To Love a Duchess EPB

by Karen Ranney

  “I’m getting tired of seeing you in black, Suzanne. I think you should give some thought to another color.”

  This was a conversation they had every time they met. Normally she remained silent, allowing him to rant without her participation. Today, however, she felt compelled to answer.

  “It wouldn’t be proper, Father,” she said, moving to the end of the couch. As he did every time he came into this room, he chose the opposite chair. “People would talk.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve consulted experts on the subject, Suzanne. They concur with me. Two years is long enough for you to wear black.”

  She shouldn’t have said anything, but silence was getting more difficult. She was not going to wear lavender simply because he didn’t want to remember. He’d done the same with her mother. Two weeks after her death he’d begun to distribute her belongings to her friends and the servants. He was so determined to erase every trace of her that it was as if she’d never existed.

  “I don’t need trinkets,” he’d said when she confronted him about his actions. “I’ll never forget your mother. She’ll always remain in my heart.”

  She wasn’t entirely certain her father had a heart, but maybe he’d been telling the truth. In the last ten years he hadn’t found another woman to take her mother’s place. To the best of her knowledge—and thanks to information parlayed by chatty servants—he didn’t entertain on his own. Every dinner party, every social event, was a result of a calculation. Who should attend? Who should be singled out for attention? Who was more valuable?

  “I expect you to be there,” he said. “You need to get past your sorrow, not wallow in it.”

  She stared at him. “Wallow in it?”

  He nodded. “You need to devote yourself to a few good causes. If you like, I’ll have Martin send you a list of acceptable activities.”

  She stood and looked down at her father. Anger surged through her, banishing the last of the gray haze from Ella’s tonic.

  “How could you say such a thing?”

  “Sit down, Suzanne. We have a great deal more to discuss.”

  “No, we don’t,” she said. “I’m not one of your political cronies. I’m not a pawn on your chessboard.”

  She was not going to stay here and listen to him berate her. Instead, she walked out of the room. Let him condemn her for being rude; she didn’t care.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adam made his way back to the library, trying to dismiss the image of the duchess leaving the conservatory with her father. There was something about the set of her shoulders that disturbed him. Almost as if she were curving into herself.

  Edward Hackney was one of those men who saw nothing wrong with browbeating someone in his employ or the women in his life.

  Adam knew quite well that the man was rich, but he didn’t give a flying farthing. Men with that kind of wealth were as arrogant as the peerage, thinking that they were better than other people.

  They weren’t, but the problem was that no one had the nerve to tell them. Most of the time they were allowed to get away with their arrogance. They’d been born and one day would die like everyone else. Between those two dates it seemed to be important for them to let everyone know exactly who they were and what they possessed.

  A title might be bestowed upon a man at his birth, but Adam doubted that Saint Peter would be reading out the name of the Duke of Marsley. Instead, it would be George Whitcomb who stood there, waiting to be judged.

  As for himself, Adam was all too aware of his own sins as well as his failings.

  It would be better to quickly finish up this assignment and get back to his lodgings. He wanted to stop worrying about whether he fit the majordomo template or how to handle personnel problems.

  Granted, he would miss Mrs. Thigpen, who turned out to have a surprising sense of humor and a practical grasp of life itself. He would miss several of the footmen who looked to him as an older brother.

  He wanted an assignment that was more professional and less personal. Perhaps without a woman who sparked his protective instincts. Or made him think, even once, how beautiful she was.

  Being at Marsley House was not good for him, and it didn’t matter how many times Roger implied that this assignment could easily advance his career. Roger had been guilty of promising too much and delivering too little before. He’d be a fool to take him at his word.

  Adam made his way back to the third floor, staring at the shelves filled with the duke’s journals. He had a suspicion that they had not originally been stored up here. He couldn’t imagine, given the duke’s character, that he would want his personal journals so far from hand.

  The duke had been remarkably thin-skinned. When he perceived an insult, he recorded the slight along with the name of the infringing individual, the situation, and the date—the better to remember. It was a good thing that he hadn’t been able to read the minds of the men under his command. There weren’t enough journals in the world to record all those comments.

  Adam reached for the fourteenth volume on the third shelf from the bottom, knowing that he probably wasn’t going to get anything of substance from this book, either. Chronologically, Whitcomb had just arrived in India. Four years would elapse before the Sepoy Rebellion. Until then, the duke would have enough time to make a complete ass of himself and reveal the depth of his incompetence.

  The man’s appointment had been a royal favor and one that had surprised a great many people. It was entirely possible that Whitcomb, as the Duke of Marsley and the heir to a distinguished family, had some sort of relationship with the Queen. If he did, Adam doubted if the information would ever be passed along to him, a Scot from Glasgow, and the poor part of Glasgow, at that.

  He heard the library door open and swore beneath his breath. He should have taken one of the journals back to his office to read the duke’s increasingly indecipherable handwriting at his leisure.

