by Syrie James
“You said she seems to admire St. Gabriel’s Mount?”
“Very much.”
“If she understands that her money will save the castle for generations to come, I’m sure she can bring herself to forgive a little white lie.”
Lance processed that, then nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. There’s an old saying my father used to repeat now and again: ‘A duke does not ask for a woman’s hand. He bestows upon his prospective bride the opportunity to become a duchess.’”
Megowan’s mouth quirked into a smile. “And what woman in her right mind would turn down the opportunity to become a duchess, eh?”
Kathryn was deeply engrossed in a preliminary drawing of the study when the butler strode into the parlor where she was working. A reserved, gray-haired gentleman with a staunch air of propriety, she had met Hammett the day before when he’d returned to the castle and resumed his duties.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” Hammett intoned politely, “your presence is requested in the drawing room.”
Kathryn looked at him in surprise. “Requested by whom?”
“His Grace.”
If the duke wanted to see her, why hadn’t he simply come here? Kathryn lay down her pencil and stood. “Well, then, I suppose I had better go.”
She followed the butler down several long and twisting corridors to the drawing room—the same elegant chamber where drinks were served every night before dinner.
Kathryn tried hard not to think about what had happened after dinner on her first night at the castle.
As she entered the drawing room, however, it was impossible not to think about it.
Lord Darcy stood by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelpiece, looking sinfully handsome as usual. Despite herself, the sight of him set her stomach aflutter.
He was clean-shaven, his hair impeccably coiffed. He had never appeared less than perfectly dressed, but this morning it appeared as though he had taken extra time with his attire. His black frock coat and trousers looked freshly steamed and pressed, and he wore an elegant brocade vest embroidered with gold threads.
“Miss Atherton.”
“Your Grace.”
The butler vanished and closed the drawing doors behind him.
Lord Darcy’s tone was formal as he gestured toward the settee. “Please, have a seat.”
Kathryn sat down. The duke’s eyes took her in with an intensity that she found disquieting. Something about the situation felt odd. “Your Grace? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“May I ask why you have summoned me here?”
“You may indeed ask. You are here because I have something to say to you.”
Kathryn sat up straighter on the settee, filled with sudden dread. Was he going to fire her? Tell her he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to pursue the project, after all? “What is that, Your Grace?”
“As you know,” Lord Darcy began, his voice still highly formal, “I inherited my title only recently. With it came certain responsibilities, among which include the duty to marry and continue the family line. I had never thought to marry an American, yet that seems to be done more and more now among the peerage.”
Kathryn’s entire body tensed as the possible direction of his words occurred to her. Oh dear God, no.
“I realize we have only been acquainted a short time,” he continued, “but in that time I have become aware of your many attributes and charms, and I believe our union would be an amicable one.”
Our union?
“As my duchess, you will have a home here for the rest of your life. I trust this arrangement would not be unwelcome to you. You have professed your admiration for St. Gabriel’s Mount. Your sisters live in this county, and it would be possible for you to see them at holidays and such or whenever you like. In conclusion, I have only to impress upon you the sincerity of my proposal, and my hope that you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Even though he used the word hope, from his expression and tone it was clear he had no doubt of a favorable answer.
Astonishment rendered Kathryn speechless. This can’t be happening. It has to be a joke. The whole thing was so unexpected, so ludicrous, and so far from anything Kathryn wanted for herself that amusement began bubbling up inside her chest. Try as she might, she couldn’t contain it.
A chuckle escaped her, which turned into a ripple of full-blown laughter. After which, waving her hand as if she were swatting a fly, Kathryn finally managed, “You can’t be serious, Your Grace. You really shouldn’t tease a girl like that.”
The duke’s face froze. It was his turn to be at a loss for words. Finally, his voice still ringing with authority, he said, “I assure you, I am entirely in earnest.”
Kathryn felt horrible now that she’d laughed. But her lips kept twitching and she still couldn’t believe she’d heard right. “Then . . . sorry . . . what did you just say?”
His eyes flashed darkly, as if incredulous that he was being asked to repeat himself. Through tense lips, he replied, “I just asked you to marry me, Miss Atherton.”
Dear God, he was serious. The Duke of Darcy actually just proposed marriage to me.
It took Kathryn a few moments to assemble her thoughts. This had happened to her before, sometimes on even briefer acquaintance. On the night of her New York debut, she’d received proposals from two men she knew only by reputation. Three more offers had come in the years that followed. Of course, they’d all just been after her money.
The fact that the Duke of Darcy was offering for her was a bit mystifying. Kathryn couldn’t help but wonder at his motivation. He was still standing by the mantelpiece, his features tightening as he waited for her response. A thought occurred to her. Only last night, he had learned she was an heiress. Suddenly, he was asking for her hand. Was it a coincidence? Or . . . ?
“Your Grace. May I ask what prompted this extraordinary offer, after only three days’ association?”
“I told you, I am a quick study.”
“Is it really me you are interested in? Or is it my fortune?”
