Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  A chair sat beside a table with a bowl, towels, and an assortment of silver lidded jars of beautiful cut glass. With a twist, she unscrewed one, putting her nose to the opening, inhaling the intricate lemon and spice so much a part of the duke. Carefully, she unleashed the straight razor from its silver handle, the polished blade glinting in the candle light, lethally sharp. She clicked it shut, set it back beside the matching silver soap mug and shaving brush, and tried not to think of the intimacy of a man at his toilet.

  She distracted herself by looking around. The place was in sad need of modernization. No doubt the duke expected her to fund the update.

  Surprisingly, the water in the pitcher was warm. No doubt Hitches had anticipated the duke’s desire to clean up after running outside sans dressing gown and slippers.

  She poured water into the bowl and scrubbed. One bowl of water was not enough. She dumped the blackened batch in an empty bucket by the washing table and started in with a fresh batch of warm water, using a lovely scented soap. Too spicy for a lady, but this was not a time for niceties.

  By the time Summerton returned, the bucket was half full of black, scummy water, but Caroline was pink-cheeked with clean hands.

  “Here.” He held out her nightrail and a dressing gown of such delicate lace she could see his long fingers through the fabric. Awkward, the fabric slipped as he passed them to her, floating down, forming a diaphanous pool between them.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” His rough voice grazed her senses like a cat’s tongue.

  “Perhaps I should find something else to wear,” she said, but he waved the idea away and left. Escaping without a thought to her sensibilities.

  She couldn’t greet his aunt in her lad’s outfit any more than she wished to reveal herself in—she looked at the tumble of nothingness. Perhaps they weren’t as bad as she imagined.

  She stripped down, rolling the urchin’s clothes into a ball and leaving them with the dirty cloths she’d used to wash. Careful of its fragility, she donned the nightwear and stood before a long mirror.

  Every curve, every shade of dark and light, revealed in the light of one mere candle. Impossible.

  She went through the clothes press and armoire, finding another banyan, this one quilted, lighter weight than the one he had on, with a mandarin collar and frog fastenings that had been designed to start at a man’s collar bone, but hit the tops of her breasts. Far too long, she only fastened the upper buttons, flipping the extra length back to trail behind her like a train.

  It would have to do.

  Summerton stopped mid-stride as she entered the bedchamber. Heart thumping wildly, she waited; all too aware of the massive bed behind her.

  “Good.” He offered a perfunctory nod and held his arm, gesturing toward the door. She took a deep breath, wishing he’d say more, give some indication as to his plans. He didn’t. Just crossed the room to open the door to their sitting room.

  The spice of his cologne had her turning her head as she passed. An urge to catch the full scent. She knew its source, the cut crystal bottle, its ornate silver lid. She’d stood right where he would when he applied it. The scent from the bottle and the scent on the man were very different. The knowledge rippled through her, raising a heathenish instinct she fought to suppress.

  She refused to be swayed by a man who counted her worth in pounds and pence.

  “Thank you,” she said, and stepped into a room softly lit by candles and a warm fire.

  Beside the fire sat a strong-boned woman, neatly coiffed, clad in a simple day dress and shawl, despite having been called from her bed. She sat up straight without appearing rigid, her smile as enigmatic as the duke’s. Like the duke, she commanded by presence alone.

  She would be fair-minded, Caroline guessed, though, like the duke, she was not the sort you’d want to get on the wrong side of.

  Currently, she was on the wrong side of both of them.

  “The errant bride, I presume,” Lady Eleanor said. “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

  CHAPTER 3 ~ Plans

  His bride did not want him.

  Face scrubbed to pink, hair a delightful tousle, dressed in his banyan, she should have looked like a child playing dress-up. The hem trailed ludicrously around her. She had to clutch the sleeves to keep them from falling to her knees.

  No, not a child, a medieval queen walking into her court. How did she manage it?

  He paced to the windows, rather than look at her. He’d let Eleanor ask the questions. His aunt liked such things, unraveling the chaotic puzzle of human existence. Of all the issues her running away raised, only one strand haunted him.

  His bride did not want him. Nor, did it seem, did she want to be a duchess. What woman ran from being a duchess? Or from him? Women fawned over him.

  Or did they?

  There was that incident when Lady Alyssa, poor girl, had swooned at his feet. An anecdote revived every year, with each new swarm of debutantes. He rather suspected the misfortune had more to do with the sweltering, overcrowded ballroom than it did with him, but the story must have been plausible, for it was repeated every season.

  Wasn’t it?

  Worse, he wanted her. Badly. Even after her flight and then walking about in his clothes. This woman, who didn’t want him, showed more courage and backbone than any woman he’d yet to meet. Oh, yes, he wanted her, for oh so many reasons.

  “Summerton?” Eleanor interrupted the useless path of his thoughts. “Do you have a plan?”

  He had a plan, but needed more information before committing to it.

  “Perhaps Caroline would explain herself?” He suggested over his shoulder before turning back to the shadowed landscape beyond. George was below, with a troop of men, lanterns in hand, dogs leashed. Not that the dogs would be of any help other than to frighten whoever was out there.

