by Syrie James
“Miss Atherton.”
That took him by surprise. “What about her?”
“Did you make her an offer of marriage?”
Sudden warmth infused Lance’s cheeks. How on earth could she have guessed that? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His grandmother fixed him with her pale blue gaze. “I think you do. I think you proposed, and she refused.”
“Did she say something to you?” Lance blurted.
“Aha!” His grandmother’s eyes flashed. “I knew it! Miss Atherton hasn’t said a word about it. I made my own assumptions. I sensed that something was heating up between you two the moment she arrived. Hammett tells me you summoned her to the drawing room a few mornings ago. And then, whoosh! Off you scurry to Falmouth for no good reason, with your tail between your legs.”
“I had business in Falmouth,” he insisted through gritted teeth.
“Of course you did, Lancelot.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“Why? It is your name. And a good name, too. You expected her to snap you up in a heartbeat, I suppose?”
Lance opened his mouth to refute that, then closed it again. She was a crafty woman, Lance had to hand it to her—and she didn’t miss much. “Fine, yes. I offered for her. She said no. It was humiliating. Are you happy?”
“No, I am not happy.”
“I am a duke! Dukes are supposed to have the right to the bride of their choice. And that bride is supposed to accept with gratitude.”
“Who put that idea in your head? Your father? Only another duke would say something so pigheaded.”
“Is that why you called me in here? To insult and berate me? If so, I will take my leave.” Lance made to get up, but she waved him back into his seat. He sat back with a sigh.
His grandmother put down her watering can and came over to sit in the chair beside him. “You always were impulsive, even as a boy. But to propose marriage to someone you barely know is something even I would have never expected.”
Lance frowned. If only he could tell his grandmother about the financial horrors hanging over his head. How close they were to losing St. Gabriel’s Mount. But she was eighty-five years old. She had lived in this castle for more than sixty of those years. The thought of being cast adrift, to live who knows where, might be more than she could bear. If he could somehow fix the problem, she need never know.
“I realize that she and I have just met. But I need to marry someone, and from the moment I first saw her . . .” I wanted to rip her clothes off and shag her. “I felt drawn to her. I like her.”
“I like her as well. She is a remarkable woman. She would make a wonderful addition to this family. But is it really her you like, Lance? Or her money?”
Alarm spread through him like a wave. “What do you mean?”
“I may be an old woman, and I may have led a rather sheltered life, but I am not blind or stupid. I am aware that your father had money troubles, which Hayward inherited. I know that Hayward sold the Hampshire estate years ago.”
“He did,” Lance acknowledged, struggling to keep his voice matter-of-fact.
She looked at him again. “Is our financial situation very bad, Lance?”
Her question evoked a rush of relief. It meant she wasn’t aware of the true state of affairs. She merely had a suspicion. He needn’t admit anything. This was a man’s problem, and his alone to solve.
He gave one of her hands an affectionate squeeze. “We are doing just fine financially, Grandmother, I assure you.” Lance felt a stab of guilt over the lie. “Admittedly, Miss Atherton has a very generous dowry, but my offer was not about her money.” Another stab of guilt.
If he was honest with himself, however, although he desperately needed Miss Atherton’s fortune, his desire to marry her wasn’t only about the money. If he didn’t have a single financial problem in the world, the fact was that after spending only three days in her presence, Lance had become totally . . . smitten with her. Which lessened his feelings of culpability somewhat.
“I am relieved to hear that. I have been worried.”
“Miss Atherton comes from an excellent family,” Lance added, with what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I thought we would make a good match.”
“A good match?” his grandmother echoed, shaking her head ruefully. “If you have any hope of marrying the woman, I would hope you think of her as more than just a good match.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you proposed, Lance, what did you say to her?”
The question made him shift uneasily in his seat. “I don’t recall my exact words.”
“Let me guess. You probably told her that as the new heir, it is your duty to marry. That although your acquaintance has been short, you find her amiable and charming. That in accepting the great honor of becoming your duchess, she will have the pleasure of living the rest of her life at St. Gabriel’s Mount, with the added incentive that she will be near family, as her sisters live in Cornwall.”
“I . . . may have said something along those lines,” he sputtered. The woman was uncanny. Had she been eavesdropping? “How could you know what I said?”
“Because your grandfather said something akin to those very same words the day he proposed to me.” She shook her head. “My dear boy. It is no wonder she refused you.”
“You didn’t refuse Grandfather,” Lance pointed out.
“That was sixty years ago. Times have changed. You cannot expect Miss Atherton to respond as other women have in the past, or even as most women would respond today. Miss Atherton is a Modern Woman. She has worked hard to get where she is.”
“So she mentioned to me. Very emphatically.”
“Cannot you see how important her career is to her? She has already achieved in her field what almost no other woman on earth has ever done. I shouldn’t like to see her give up. She is talented and at the very beginning of things, with so much yet to do.”
“I see that now.” Lance sighed. “I feel like an idiot, Grandmother. I should never have offered for her in the first place.”
“I would not say that. Miss Atherton could still make a proper wife for you.”