The duke’s face reddened at that. He looked both affronted and offended. After a pause, he said quietly, “Your fortune is most generous, Miss Atherton. Any man who doesn’t admit that such an influx of wealth would be welcome is lying. But your dowry is immaterial to me.”
Well, that was a relief. If there was one thing Kathryn hated, it was being thought of as a meal ticket. He’d already dismissed the issue when she’d broached it a few days ago, as if money were the last thing on his mind. After all, if finances were a problem, why would the previous Duke of Darcy have invited her firm to remodel the castle?
A very different notion suddenly seized her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Then what is this? An act of chivalry?”
“Chivalry?” He looked confused.
“After what we . . . did . . . in the billiards room the other night . . . did you feel obligated to propose?”
That really seemed to take him aback. “My offer,” he retorted, “was not precipitated by the events of that evening. And I assure you that obligation is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Because just to set the record straight,” Kathryn replied, “I was a full participant in what happened that night. Too much wine was involved. And anyway, I’m sure you’ve done that, and far more than that, with plenty of women in ports all across the Mediterranean. And you didn’t propose to any of them, did you?” Kathryn clamped her mouth shut, hardly able to believe she’d said that. Clearly, she was in a state of shock, and needed to get this interview over with as quickly as possible.
To her surprise and further discomfort, the duke’s face grew an even deeper shade of scarlet and he appeared to be tongue-tied. A haunted look entered his eyes. Kathryn sensed that her words had inadvertently struck some deep chord within him, perhaps awakened some memory that gave him pain. Maybe he had proposed to someone else in the past? If so, it obviously hadn’t gone the way he’d h
oped. She sought desperately for something else to say. But he saved her the trouble.
“Miss Atherton,” he declared, his voice tense and tight, “my prior romantic history has nothing to do with this. Let us stick to the present, shall we? I offer you my hand because I need a wife. I felt a connection to you the moment we met. You’ve felt it, too. You cannot deny it.”
Kathryn nodded slowly. They did have chemistry—that was indisputable. “I don’t deny it. But—”
“Therefore, my offer. I believe we would get on well together.”
All she could figure was that, as the newly minted duke, Lord Darcy felt pressure to marry and produce the obligatory heir. He’d admitted that he was a man given to snap decisions. Kathryn was here and convenient. She was from a renowned American family, and her sisters had married peers in the same county. It must have seemed natural to him to offer for her.
She knew that almost any woman in the entire Western world would be flattered and thrilled by such an offer from a duke.
Well, she wasn’t one of those women.
“Your Grace,” Kathryn said, “I am sensible of the honor you bestow upon me by your offer, and I thank you for it. However, I must decline.”
“You must decline?” he repeated slowly in undisguised surprise. “You do realize that I am offering you the opportunity to become a duchess?”
“I understand that.”
“Yet still you decline?”
“I do.” Kathryn blew out an impatient breath. She didn’t imagine that dukes or Royal Navy officers were accustomed to being refused anything. “I am sorry if that disappoints you. But surely you must know that I cannot possibly marry you.”
He looked both astonished and stung. “Why is that?”
“For one thing, no mention of love was made in your matter-of-fact, rather callous proposal,” she pointed out passionately. “And how could it? We barely know each other.”
“Love can come after marriage,” he shot back.
“Not for me, it can’t. If I ever marry, it will be for love. But all that aside: my focus is on my career. You don’t truly wish to have an architect as your wife, do you?”
“Of course not,” was his direct reply. “A duchess cannot work in a trade, it would be unseemly.”
“Exactly,” she began.
Before she could elaborate, he went on: “But surely, in exchange for the honor of becoming a duchess, the highest title in the land for a woman short of the queen herself, you would be happy to give up this idea of a career.”
This idea of a career? Kathryn stiffened at his comment. “The only title I’m interested in is architect,” Kathryn said heatedly. “I’ve worked long and hard to get where I am, and I will never give it up. Not for you, not for anyone. I have no desire to marry.”
“Surely you don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do.”
He looked incredulous. “You wish to remain unattached all your life? To have no husband? No children?”
“To succeed in my profession, I will need to work twice as hard as any man. I’ll have no time for a husband or children. I don’t require a family to be happy or content. My career will be my life. My buildings will be my legacy. They will speak for me long after I’m gone.”
Lord Darcy shook his head slowly, as if struggling for the proper reply. “You have chosen a very difficult if not impossible road, Miss Atherton. You said yourself, there are only two practicing female architects in the world, and not a single one in the United Kingdom.”
“I am aware of the challenges ahead of me. But someone has to be the first. I will persevere. And I will succeed.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry if by refusing I have offended you in any way. Please understand: it is nothing personal. I’m certain there are hundreds if not thousands of women who would welcome your suit and be happy to be your duchess. I encourage you to seek one out. I am simply not the right wife for you.”
“I see,” he snapped.
