Will had no desire to cause her any distress, but he could, however, guess what she was thinking.
Hesitating, he said haltingly, “I believe we should discuss something. An important matter.”
Judging by her expression, she seemed to know exactly what this matter was, but she said nothing. She turned slightly toward him to indicate her willingness to converse about it.
He began directly, with no preamble or attempt at artifice.
Though it had originally been his wish that she be removed very quickly from the manor, he couldn’t find pleasure in saying the same, now. Still, it had to be said. His aunt had also grown fond of her, which rendered things rather fraught. He knew that the women would miss each other.
Hell, he would miss Miss Brooke and he could hardly admit it, or fathom why.
But she must have been on her way somewhere when fate brought us together so abruptly, he thought. Not home, because she seems so reluctant to go home. But elsewhere. He had the sinking instinct, though, that he was only telling himself this to try to make himself feel better.
“Am I correct in observing that you are very nearly mended? Though you may not be, strictly speaking, fully recovered?”
She did not wait long to nod her affirmative.
“I am so pleased to see that you have regained most of your strength,” said Will, wanting to hit himself for sounding so formal.
“Yes, my lord. I don’t think a full recovery is very far from me, now.”
“I am happy to hear it, Miss Brooke.”
“Thank you.” She stared at him impassively but with, he thought, a faint note of sadness.
“If it is not too indelicate for me to ask… have you considered going on your way?”
Miss Brooke blanched.
“I do not mean to insinuate that you are taking advantage of the situation,” he said hurriedly.
“No, Your Grace,” she said, almost as quickly. “I do not think you believe I am a designing woman… I just… I was reflecting on the subject before I noticed you were in the gardens looking up at me.”
“I see,” said Will, relieved. “Would you mind sharing your reflections, then?”
She looked at the sheep, frolicking as they were, then back at him. A soft breeze lifted her hair slightly from the base of her neck. “I have to confess that I am at a loss as to what I should do.”
Gently, he said, “I want to help. Please, tell me what you were thinking.”
When did it become so simple to be gentle toward her?
Miss Brooke became visibly agitated, plucking slightly at her borrowed, dove grey gown. “I think I should tell you what I have omitted so vigilantly these last few weeks.”
Without looking too eager, he hoped, Will nodded. “If you feel it is best.”
Finally! he wanted to crow.
“You see,” she began, the words falling from her mouth almost heavily like they had physical weight, “I was running from my father that night you found me. He is responsible for all the marks you have observed on my person.” She paused, not to gauge his reaction, for she was not looking at him, but seemingly to gather her strength.
Will’s surge of triumph abated, and he schooled his features from dismay to calmness.
“One of his greatest pleasures is beating me. It was not his first time, and it would definitely not be the last if I chose to return to him.”
Horrified, though perhaps not truly surprised, Will could only listen. Amongst both the ton and common classes alike, it was not unusual for men to discipline their children, and particularly their female children, with physical force. Will would not go so far as to call himself “lucky” because he deplored the very idea of such abuse and to his mind, it should not be so commonplace, but his father had never lifted a hand toward him or either of his brothers.
“I only wanted to be away from him, my lord.” Miss Brooke’s affect was rather flat, but fraught with repressed emotions—a hallmark of having these abuses throughout her life. “I didn’t know where to run and, indeed, I have nowhere to go. I just… ran. And unfortunately, I fell by the brook. It was dark. I had been recovering from a fever. He was spitting angry that night, because I had not felt well for days and was not keeping up with the housework in the manner he expected.” She sighed. “It was my intention to find a position far, far away from Brookfield.”
Will’s heart was pulled in two directions: one, sheer anger toward her father, who was clearly a horrid person with no sense of honor, and secondly, sorrow for her. The marks on her body were varied and many. Some were quite old, while others were fresh. As she’d said, and as he had suspected even on that night, the violence was not singular to that occasion. He did not know it was her father at the time, but now that he knew, he should have suspected.
He gave her a moment to collect herself. She was not crying, but she was shaken.
“What is your name, then? You must know by now that we will not give you over to him. I’ve relented in my earlier, very adamant assertions that you must go. I believe, especially after hearing you say all of this, that you should stay.”
But she missed his self-deprecating note and said seriously, after exhaling, “I am Miss Augusta Copperweld, Lord Ainsworth.” Her eyes were both pleading and, somehow, full of fire.
Will smiled at her. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Copperweld.”
She smiled, albeit reluctantly.
Curiously, he asked, “What would you have me do with you? My aunt and I have wondered.”
“I still think I should like employment,” she said, thinking, the smallest of frowns crossing her rosy lips.
I wonder what it would be like to kiss them, he thought. But as soon as it came, he rejoined it with, Stop that, immediately.
Will waited, and did not tell her how he’d mentioned sending her to the Sisters of Mercy. Somehow, he felt this might lead to him being stared down with an icy glare.
She might even try to run away again and take a sharp fall from the gazebo. He would not put it past her, and it would be his luck.