“What?” Lance glanced at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand. You just insisted that Miss Atherton’s career is everything to her.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then how could she be my wife? A duchess cannot be an architect.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” he sputtered. “You ask me this? You know better than anyone what is expected of a duchess. She has duties and responsibilities in the home and the community. She cannot be involved in trade.”
“Every marriage has problems, Lance. You can also find compromises if you look for them.”
“What compromises? If she succeeds in her field, which is very much in doubt, she works in London. And I repeat: in trade. She would have no alternative but to give it up. Anything else would be impossible.”
“Sometimes,” his grandmother replied, “I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
Lance huffed. “Don’t quote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland at me.”
“It’s what you need to hear right now. An impossible thing can become possible if you want it badly enough. How much do you want to marry this woman, Lance?”
“Very much.” The forcefulness of his reply surprised him.
“How hard are you willing to work to win her?”
“I . . . don’t know,” he admitted. “Anyway, this is a moot point. I’ve already asked her. She has already refused.”
“So you’re going to give up, just like that?”
Lance threw up his hands. “What would you have me do?”
“I would have you ask her again. Not today, or tomorrow. But . . . bide your time. Wait for the right moment and ask again.”
“Whatever for? I need an heir. She made it clear that she never wants a husband or children.”
&nbs
p; “Never is a strong word, Lance dear. In my experience, it rarely has credence. Although Miss Atherton says that now, she may feel differently in time. You sprang this on her quite suddenly, only three days after meeting her. Give her a chance to get to know you. People change their minds every day.”
Lance considered that. Was there really a chance that if he waited and asked again, she might give a different reply? A ripple of hope darted through him.
“All right, then.” If there was a chance he could still win her hand, he would take it. This was, Lance decided, a battle now. He felt as though a gauntlet had been thrown. He had severely underestimated his opponent. His first parry had missed its mark, so he must reassess the situation, employ new tactics, and find another way through. “Miss Atherton may have refused me once, but bloody hell, I will not give up. I will find a way to convince her somehow.”
“That’s the spirit.” In a gently worried tone, she added: “When is the last time you wooed a woman, Lance?”
“Wooed a woman?” he echoed. Women had, for the most part, fallen at Lance’s feet. He hadn’t wooed anyone in a very long time. Not since . . .
Lance’s thoughts turned to the one woman he had dearly wanted, so many years ago. Beatrice. He recalled all the hoops he had jumped through on her behalf, the sacrifices he had made in his attempt to win her heart. And he had won, only to have happiness snatched from him in the most humiliating of ways.
“I mean, other than . . . Beatrice.” His grandmother’s voice snapped his attention back to the present. She was looking at him with sympathy in her pale eyes.
“No,” he said abruptly. “I have rarely been obliged to woo.”
“Well, the time has come to remind yourself how. You can win this woman. Your approach just needs refinement, that’s all.”
“My approach?” He looked at her. “Pray explain yourself.”
“Miss Atherton is from one of the wealthiest families in America. If she were to marry you, she would be obliged to hand over an immense fortune, and no doubt make many other sacrifices as well. I wouldn’t make it sound as though you’re doing her a favor by asking for her hand. I would graciously imply the reverse.”
Lance pondered that, then nodded. “Point taken.” He was suddenly grateful to have his grandmother at hand to offer advice. “What else do you suggest? No doubt she already has every material thing a woman could want. Should I bring her flowers?” In the past, a fresh bouquet had worked wonders in one port of call or another.
His grandmother gave him a dead-eyed look. “Were you not paying attention, Lancelot?”
“To what?”
“On her first night here, Miss Atherton said she cannot abide cut flowers. She prefers living, growing things.”
“Oh. Now that you mention it, I do recall her saying something like that.”
“You really must learn to listen. What most women appreciate . . . what I think Miss Atherton in particular will appreciate . . . is to be seen and understood. Talk to her, Lancelot. Find out what makes her tick.”
“What makes her tick,” he repeated. “That will be a challenge. I enjoy talking to Miss Atherton, believe you me. But she spends all her time in that damned parlor, drawing. It was all I could do to persuade her to join us for dinner the other night.”
“And yet you did.” His grandmother’s eyes gleamed, as if she were remembering something from her own past. “You’re a smart man, Lance. Find a way to persuade her to take some time off and to spend it with you. Open yourself up to her. Women appreciate a man who isn’t afraid to show his vulnerable side.”
He made a face. “I am not going to cry in front of her.”
“I didn’t say anything about crying. I said: be vulnerable. There is a difference. Who knows? Maybe, somewhere along the line, you’ll discover that you have feelings for her. And that she has feelings for you.”
Lance stood up, instantly annoyed. “Is that what this is about?” He felt as though he’d just been duped, blindsided. “You’re hoping I’ll fall in love with her?”
His grandmother eyed him sharply. “I know you were hurt long ago, my darling boy. But that is no reason not to love again.”
“When and if I marry, Grandmother, love will not enter into it.”
“Well, then, you are setting yourself up to fail. Trust me on this. If you want to win that young woman’s hand, you will first have to win her heart.”