  The light. He’d seen a light off to the left, when he’d been waiting to enter the duchess’s chamber. Someone signaling. She’d most certainly had help.

  He turned back, curious that Eleanor hesitated. Caroline was taking the chair opposite his aunt. With a casual flip of the banyan, she transformed a burdensome hem into an elegant train neatly pooled at her side.

  Eleanor’s lips lifted a fraction at the corners—enough to let him know she approved of the girl.

  “Well?” he asked, only to be interrupted by a scratch at the door.

  He scowled, crossing to open the door rather than admit another into the room. Even a servant. They may act as if they neither heard nor saw, but they did both, and they talked.

  Hitches, uncharacteristically nervous, stood on the other side.

  “Her grace’s abigail is nowhere to be found.”

  “Gone?” the duke asked.

  “No sign she was ever here,” Hitches admitted.

  Summerton dismissed him, closing the door quietly as he digested the information. Caroline had told him she left on her own, yet there’d been that light in the woods and her maid had gone missing. She’d planned this.

  Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, suddenly too angry to hold back. “In the whole time before the wedding, you never once considered calling it off?” He stepped forward, looming over her, disgusted with his outburst, the riot of his thoughts, but unable to do anything else.

  “You would be a duchess,” Eleanor offered. Her quick glance chastised him for childish behavior. He stepped back.

  “I would never be a duchess!” Caroline lifted her chin.

  He snorted. “What? Are you holding out for a prince? Because, I must warn you, they are all taken.”

  This time Eleanor’s glare took them both in. “Children,” she actually said, stunning Caroline as much as him. “Bickering won’t help.”

  “Well, I won’t,” Caroline argued. “You know that, I know that, the whole of the ton knows it.” Caroline argued.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he ordered.

  She snorted.

  “A most unladylike s
ound,” he said, earning a bark of laughter.

  “Perhaps that’s because I am not a lady, your grace.”

  “Ah,” Eleanor said, as if everything made sense, “you are afraid.”

  Caroline glared. He didn’t blame her.

  “Aunt, timid people do not run away into the night,” he defended, promptly turning the tables by adding, “But strong people tend to stand up for themselves. So tell me, Caroline, why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  She looked away, offering an intriguing silhouette, all high cheekbones and straight patrician nose.

  “Does it matter?” She turned to him, as if he was at fault. “I followed through, the wedding is over, and now you both have what you wanted. It is only fair that I’m allowed my freedom.”

  He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. He was a known negotiator, a mediator. He could get the Whigs and Tories to claim friendship. He could work this out. He turned to this stoic, obstinate woman. “You are the Duchess of Summerton.”

  “Trust me, your grace, you do not want me for your duchess.”

  “A bit late for that, but why ever not?” he asked, wishing Eleanor would step in and ask a few questions, but she sat back, offering no more than a wry smile.

  “I do not care to spend my days pouring tea and discussing the merits of a particular feather for a hat. I would fall terribly short.”

  Eleanor tsked and shook her head. “My dear, there is ever so much more to being a duchess than pouring tea.”

  “Oh, did I forget the witty gossip?” Caroline asked, smoothing the fabric on her lap. “Unfortunately, I am sorely lacking in that ability.”

  Eleanor appeared ready to say more, but he wanted to get back to the crux of the problem. “You could have refused my offer. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Offer?”

  “Yes.” He scowled despite trying to remain calm.

  “Do you mean the carriage ride, where you informed me that my uncle had accepted your proposal?”

  “Exactly.” Informed? Surely he’d asked.

  “Yes, of course. That was the carriage ride we went on after having danced twice at two separate balls. And then, of course, there was the dinner at Lord and Lady Beldons’. I believe you smiled at me from your place across, and considerably up, the table from where I sat.”

  He cleared his throat, disquieted by her version of events. She couldn’t know just how keenly he’d observed her before making his approach, or how closely he’d listened when others spoke of her, or of the thorough dossier his secretary had compiled.

  He had not courted her blindly.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “You sat beside Lord Willhaven and Sir Buttlemen. They spoke highly of your wit.”

  “How kind of them to give me a reference. Very flattering that you remembered me at all after such short acquaintance.”

  He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but you could have called it off at any time.”

  “I would have, had you appealed to me first. Once you spoke with my uncle, I could not…or at least I thought I could not.”

  “My dear,” Aunt Eleanor broke in, “one cannot force a person to marry in this day and age. There are laws. Forced marriages are not valid.”

  Caroline’s chin rose. “It was more complicated than that. In any event, your grace, I did try to call it off. The one time we walked alone in the garden. Before my maid arrived.”

  “Yes, I remember that. You asked for more time before the wedding.” He nodded.

  “Yes. Exactly. With more time, we could have, at the least, gotten to know each other. To see if we would suit.”

  “That’s not crying off and my mind was set. You were the woman I chose to marry.”

  She lost her starch, throwing her hands in the air, turning on him. “Do you not see how arrogant that is? You ‘chose to marry’ as if you were the only one who mattered?”