  Silently, he made his way to where the circular staircase ended, peering down into the cavernous first floor. To his surprise, the duchess stood there, her fists clamped on the black skirt of her dress, her lips thinned.

  A second later Hackney entered the room, nearly slamming the door behind him.

  “Have you lost your mind, Suzanne? Or all semblance of manners?”

  “You would push yourself into my home, Father, and then lecture me on manners?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I didn’t feel like having a visitor,” the duchess said. “Yet you didn’t feel it necessary to respect my wishes.”

  “Are you drinking, Suzanne?” Hackney put both fists on his hips and glared at his daughter.

  “You needn’t be insulting, Father.”

  “And you needn’t walk away when I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “You’re not talking to me. You were beginning to lecture me again. I don’t need to be lectured.”

  “Evidently you do, or you would’ve behaved much better than you have today.”

  Hackney’s florid face was made even redder by his irritation. There was no doubt that he was furious with his daughter.

  Adam couldn’t see the duchess’s face from here because her back was to him. However, she didn’t sound as dazed as she had earlier. Whatever she’d taken or drunk had evidently worn off.

  “You’ve changed, daughter, and it isn’t becoming.”

  “I’ve changed?”

  “Your grief has turned you into a harridan.”

  The duchess took a few quick steps back, almost as if Hackney had announced that he carried the plague.

  “Behave like the widow of a duke, daughter. Georgie’s dead and the sooner you come to that realization and accept the permanence of it, Suzanne, the better you will be.”

  She took another step back, her fingers now pressed to her mouth.

  Hackney, to his credit, looked as if he realized how damaging his words had been. He reached out one hand then dropped it when she too
k another step back.

  “I think you should leave,” she said, her voice tight. “I really don’t want to see you right now.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Hackney said. “I’ll send you notice of the luncheon. I expect you to be there.”

  Hackney didn’t say anything else as he turned and left the room.

  She was weeping again, the sound like a spear to Adam’s chest. He wanted to pummel Hackney.

  What kind of father talked to his daughter that way?

  Adam waited a few minutes until he was certain that the man wasn’t returning. He left the journal flat on the bookshelf and was descending the staircase to talk to the duchess when she left the library.

  Was she going back to the roof?

  He understood her grief now, in a way he hadn’t before.

  Adam caught sight of the edge of her black skirt as she made it to the second floor landing. She wasn’t going to the roof, but to her own suite.

  He went up the stairs anyway, just in time to see her enter the duke’s sitting room. He was descending the stairs when she came out again. He pretended to be testing to see if there was dust on the wainscoting just in case she interrogated him as to his actions. But the duchess didn’t come to the first floor. Instead, she headed for the third.

  He followed her, hoping to God she wasn’t going to the roof after all. Once again, however, she confused him, turning left toward a part of the wing that wasn’t used for servants’ quarters. Nor was it near the entrance to the roof.

  A door closing behind her was the only clue to where she’d gone.

  Adam remained at the end of the hall, watching. A few minutes passed and she didn’t emerge.

  He walked to the door and stood in front of it. Twice he raised his hand, debating about whether to knock. Twice he lowered it. Should he interrupt her? Should he offer his condolences?

  What the hell should he do about the Duchess of Marsley? He couldn’t, in all good conscience, call her Marble Marsley anymore.

  Perception was based on perspective, another lesson he’d learned in the army, but not from his superiors. He’d watched as one indignity after another was dealt out to the native population by the British East India Company. He hadn’t been able to understand how an organization as expansive and all-consuming had been so blind to its own actions. They had no inkling that a great many of their policies were insulting to the populace, like the idiotic decision to use beef tallow to grease the cartridges for the new Enfield rifles. By doing so, they managed to offend the Hindu population, for whom the eating of cows was forbidden.

  He’d been as blind about the Duchess of Marsley, judging her by his own personal prejudices and biases.

  At least he’d tried to comfort her. He could still feel her standing close to him, her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest. He felt her tears against his knuckles, and more than once he looked at his hand as if to see evidence of them still there.

  He, too, knew what grief was. It was a cruel emotion, one that sapped your energy and gave nothing in return. Anger sometimes brought wisdom. Fear encouraged caution. Love? Love was perfect in its own sense. But grief? All it brought was anguish and despair and the pitiless certainty that you would always feel it in some degree.

  Rebecca’s death still weighed heavily on him, as well as the loss of his mother and sister. He’d had friends he’d watched die for no more reason than they were serving in the army. He knew grief only too well.

  If the duchess was cold, if she held herself stiff and aloof from others, it could be that she was like Mrs. Anderson in India. The poor woman had watched two of her children die of fever. He’d been assigned to take her to the ship bound for England. She’d barely spoken, but when she had, he could hear the despair in her voice. He’d wanted to say something then, too, but what words could possibly ease someone trying to cope with that kind of loss?

  He didn’t have anything to say now, either, so he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days later Adam entered the housekeeper’s office, only to be informed that the duchess wished to see him. Mrs. Thigpen looked worried, which was not a good sign. The housekeeper normally remained calm and unmoved even in the worst of crises.