Kathryn had been hard at work since early that morning, pausing only to consume the breakfast and lunch that had been brought in on a tray.
Although she had completed several drawings that pleased her, she felt an unfamiliar restlessness that was difficult to define.
Kathryn chalked it up to the unusual circumstances of her situation. She’d never lived at someone else’s house before while working for them. And nothing about this job was going the way it was supposed to. Within a few hours of meeting her client, she’d had almost-sex with him on a billiards table and then passed out in his arms. Three days later, her client had proposed. Things like this were not supposed to happen on the job.
Kathryn’s refusal had obviously hurt the duke’s pride. Shortly thereafter, he’d vanished from the premises. She was aware that Lord Darcy had returned the previous afternoon. No note had arrived, though, demanding her presence at the dinner table, and she had been only too happy to eat dinner on a tray.
They couldn’t avoid each other forever, however. Would it be awkward when they next encountered each other? She hoped not. All that mattered to her was the work. At least . . . that’s what she kept telling herself.
Unfortunately, her mind was not cooperating on the same level. Last night, she’d dreamt about him again. Another erotic dream.
In the dream, he had appeared in her bedroom, attired in his full naval captain regalia. She had risen from bed, entranced. His eyes had been filled with desire. In seconds, he had removed her nightgown until she stood naked before him.
She hadn’t been embarrassed, just filled with yearning for him to take her in his arms. Which he had done without hesitation. Then he’d kissed her. A luscious, delectable kiss from which she’d awakened far too soon, her heart pounding like a runaway train, the region between her legs throbbing.
Kathryn’s heart sped up again just thinking about the dream. It was absurd, the places the mind went when one was supposed to be at rest. Why was she lusting after this man? She was here to work for him, that’s all!
Heaving an annoyed sigh, Kathryn refocused her attention on the drawing of the main stairwell that lay on the table before her. She’d been working on it for hours, but even though it looked finished, something felt like it was missing. She had no idea what.
Frustrated, she set the drawing aside and moved to the next item on the list: the new master bathroom. She had already sketched out a basic floor plan. Her task now was to determine the most convenient locations for the plumbing fixtures.
Where, Kathryn wondered, should the sink go? Against the north wall? To help her decide, she tried to envision the duke actually using the room.
In her mind, she saw him standing at the sink. In his undergarments. Naked from the waist up. Shaving.
She gave her head a quick mental shake. That was not an image she ought to be contemplating. Quickly, she sketched in the sink placement and redirected her thoughts to the placement for the bathtub.
The bathtub.
A new image appeared in Kathryn’s brain: the duke stepping out of the bathtub. His well-toned, beautifully proportioned physique wet and gleaming. She knew exactly what he looked like naked. She had observed him on the beach. She had seen his sculpted chest and taut abdomen and lean legs and . . . other things. A shiver traveled up Kathryn’s spine at the memory.
Her cheeks flamed and she threw down her pencil. Why, oh why, did she keep thinking about him naked?
It was obviously a bad idea to work on the bathroom today. It was nearly one o’clock. Which meant she’d been sitting here working for seven hou
rs straight. She stretched her arms above her head, suddenly feeling as though all the blood in her legs had gone stagnant. She needed to get up and out of this room. To get a bit of fresh air to clear her head.
After neatly arranging her drawing materials on the table, Kathryn hurried to her chamber, donned a hat, and made her way farther upstairs to the upper level.
As she stepped outside, she was greeted by a welcoming sea breeze. Smiling, she crossed the terrace to one of the outcroppings in the battlemented stone wall and stopped beside a pair of ancient cannons. The view was spectacular. Beneath a cobalt canopy dotted with scattered white clouds, the afternoon sun glittered like diamonds on the bright blue sea.
Kathryn closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her shoulders, the rush of the wind in her face, and the scent of the sea in the air. For a few minutes, she wanted to stop thinking about the duke and concentrate on how blessed she was to be here, working on such a challenging job in this incredible place.
Her musings were interrupted by a deep, familiar voice.
“Good afternoon.”
Kathryn’s eyes flicked open with a start as she turned to find the Duke of Darcy striding across the deck toward her.
Chapter Eleven
“Miss Atherton.” The duke joined her at the terrace wall. Although he held himself stiffly and rather uncomfortably, his sensational blue eyes gleamed with some undefined emotion. “How nice to see you.”
His nearness sent little shock waves rippling through Kathryn’s body. Against her will, her stomach began to flutter. “Your Grace. It is . . . nice to see you as well.” She struggled to rise above her own discomfort, searched for something else to say. “I understand you . . . had business in Falmouth?”
“I did.” He also appeared to be fumbling for words. “But it is good to be back.” After a pause: “I am surprised to see you outside. Instead of hard at work at your desk.”
“Yes, well,” Kathryn replied, unable to prevent the defensive note in her voice, “I’ve been working since dawn. Since you advocated that I must not toil around the clock, I thought I would take some air.” She wasn’t about to tell him that said taking of air had been necessitated by naked visions of him.