Swiftly, he reached for a slice of cake, just to regain his composure.
“I’m not going…to dismiss you, Sergeant,” Gabriel said eventually. “Competent men who…speak truths when required…are too scarce.”
The steward grinned, his relief palpable. “Thank the good Lord. My wife would have boxed my ears if I’d returned home without employment. Will you allow me one more entirely too-forward thing?”
“I’d wager saying no…wouldn’t stop you.”
“As I said, sir, tis my fault,” said Fairlie, stirring his tea then taking a gulp. “And I’m even less tolerant to pretense and falsehoods than I was as a stripling. But it strikes me, while you are a truly great military man, perhaps…”
“Just say it, damn you. I know nothing about crops. Or tenants. Or land incomes.”
“For the moment. But should you ever wish to journey north, I would be delighted to bore you for hours on the topics. And answer any questions you might have. Naturally not all areas are the same, and your estates will run differently due to size, soil, and quality of equipment and farmers, but a rudimentary knowledge of matters will help in future negotiations. And…” Fairlie paused and cleared his throat. “Uncovering any inconsistencies in your ledgers.”
Gabriel sat up straighter. “Something to report?”
“No, sir. Oh hell, I’m going to say a third too-forward thing. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the previous duke…he, ah, never seemed terribly interested in the workings of his lands, only the profits made. Well, for the estate I manage, anyway. Perhaps I’m doing him a disservice, and he cared a great deal for his other properties.”
A snort of derision nearly escaped, but Gabriel suppressed it. As Fairlie noted, it was bad form to speak ill of the dead, even if they had been a wretched waste of space who only cared about horses, house parties, and political cronies. In that order. “Would you be willing…to spend a few more days…in Town? I should like to…take up your offer. Learn some estate basics.”
Fairlie beamed. “Be happy to. I’ll send a note to my wife.”
“Tell her you’ll be…receiving a wage increase. Might help.”
“Thank you, sir! That would be greatly appreciated. It is a bit harder nowadays to make ends meet.”
“Fine. Come back tomorrow…two o’clock…and we’ll discuss further. I should like you…to meet Her Grace. My wife. She has a special interest…in soils and planting. Might want to ask…a few questions.”
Rather than looking dismayed or outraged at the prospect of a woman involved, Fairlie nodded approvingly. “Of course. I should be glad to meet the duchess, and go over the ledgers with you both. Good day to you, sir.”
The steward bowed and took his leave, and for the first time since he’d inherited the bloody dukedom, Gabriel felt a sliver of confidence. His body might be a mess, his speech a joke, his marriage doomed to failure, and most of his staff loyal to a dead man, but there could, in fact, be something to take control of.
And maybe, just maybe, give him something to while away the hours that he didn’t sleep.
The wine was excellent, the supper reasonably well cooked although the chef had been a little heavy handed with the sauces, yet Lilian found herself pushing the food around her plate rather than eating it. Exton hadn’t spoken to her all day, and now he sat at the other end of the dining table, silently and rather distractedly picking at his own food.
She couldn’t bear his remoteness. Surely they were too early in their marriage for such coolness; from what she had observed of ton marriages, usually couples were wed many years, and had several children in the nursery, before active dislike set in. It robbed her of conversation. Something else causing her anxiety, because if she couldn’t be the perfect ton wife and duchess, what good would she be for Exton, whose injury affected his speech so much?
Clearing her throat, she tilted her head around the overlarge table centerpiece of dried flowers and wooden fruit so she could see her husband. “How is your supper, Exton?”
“Fine. Thank you. Although…”
“Yes?” she replied, far too eagerly, because it could possibly start a discussion.
He glanced at the three footmen standing at attention by the wall, and sighed. “Never mind.”
Lilian’s heart plummeted, but she stumbled on. “Do tell me. If there is something that is not to your taste, I would be more than happy to speak to the chef. This is your household. Your preferences are paramount. Not…former preferences.”