“I do not wish to impose upon you as a guest when I am neither a real guest, nor used to being idle. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Will cocked his head, motioning slightly with one hand for her to continue.
“Would you consider employing me in the manor for a month or two? I think I could be useful and I already know my way around the estate.” She was showing obvious signs of struggling with the request. Her mouth was now fully downturned.
Pride? guessed Will. Does she not like to ask for help? Clearly, work is not the trouble.
Miss Copperweld continued, saying, “I have no money if you turn me out immediately. But with some saved earnings, I would feel more confident striking out on my own if that is what you wish for me to do.”
“I will not turn you out immediately,” said Will, with a shade of dryness. He couldn’t allow himself to fathom it and, on top of that, his aunt would flay him alive if he tried.
“I had hoped not, my lord,” she said, with a note of good humor returning to her voice.
“You must allow me some time to deliberate,” Will said, rubbing the back of his neck reflexively. “I hate to make any decision in haste. It’s one of my flaws, though indubitably, not my only one.”
Her eyes crinkled with mirth. “I have not noticed many, but perhaps this is the only one that has truly impacted me.”
He smiled a little bashfully. “Perhaps. But in seriousness, I don’t believe it will be a problem. The household already knows you.” He longed to tell her she did not have to stay on as a servant, but he knew the very idea would not sit well with her. He shook his head a little and said, “This… your father. He lives here in Brookfield.”
“We live just outside the village,” she sighed. “He recently came into possession of a small farm. I don’t know how he did it. I feel as though something untoward or exceedingly lucky must have happened at the gambling tables, for he came home one evening both foxed an
d with a deed in his pocket.” She stopped speaking, gathered her thoughts, then spoke again. “He says the taxes that you collect are ridiculous. I don’t believe him when he says anything, normally. But evidently, this is how many of the villagers feel.”
This was an entirely new claim to Will, who was appalled at the very suggestion.
He scoffed, more out of shock than disdain. “While I do not claim to acquaint myself directly with the affairs of the people in the village, I employ the services of an excellent steward. Your father must be mistaken, for anything I collect has not changed since I have returned. It is the normal rate and was calculated well before my father’s death to take into account the seasons, each person’s livelihood, inflations… I daresay he was merely very intoxicated.” He was perplexed.
They studied a yellow butterfly whose feather-light wings fluttered lazily between the meager space that separated them. Augusta was evidently reluctant to disagree, but she still murmured, “I have no love for him. But I have heard from many that they have recently been forced to give up almost half of their earnings.”
Will felt his mouth drop open and only managed to close it a moment later. What devilry is this? “I assure you that I do not benefit from such a practice. Nor do I engage in it.”
“I do not believe you would,” she assured him. “I’m only telling you what is said.”
“Why, half! That is preposterous!” His family was wealthy enough; his father had never seen the point—unlike some landlords—in straining his local tenants.
“There appears to be either an opportunist or a liar, or both, then,” said Miss Copperweld. “Somewhere in your employ, or somewhere in the village.”
“Indeed.”
“You are sure that you trust this steward?”
“I thought I did,” Will muttered grimly.
He was almost amused at how shrewd she was.
“Well…” she ventured. “You have not asked my advice or what I would do, but I might start by going to Brookfield and rebuilding a relationship with your tenants. They say you are not at all yourself… meaning no offense. They say that your time on the battlefield ruined your mind. No one, to my hearing, has ever said anything unkind about you personally. They do wonder why you will not speak to them, now.”
“What do they say about me?”
This is it, he thought. This is your “Lord Malliston” moment. He steeled himself for the worst.
Miss Copperweld laid a gentle hand on the crook of his arm, which seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised him. “If you must know, I can tell you what I’ve heard.”
At last, Will studied her, then her hand on his arm. He knew a wry smile crossed his lips. “And are you very embedded in the village gossip, then?”
“No,” she said, blushing. “I keep to myself. My father has that effect on me.” She nibbled her full lower lip. “I think I resent the people I knew who saw marks upon me and did nothing. So I was… am… not much for socializing.”
Irrational, hot anger warmed Will’s blood. Although he had never been, strictly speaking, a violent person, he now had a deep and clear urge to find this man and throttle him. He swallowed. “But you converse enough to know that Lord Ainsworth is the subject of speculation and derision… or his taxes are the subject of derision, anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Pray, enlighten me.”
“The elders in particular talk most. They remember when you used to work in the village. When you would attend to people who were ill or injured. When you’d help the midwife deliver babies.”
Will thought back to that time and it seemed a lifetime had passed since then. “I did.”
“Do you miss it? They say you were kind, and compassionate, and very good at your calling.”
“I do.”
She nodded. “I can tell.”
How? Will wanted to ask. How can you see something within me that has died? He did not voice his thoughts aloud. “Then perhaps I am not so monstrous as they say.”
