes touched, Kathryn felt that same absurd electrical jolt sizzle through her body. Kathryn, stop this. It is so unlike you. The expression in his eyes was so discerning she felt as if he were attempting to peer into her soul. She quickly averted her gaze, her heart drumming. She didn’t want him to see into her soul. If he did, he’d know that she was fudging her level of experience a bit.
“Do you actually have a degree in architecture?” he asked.
Oh no. Now the cat would come out of the bag, whether she liked it or not. Kathryn swallowed hard. Well, he deserved to know the truth. She raised her eyes to his again and reluctantly admitted, “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Lord Darcy arched a brow at her.
“I completed the entire two years of coursework at the London School of Art and Architecture and earned the highest marks in my class. But the institution refused to grant me a degree. Because I’m a woman.”
He pondered for a moment. “That hardly seems fair.”
The injustice still burned in her breast like a wildfire. “Before you ask if I have a license to practice architecture, the answer is also not yet. But I will. I just took the RIBA exam.”
“What is the RIBA exam?”
“Every practitioner must pass an exam administered by the Royal Institute of British Architects and be approved by the board before being granted a license. I’ve been studying for it for two years while apprenticing. I get the results next month.” She may have been denied the architectural degree she’d earned, but they couldn’t deny her a license if she passed the test. And she would pass. She had to.
“So,” Lord Darcy murmured slowly, “although you represented yourself earlier as an architect, in fact, you are an architectural apprentice with neither a degree nor a license.” His tone was now awash with both incredulity and a hint of condescension.
Kathryn wanted to scream with vexation. But of course she couldn’t.
“Yes,” she responded calmly, “but as for the degree, that is hardly my fault. And I should have my license in four or five weeks. I assure you, I’m very good at what I do.”
Kathryn read blatant skepticism in his eyes. This opportunity, she realized desperately, was slipping through her fingers like sand through an hourglass. Well, she decided, pressing her lips together with determination, she would just have to show him.
Opening the leather satchel at her feet, Kathryn withdrew a roll of small-scale drawings and stood. “Your Grace, I brought with me a preliminary set of plans for a new building of my own design. May I show you?”
He clearly didn’t expect that. Throwing up his hands, he sat back in his chair. “Why not.”
Kathryn unfurled the stack of drawings on his desk and propped them open with paperweights. “These are for a new branch of Lloyds of London bank. Mr. Patterson is the lead architect on the building, but I had a vision for it that I couldn’t get out of my head, so I drew it up in my spare time.”
She had devoted many long hours to these drawings—a set of plans for a grand, unique building in a classic style—everything from elevations to floor plans and inserts with architectural details. They were her best work, and she was proud of them. Even knowing she wouldn’t earn a penny from them, Kathryn had hoped they would show Mr. Patterson what she was capable of. She hoped the same would prove true for the Duke of Darcy—that at the very least, they would remove any doubts as to her abilities.
It was difficult to gauge his reaction as he glanced through the drawings. Finally he said, “This is all your original work?”
“Every last bit of it.”
“What was Patterson’s response?”
“He was complimentary, but said it wasn’t quite what the client had in mind.” Kathryn let out a little sigh. “Still, I’m glad I did the exercise. It has always been my goal to build something brand-new from the ground up. A great edifice, like a hospital or library or school, that will contribute to the needs of society and long outlive me.”
His eyebrows raised at that. It occurred to Kathryn that her statement might have seemed dismissive of the type of work she sought from him, so she quickly added, “At the same time, I also enjoy designing interiors. To work on an ancient castle like St. Gabriel’s Mount would be a real thrill for me.”
He went quiet for a while. “Miss Atherton. As I mentioned, I have no experience in this arena. But this appears to be very impressive work.”
“Thank you.” Her heart began to pound with hope.
“I fear, in our discourse, I may have seemed . . . doubtful and treated you with less than the professional respect which you deserve. For that, I hope you will accept my apologies.”
“There is no need to apologize, Your Grace.” Her breath caught; was he going to say yes?