There was a long pause, and she bit her lip, afraid she’d been too bold. And then, miracle of miracles, he nodded.
“I like plainer fare. Not drowned in sauces.”
“I see,” she said, almost wanting to get up and twirl at the minor victory. “In fact, I think the chef is a little heavy handed with the spices. I know you enjoy beef…chicken and pork and fish?”
“Not pork. Had enough salted pork in the army…to last a lifetime. Don’t even like bacon.”
“Of course. What about vegetables?”
Exton tapped his fingers on the table as he considered. “Most are fine. But not leeks. Or turnips. Can’t stand them.”
“Consider them gone,” said Lilian.
He stared at her for a long time. Then he added gruffly, “Get rid of this centerpiece. Don’t like it. I can’t see you.”
A blush swept her cheeks. “Very well.”
“And this table. It’s fine for a dinner party. But for us…” Exton’s voice trailed off, and he absently rubbed his jaw.
Lilian stifled a gasp. She had to raise her voice to ensure she could be heard down the ridiculous length of polished oak. But with Exton’s injury, having to do the same probably made speaking even more painful for him.
“If you wish,” Lilian said tentatively, “I could, ah, sit down there next to you.”
He didn’t answer, and she wanted to sink through the floorboards for making such an impulsive offer. But then he turned to the footmen and said, “Move Her Grace. In future, set her place to my left.”
All three footmen scrambled to obey his clipped order, one assisting her with her chair, another scooping up her plate, and the third taking care of her cutlery, napkin, and half-full wine glass. Soon she sat adjacent to him, and it felt shockingly intimate. If they both leaned in they could touch foreheads; from here his cologne teased her senses, and the dining room seemed smaller due to his sheer size.
“Now,” she said, wanting to start another conversation before an awkward silence ruined the moment. Or he caught her gazing at his broad shoulders. “What about sweets? Do you enjoy them?”
“I do. Too much, perhaps. Tarts, apple or berry. Vanilla custard. Marzipan. Candied fruit. Ices. Lemon cream. Syllabub. Rice or plum pudding.”
Lilian blinked. “Oh my.”
Exton actually grinned, looking so much like a naughty schoolboy, she giggled.
“I like your laugh,” he said.
“It’s terrible. Sometimes I snort like a horse,” she said quickly, to hide her bashful pleasure at his words which were entirely lacking in any fanfare or flowery speech—and yet somehow more appealing because of it. When her late fiancé had complimented her, he had always been extravagant. As if more words made the gesture more impressive.
Oh no. What was wrong with her today? Two disloyal thoughts.
Exton ate in silence for a few minutes, then he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I met with…some of my stewards earlier.”
“Oh, yes?” Lilian replied, both relieved and disappointed at the change of topic. “How did that go?”
“We’ll see. I liked one in particular. Fairlie, from the Rutland estate. Invited him back tomorrow. To talk ledgers and meet you.”
Anticipation warmed her from head to toe. “Really?”
“Told him you have…a special interest in soils. Planting. He understands you’ll stay.”
Lilian looked at her husband in surprise. She’d told him that during their first meeting on the bal
cony, but not for a moment had she thought he would remember. “I’d like that very much. It will be interesting to see the decisions he has made in overseeing your lands, and how they compare to your other stewards. Perhaps in the summer we could take a tour of the estates. See firsthand how the crops and orchards fare and if the tenants are content. I mean, ah, if you wish to.”
“Perhaps you might box my ears…if we do not.”
Hot color flooded Lilian’s cheeks. “I most certainly would never! I…” her voice trailed off at the sight of his lips twitching.
Exton had just teased her.
Her spirits soaring, she reached over and lightly smacked his hand. “Really, Your Grace,” she murmured, so the footmen didn’t hear her. “You should be sent to your chamber without any sweets.”
“Such a harsh governess. Although I confess…bed does sound appealing.”