Kathryn stood. “Your Grace. I pray this will not affect our working relationship? I am wholly committed to the project upon which we’ve embarked. As we agreed recently with regard to that . . . other matter . . . can we put this behind us? Keep our minds on the job and move forward?”
For a long moment he didn’t reply, his face dark with anger and a mortification that he tried to hide. At last, he gave her a curt nod and said abruptly, “If that is your wish.”
“It is.” Kathryn held out her hand to him as a peace offering. “I am willing to pretend we never spoke of this, if you are?”
Again, he hesitated, as if shaking her hand was the last thing on earth he wished to do. Finally he complied, silent, tense, and angry, his eyes elsewhere, his handshake brief but firm.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll get back to work now.”
Kathryn fled the room with as much grace as she could muster, dismayed not only by the conversation that had just passed, but by the traitorous spark that had traveled up her arm as their hands had connected.
Chapter Ten
Bloody hell.
Lance had walked into that drawing room so sure of himself. Without a doubt in the world that Miss Atherton would say yes to his offer. Yet she had refused him!
It hadn’t occurred to Lance for a second that the woman would be so attached to her career that she would turn down a chance to become his duchess. Or anyone’s duchess. Or anyone’s wife, for that matter.
How could he have misread her so badly?
On the other hand, how could he have known that her view regarding marriage would be completely different from every other woman he had ever met?
Lance was completely, utterly mortified. To think that he had agreed to a work contract that might take another two or three weeks. She would be living under his roof that entire time. What on earth was he going to say to her the next time they met? It would be damned awkward.
He considered terminating their agreement. He could simply say that after giving the matter more thought, he’d decided he didn’t wish to renovate, after all. So what if he’d signed a contract? He could simply pay her off and send her on her way.
But, coming on the heels of her refusing his offer, it would be so obvious he was firing her out of bitterness or spite.
Lance had hired her in good faith. He had made a promise, and he wasn’t one to break a promise. Still, the thought of encountering her in a hallway or sitting down to dinner with her every night (whose brilliant idea was that?) was anathema to him now.
Following their liaison in the billiards rooms, she had avoided his company. Now, Lance was determined to avoid her.
That afternoon, he set out for Falmouth, telling his grandmother that he had business there. The only business he had was walking along the harbor and staring at the boats, interspersed with visits to a series of taverns. He ran into a few retired seamen and a couple of sailors on leave, and passed a few jolly hours in their company. But the whole time, his mind kept drifting back to Miss Atherton, and how mortified he felt.
He tried to tell himself that she was a bitch. A self-centered, ungrateful American who considered herself too important and high and mighty to marry an Englishman. That she didn’t deserve his offer in the first place, and that with her refusal, he had made a lucky escape.
But on his second day in Falmouth and his third tankard of ale at the Horse and Feathers, he had to admit to himself that she wasn’t a bitch at all. She was an unusual woman, to be sure. But he didn’t really think she considered herself above him. She had just chosen a path for herself and was sticking to it. He couldn’t fault her for that. In fact, he rather reluctantly admired her for it.
He ought to follow her advice. Find someone else.
There was still about a month left of the London Season. If he put the word out that he was looking, surely one or two candidates, who had the cash he needed and who would be over the moon to become his duchess, could be located and presented to him.
The problem was, he thought with
a sigh, he didn’t want another candidate.
Now that he’d met her . . . he wanted her.
Unluckily, she was the one woman in a million who didn’t want him.
After two days of feeling sorry for himself, Lance returned home, tired of twiddling his thumbs.
He figured if he was paying Miss Atherton to make drawings, he might as well be around to weigh in on those drawings. Work was about to begin on the schoolhouse roof and the fishermen’s quay steps. He ought to be on hand for that as well.
Lance still hadn’t made any brilliant conclusions as to how to deal with Miss Atherton. Other than to grow a stiff upper lip and get through it. Which he was grimly determined to do. Meanwhile, he’d put the idea of searching for a wife on the back burner for a couple of weeks, until he had the stomach for it.
He had no sooner entered the castle and started down the hall to his study when he heard his grandmother call out from the conservatory.
“Lance? Is that you?”
He paused in the doorway. “How are you, Grandmother?”
“Fine, thank you.” She wore a gardening smock and was watering a row of potted plants. “So you are back, then?” she added rather unnecessarily.
“Just arrived this minute.”
“Good. Do you have a moment, dear? I have been wanting to speak to you.”
Lance entered the room. Afternoon sun shone in through the mullioned windows, casting a golden glow on potted tropical-looking plants of various species, colors, and sizes, from small flowering things to tree-sized plants with enormous leaves.
“I have always liked this room.” He breathed in the pleasant scent that filled the air, a delicate floral perfume mingled with damp earth and bark. It brought back warm, fuzzy memories of chats with his grandmother as a boy.
“It is my favorite room in the castle.” As she directed a stream of water onto a plant, she gestured with her free hand toward a nearby chair.
Following her silent directive, he sat. “What is on your mind?”