  “Do you know why?” he asked her. “Have I done something wrong?”

  That was always a possibility. He had navigated many roles in the previous seven years, but this stint as a majordomo had been the most difficult one of all.

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Thigpen said, sighing. “She does seem in a mood, which is strange. The duchess is normally very sweet and unassuming.”

  He hadn’t seen that side of the duchess yet, but he wisely kept silent.

  “I do wish her father would not come and visit,” Mrs. Thigpen said, surprising him. “She’s always so agitated after he leaves.”

  “The duchess doesn’t seem to be very much like him.”

  “She doesn’t, does she? From the very first moment she moved into Marsley House, I liked her. She never put on airs and she always treated every member of the staff with kindness. She went out of her way to say please and thank you, which is more than I can say about Mr. Hackney. Or the duke, for that matter.”

  “He was in India, wasn’t he?” Adam asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could. He’d never considered that Mrs. Thigpen might be a source of information about India, but the woman had been employed at Marsley House for two decades. The duke might have said something to her about Manipora.

  “That he was, and very enthusiastic about the prospect. At least, that’s what his valet told me. Of course, Paul didn’t last long in his employ. Once he got to India, His Grace replaced him.”

  The duke had been surrounded by a coterie of people who either protected him from others or the rest of the world from George.

  She glanced at the clock. “Best be off, then, before she rings again.”

  He entered the library, closed the door behind him, and walked to the desk where the duchess was sitting. She kept him standing there while she pretended to be interested in the account books in front of her. He saw those once a month when they were sent from the solicitor. He was expected to make comments and notations, and enter in any unexpected expenses that hadn’t been otherwise listed. The books were then sent back to the solicitor for evaluation. He hadn’t realized a step in the process was that the duchess reviewed them as well.

  She finally looked up, her face wiped of any expression, and said to him, “Your penmanship leaves a great deal to be desired, Drummond.”

  He bit back a smile. If that’s all she could find fault with, then he was in no danger of being dismissed.

  “I apologize, Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly. “I will attempt to do better.”

  She glanced away and then back at him. “See that you do.”

  He nodded, moved to stand at parade rest position, his legs slightly apart, his hands clasped behind him. He could stand for hours if need be. At least the sun wasn’t beating down on his head and shoulders. Plus, he’d had a good breakfast, so he was prepared to remain here for as long as she kept him.

  Somehow, he’d annoyed her. No doubt protecting her from her father had been one of his sins. Another might be that he’d held her in his arms. Was she going to call him out on that, too? If so, he was tempted to tell her that, if he’d known about Georgie, he would have done even more. He would have embraced her fully, let her cry as long as she wanted, knowing exactly how she felt.

  “You’ve spent entirely too much on the conservatory,” she said.

  “Two of the window panes were broken, Your Grace. With the winter coming on, I didn’t want the damage to go unrepaired. Otherwise, the plants would’ve suffered, resulting in an even greater expenditure.”

  She looked annoyed at his answer.

  She was evidently fishing for something to complain about or some reason to have him stand in front of the desk like a supplicant. Very well, he would play this
game. While she was looking for some reason to upbraid him, he would admire the picture she made, framed by the windows behind her, with the sun dancing on her dark brown hair.

  Her nose was perfect for her face, neither too large nor too narrow and aristocratic. A woman’s mouth was a fascinating thing. Hers was perfect. The upper and bottom lip were exactly the same size. Both full, but not overly so. Nor was it too small for her face. It was another perfect feature, as were her eyes. He couldn’t remember ever seeing that shade of blue before. It was almost as if God couldn’t decide whether to give her gray eyes or blue and combined the two.

  Her long and slender fingers trailed down the notations he’d made, one by one, as if seeking an error.

  He much preferred her as she was now, annoyed and determined, than how she’d been that day in the conservatory.

  She looked up then and said, “You’ve never been a majordomo before, have you, Drummond?”

  He forced a smile to his face. “Why would you ask that, Your Grace?”

  “For the simple reason that I desired an answer, Drummond.”

  Her eyes were narrowed and that beautiful mouth of hers thinned. He might not be able to charm her with his answer, but he had every intention of doing the very best he could.

  “Your Grace, I was a sergeant in the army for many years. I was responsible for a hundred men, their welfare, their deportment, and whatever was needed to ensure their well-being. I was promoted to lieutenant, which meant that my responsibilities increased. Instead of simply a hundred men it was ten times that. When I gave your solicitor my qualifications, he thought that I would serve the position and Your Grace well. Have I not done so?”

  They exchanged a glance. He almost dared her to tell him where he had not done his best in this position. If he’d erred, and they both knew it, it was in being too familiar with her.

  He would not apologize for that.

  After a moment, she stared down at the account book. “You may go, Drummond.”

  That was all. Not an explanation of why he’d been called into the library. Not an apology for wasting his time or insulting him. Nothing. Just a dismissal by a duchess.