Lilian nearly choked at his risqué words, until she studied him more closely in the light of the dining room chandelier. And frowned. How had she missed how utterly weary Exton looked? His face was drawn, his eyes a trifle bloodshot, even his usually military rigid shoulders were a fraction stooped. “Have you not been sleeping well?”
He tensed, all the amusement leaving his eyes until they resembled hard, cold onyx. “I don’t…sleep much.”
“Oh,” she murmured, dismayed at the chasm opening up between them after a lovely half hour, and unable to think of a way to close that distance. “A tisane, perhaps? I could—”
“It won’t help,” Exton bit out. Then he got to his feet and bowed. “Good evening, Lilian.”
“Good evening,” she replied, but she spoke to his back as he limped from the room.
For several long moments she stared at her wineglass, one fingertip tracing the delicate lines of the sculpted crystal as her mind whirled. Her husband could be rather sweet, and had a dry sense of humor she enjoyed. Finally he had spoken candidly about his supper likes and dislikes, something practical she could rectify immediately to please him. But now she’d learned he didn’t sleep, and the wretched curiosity that Grandmother had never been able to beat out of her, desperately wanted to know why. His injuries? Another reason?
Gabriel, Duke of Exton, intrigued her. And as each day passed, she found herself wanting to know more about him, not superficial things, but personal. To have more than a typical ton marriage.
Would he ever let her into his private world?
Chapter 6
“Your Grace, please concentrate. I don’t want to add a scar, your collection is more than sufficient.”
Gabriel glanced at Hobbs, who stood across from him in the empty antechamber they used for exercise, rapier in hand and decidedly exasperated. It hurt like hell, even balancing mostly on one foot, to fence. As it did to box the large, leather-covered cushion his valet held up, or complete the various stretches his physician had recommended. But the last thing he wanted was his limbs to wither, or to become too physically weak to walk or ride. So he forced himself, even when exhausted, to set aside an hour for exercise most days. “As you hold a weapon…and have full use of both feet, I apologize.”
His valet snorted. “Keeping up your extensive skills is important. Never know when you’ll need them. I know Her Grace is trying very hard to implement new rules and standards downstairs, and some have fallen into line, but there are still far too many others who have not, and they are damned insolent. Should you choose to rearrange the countenance of Mr. Norris, perhaps divest him of an ear or that beak of a nose, I will gladly dispose of the evidence.”
Gabriel almost smiled at the thought, and yet guilt twisted his stomach. Not only had he failed in making progress with the stewards, he’d been bloody lax with the household led by the butler, Norris, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Barrett, and it showed. In the pain-filled, sleepless, drunken haze of the past six months he’d gritted his teeth at the kind of laziness and poor work ethic he wouldn’t have tolerated for a minute in the army, but now as a married man the situation had become intolerable. “I’m aware of Lilian’s efforts. That is why…”
“Yes?” asked Hobbs, as their rapiers crossed in a slow but still deadly dance of thrust and parry.
“I’m planning an outing. To buy her a gift.”
The older man’s eyebrows flew into his hairline before his face broke out in a huge grin. “Oh! Do you wish me to accompany you? To assist in negotiations?”
Hell and damnation he wanted to say yes. He’d rarely left the townhouse since inheriting the dukedom, ignoring the vast piles of invitations that continued to arrive daily despite his non-response, the number greater now that the start of the Season loomed. Even the thought of venturing out in London society, with his limp and scars, wearing ridiculous clothing, and trying to talk without slurring his words, gave him hives. When he’d first returned, several newspapers had run articles and many cartoons had been drawn of ‘The Dashing Colonel Duke’ but as the months passed and he wasn’t seen out and about or showing appreciation for the fawning admiration, the tone changed to scathing disdain. Finally the articles had stopped altogether, the reporters and artists bored with a subject who gave them nothing to gossip about, when there were so many other delicious scandals to sink their fangs into.