“No one does,” she insisted. Her grip on his arm tightened. “That is just it. The villagers, the decent ones, anyway, they claim you must be sad. It is especially so when I encounter someone who used to know you from boyhood.”
This should have warmed Will’s heart, and it didn’t.
“But what about the ones who are angry that half of their earnings are being seized?” If they really are being taken, anyway, and someone has not just made it up.
“They seem more confused than angry,” said Miss Copperweld. She was being honest with him. He knew from the tone of her voice. “It does not square with what they knew of you, and so they are trying to make sense of it. Some are angry, I suppose.” She smiled reluctantly. “Don’t take my father as a good measure for how everyone else feels. He would get cross at, oh, a butterfly that crossed his path.”
“I see.” Thinking through everything he had just learned, Will wondered what the best course of action was. If someone, possibly his steward, was acting dishonestly, it would be a grievous offense. One that could see a man jailed.
“If you think you’ve been abandoned by your tenants, you haven’t.”
“No?”
“Of course not,” said Miss Copperweld. “If everyone truly felt hard done by, they would have demanded an audience with you well before now. I know commoners don’t demand things of dukes, but being honest, if there was enough unrest for you to be worried, you would have heard about it. One way or another, I mean.”
He had to laugh at her astute, if blunt, assessment. “That is an oddly reassuring point.”
“I have overheard some call you the ‘Duke of Sorrow’,” she said. The brown of her eyes glowed like embers. “I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but I think I do, now.”
Duke of Sorrow? Will thought. Heavens, I do hope that hasn’t traveled more widely than Brookfield. He wrinkled his nose at her, mildly disdainful of the nickname, no matter how well-meaning or full of pity.
If it was either of those things. She stifled a rueful laugh.
For now, he chose to disregard her revelation. It simply wasn’t constructive. Pushing aside the uncomfortable feeling brought by knowing he had been thusly rechristened, he turned his thoughts back to the more concrete matter at hand. If his people were being defrauded, it was his responsibility to ensure the matter was resolved.
His father would expect it of him, and he could not bear disappointing his memory. Indeed, if his father was in this position, he would be doing everything he could to meet the problem head-on. He was always, as much as a duke could be, a man of the people, and the people seemed to like him.
“There is something to your unsolicited advice, Miss Br—Miss Copperweld. Perhaps it is time for me to show my face in Brookfield once more.”
Chapter Seven
The events of the day had been too unexpected to allow Augusta much sleep.
She had finally been moved from the downstairs parlor to a guest bedroom. It was beyond any room she had ever slept in and, ordinarily, she would be happy to experience something so luxurious and new. The colors were all soothing. Sage green, deep coral, and a shade of gold that matched her mother’s hair. Regardless, she found no solace in either the decor or the comfort of the enormous four-poster bed.
Instead, she continued to toss about, thinking and thinking about the time she’d spent in the gazebo with Lord Ainsworth.
She worried that she had been too frank, too candid. In spite of his initial standoffishness, he now engendered a warm familiarity that she considered potentially dangerous because she was half-sure it was entirely within her own head. It was true that he was kind beneath his fears, but she had only the faintest of ideas of how to behave around the nobility. Just because she had discovered he possessed a demeanor that she found agreeable did not make him her friend. It certainly did not make him an eligible suitor, though telling her heart that whenever he drew near was becoming next to impossible.
Augusta sighed
into the darkness. “This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t have asked him for more help,” she grumbled.
She tried to think of another time when a man had captured her fancy. There was Jack Smith, the stable boy with striking blue eyes and dark hair, but they’d both been only fourteen. Hardly grown. Though she understood how important it was not to fall pregnant, they still engaged in other activities that, when she innocently confided them to Mama, merited a shrill shriek and then a quick, stern lecture about how dangerous even those were.
Augusta didn’t see Jack again after that evening, which was probably for the best.
How I felt then is not the same as how I feel, now, decided Augusta.
Like nearly everyone she’d ever met except for her father, she attended church on Sundays, or had until the last few Sundays. While she believed in God and understood that what she had engaged in was driven by lust rather than love, she could not regret it because it helped her distinguish one from the other. It would be very early, indeed, to say that she loved Lord Ainsworth with all her heart. She was too cautious for that, and too aware of their different positions in life. But she could not say that she was not falling in love with him.
No, she thought. You have fallen in love with him, you fool.
The very idea of being separated from him knotted her stomach.
She was attracted to the duke, too, and even her limited experience in the matters of physical pleasure unhelpfully filled in the voids. She could imagine, quite easily, what it might be like to allow him to touch her. He looked at her often and she could not mistake the longing in his face.
As difficult as his face was for others to read, it had become an open, legible book to her.
The foremost question was, did he view her as a woman with whom he might only have a tryst, or was something deeper taking root for him as it was for her? She refused to rationalize his glances as anything other than what they were—indications of interest.
Lord Ainsworth had unwittingly shown her all of the things she admired in a man. He was fighting his way back to himself, so to speak. But in spite of that, he had shown more and more of his true nature to her.
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