“However,” he said firmly. “This does not change the fact that it was entirely my brother’s vision to make improvements to St. Gabriel’s Mount, not mine. I’m sorry, but it is not a project I am prepared to take on.” He rolled up the drawings. “You may stay the night, of course, and I will arrange for your transportation to the train station in the morning.”
Kathryn’s spirits plummeted. She felt like a pricked balloon, all the drive and energy seeping out of her. At the same time, she thought: It can’t be over. I can’t go back to London with nothing to show for it. Think. Think. There must be some way to convince him. But how?
“Now what about your luggage? Did you arrange for it to be delivered to the castle?” Lord Darcy’s hand moved toward a bell on his desk, presumably to call a servant.
It occurred to Kathryn that while words and formal drawings hadn’t worked, there might be another way. “Your Grace,” she interjected, quickly grabbing a sketch pad and pencil from her satchel, “what do you think about this room?”
His hand hovered over the bell, then fell to his lap. “I beg your pardon?”
“This is your study, isn’t it?” Kathryn got busy with her pencil.
“It was my brother’s study.” His distaste was obvious in his voice.
“Now it is yours.” She continued to draw. “Is this room an environment in which you enjoy working?”
Lord Darcy let go a short, unhappy laugh. “As a matter of fact, I hate this room, Miss Atherton. I hate everything about it.”
“I figured as much.” She sensed his eyes on her as her pencil flew.
“What are you doing there?” he asked, intrigued.
“Allow me a moment, will you? I’d like to show you something.”
Chapter Three
Lance sat back in his chair and waited, his eyes on Miss Atherton.
The clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes as she sketched. From the angle of her notepad he couldn’t see what she was drawing, but he could guess—no doubt some altered version of this room, as a last-dash attempt to persuade him.
She was tireless, this woman. Like a dog with a bone. Well, she was barking up the wrong tree. The estate was broke. He couldn’t renovate a single room of this castle even if he wished to.
Still, he had to admire her tenacity. Miss Atherton really wanted this, he could tell. It was a pleasure to watch her draw. She made a pretty picture, sitting there by the window with the last rays of the setting sun bringing out the highlights in her golden hair.
Her pencil was flying at lightning speed. He’d observed sailors sketching on deck for nearly two decades, some with real talent, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone draw this fast.
Part of him wished he could come up with a reason for her to stay at St. Gabriel’s Mount. The last week had been a barrage of visits from creditors, funeral directors, tailors, local parishioners, his land steward, and his sol
icitor (the last being the least objectionable, since Megowan was a friend). Lance could use a little respite from all that. And he always welcomed the company of a beautiful woman.
This woman was far more than just beautiful. Although they’d only just met, Lance was growing more intrigued by her by the minute.
She was obviously intelligent. She had drive, courage, and initiative. To attempt to be the first female in her line of work—in any line of work, he supposed—presented an enormous challenge. Yet she seemed to have undertaken it without blinking. Despite all obstacles, she didn’t appear to be giving up.
Ten more minutes ticked by while he patiently waited. He made a pretense of going through some papers on his desk, but in truth was content to simply drink in the sight of Miss Atherton as she worked. After a few final strokes with her pencil, she stood.
“This is just a rough sketch,” she explained, passing him the notebook, “my first thoughts about a possible way we could redesign and reimagine this space.”
Lance studied the drawing. It was a furnished room, depicted by a highly skilled hand.
“The study is currently very dark,” she noted, “and the furniture is growing threadbare and is oversized for the space. Being that you have just come from life on board a ship, I thought you might enjoy a new look, something closer to your own sensibility.”
“A new look,” he repeated. It certainly was new. The shape and dimensions resembled those of the existing study, but other than that, it was a room he didn’t recognize.
“My father owns a shipyard which I visited frequently as a girl. The captain’s quarters, I recall, were efficiently designed to make maximum use of a minimum space. My thinking was: brighten it up by painting the walls white. Build in cabinets and drawers to hide things away. Hang new artwork, perhaps of your favorite ports of call. Replace these heavy draperies with shutters which can be fully opened to let in the light. And find smaller, simpler furniture. Possibly custom-made from a shipyard.”