Other ex-military men around who knew enough of his reputation to be respectful of his injuries and rank would be few and far between. As most Londoners had short attention spans, shop proprietors and merchants would be unlikely to recognize him out of his regimentals. Plus, a man with a prominent scar and darker skin tone would always be treated with suspicion, even when they’d done nothing wrong. But explanations meant conversation. And the few peers who knew him such as Wellington or Castlereagh or even his father-in-law Kingsford wouldn’t magically appear to smooth the way. The ton would judge him for failing to attend any soirees or Tattersall’s or a club or gaming hell. Others would judge him for not having yet taken his seat in the House of Lords.
Indeed, venturing out would invite condemnation from damned near everyone.
But he wanted to do this alone, to feel in command again by completing a task that men did every day. Definitely not achievable with Nanny Hobbs hovering.
“Thank you, but no. Have to stand on my own two feet. Even if broken.”
Hobbs pursed his lips and they fenced a while longer in silence. After stretching, Gabriel returned to his bedchamber for a quick sponge bath and to change out of his sweat-soaked buckskins and linen shirt, then made his way downstairs.
Norris, the wizened butler, sketched a bow. “Your Grace. The carriage will be at the steps shortly.”
Irritation scraped his nerves. He’d called for the damned carriage an hour ago. It was the little needling things like this he hated about the household. All could be explained away with insincere platitudes, but it had become clear that certain employees viewed him as an interloper, a barbarian, someone unfit for the title. Not nearly good enough to fill Quentin’s heeled, diamond-studded shoes. Hopefully now Lilian had taken charge, she would dismiss the worst of them and find new quality, experienced, and discreet servants to take their place. He was more than happy to pay high wages for such people.
“How unfortunate,” Gabriel drawled. “If Her Grace asks, tell her I have…an appointment.”
Surprisingly, the butler’s expression thawed a little. “Of course.”
For a man who couldn’t bear confined spaces, carriage travel from Grosvenor Square to 32 Ludgate Hill would be hell, but that was where Rundell, Bridge and Rundell were located. They were the preeminent jewelers in London, particular favorites of the royal family, and the only place he wished to purchase pieces for Lilian. Perhaps a necklace and bracelet in diamonds and sapphires to match her eyes. While the vaults held many priceless items worn by every Duchess of Exton, he wanted something specifically to belong to her.
Naturally, when he needed the outing to go well, the opposite happened.
They were held up by an overturned cart, and the knuckle-whitening jour
ney took even longer than anticipated. Then, his coachman couldn’t pull in outside the shop, apologetically stopping about a quarter mile further up. Naturally, Gabriel had left his cane behind, and while he hobbled along, cursing his luck, a light shower of rain passed over. By the time he entered the hushed elegance of the three-storied cream stone shop, he was bedraggled, hobbling, and silently seething.
Bloody hell, it was dark in here. Too dark. And there were so many people. If they stood too close, or worse, accidentally touched him…
“Can I help you, sir?”
Heart pounding, and with sweat gathering at his nape, Gabriel turned and looked at the short, dapper young man standing behind a glass-topped counter with several bracelets, pocket watches, and snuff boxes on display. “I wish to purchase…some pieces.”
“Do you,” the assistant replied with sour-faced distaste at Gabriel’s unsteadiness, limp cravat, and damp, mud-flecked clothing.
“Indeed. Sapphires and diamonds. A necklace and…a bracelet.”
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of serving you before. Perhaps you might not be aware pieces at Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell are not, shall we say, run of the mill, or crafted with inferior materials?”
Fury surged through Gabriel. Any ensign who had spoken to him in such a manner would have been scrubbing piss pots the rest of his career. Unfortunately, the more his jaw clenched with anger, the worse his speech deteriorated. “I’m well…aware. Are you suggesting…I might not have…the blunt?”
The assistant recoiled. “You are drunk, sir!”
Of course, everyone in the place chose that moment in time to take a breath, and the words echoed around the sumptuous showcases of carved clocks and dueling pistols. Several sets of eyes turned his way, and disapproving whispers began. “No…I’m not…drunk.”
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