  Eleanor rose. “I will leave you to your discussion.”

  “But Aunt, we haven’t made our plans.”

  “Make them, and inform me in the morning.”

  “But we need your assistance, as chaperone. If you leave, no one will believe,” he gestured toward the duchess’s room.

  This time Eleanor snorted. “Really, Summerton. This entire household, the whole of England, already considers the deed done.” She faced Caroline. “Like it or not, you are a duchess, but cheer up, my dear. I believe you will make a fine one.”

  “Aunt.” He tried to get her to stay.

  “No, Summerton. If it’s an annulment you are alluding to, nothing short of a physical examination will give you ground. Humiliating for both parties and a black smear on this family.”

  Caroline stood, a steely glint in her eye. She would run, at the first opportunity. He had to stem that.

  “Eleanor, you already agreed to travel as Caroline’s companion. All I ask is that you do so as a chaperone. For the length of the bridal journey.” His aunt stopped, stood beside the door. “Give Caroline time to reconsider,” he shifted, “her aversion to this marriage.”

  “I see.” Eleanor watched them both. “Very well.” She nodded. “You will not be the first duke to grant his bride a period of acquaintance. Just see that you do a better job of seducing than you did of courting.”

  “I will not be seduced.” Caroline lifted that chin again.

  Eleanor laughed. “We shall see, my dear. We shall see.” She opened the door. “You may continue with your bickering now.” And left.

  Caroline stood by the fire, her long, narrow hands splayed for warmth. “We both know you chose to marry a purse, not a woman at all.”

  He’d offended her. That he could understand. “To a point, you are correct. St. Martins requires an heiress, but you are incorrect if you thought that limited my options. There are any number of heiresses keen to marry a duke.”

  “Unfortunately, I was not one,” she shot back, leaving his side to sit back in the wingback chair, no longer making a show of pushing the hem away. “I would prefer my husband marry me, not what my father provided.”

  He distanced himself, using the poker to stir the fire as he searched for a way around that harsh reality.

  “I met your father once.”

  “Did you?” He’d surprised her.

  “Yes, I was impressed. A crude and harsh man, at least that’s how he was among other men. It would have been easy to miss the depths of his mind. Fathomless. The man had been a business genius, and a hard-nosed one at that.”

  She relaxed, her smile rueful. “No doubt he impressed you.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “My father was not an easy man. As you said, crude and harsh.” Affection rang in her words. She’d loved her father deeply, despite his flaws.

  “He was very smart.”

  She cocked her head. “He was brilliant,” she admitted. “I’m pleased you saw past the rough exterior.”

  “I wish I could say the same of my father,” he admitted.

  His father had not been a fool, but he was no businessman, nor was he raised to be. Two generations of dukes had come into the title as younger sons, ill-equipped for the demands of the position.

  He’d been a fool not to think of that. His father claimed their holdings were well-oiled. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to do.

  His father failed to mentor him because he hadn’t the slightest clue how. The enterprises of a duke were vast and complicated and, undoubtedly, overwhelming. They could not be ignored. His father had done just that.

  Caroline sighed, bowed her head.

  He crouched beside her, “You know, Caroline, we aren’t so dissimilar.”

  She slanted him a glance, without lifting her head.

  “We’ve lost our fathers recently enough to still be wrangling with their legacies and neither of us has had a mother’s love.”

  She studied him, as if the slant of his eye, the curve of his lips, could discern honesty or guile. She looked away. “That is not why you ma
rried me.”

  “You want to know why I chose you?” He moved to sit opposite her. “You are a beautiful young lady, very well-behaved. I’d not expected that having met your father.”

  Her head snapped up and he realized he’d offended her again when he meant to compliment.

  “Well-behaved despite my background, you mean.” She leaned forward. “Ah, yes. No doubt that would be a theme throughout the marriage. And you ask why I do not wish to be a duchess.” She sat back, like a child in a snit.

  He didn’t quite know how to deal with that. “You are congenial company.”

  “Congenial company? Like an acquaintance you don’t necessarily avoid?”

  “You’re bright,” he offered, realizing he was losing ground.

  “Oh, my, thank you for your faint praise. I shall cherish that keepsake forever.”

  “Fine. You want some godforsaken idyllic romance and I failed to provide it.” He rose again, to pace. “If that’s the case, why did we have to go through the whole masquerade of a wedding, if you had no intention of honoring it?”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  “The money, of course. It’s the reason you married me, and it’s the reason my uncle forced me to marry you.”

  He threw up his hands. “As my aunt pointed out, no one can be forced to marry another. All you had to do was say something.”

  “You are so naïve.” She was back to her regal self, sitting rigidly straight, eyes so hard, he felt as though she were jabbing at him with her finger.

  “For every misstep with you, my uncle promised to put down one of my pets. If the marriage was called off, he threatened to drown the lot and fire every one of my father’s workers with more than three children and then refuse them a reference.” She lifted her chin. “When I informed my uncle I would not marry you, Seigneur Baver disappeared. After I made one attempt to speak with you, Old Jake was let go from the mill. I would not put more lives at risk.”