“We’ll see about that.” If he’d meant to discourage her, he’d only made her hope even more. Greenwood was out of the running. Thank goodness for that.
Without even looking at the earl, she could sense his relief, as well. She didn’t know how to explain it, but it was as if there were an invisible connection between them, as much as she was loath to admit it.
The duke eyed her over his spectacles. “You’re a former student, teacher, and headmistress at Oak Hall? And now you’re a sort of roving ambassador?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“Then play your role, and do it well, or you’ll leave this house as Ella McCloud of Greenwood did, with nothing but a stern word from me to leave old men alone when they want to be left alone.”
Well.
Marcia gathered herself and told him about Oak Hall’s physical assets, describing them in detail, holding nothing back: the sprawling Elizabethan manor house, gracefully worn down by decades of sun and wind and almost submerged into the landscape, like a weary mother resting on the grass while her children played around her; the stables, freshly painted a warm brick color and trimmed in white; the fishing pond, where last year two swans had taken up residence; the rose arbor, and all its varieties; the fruit trees and vegetable garden, both tended by a gardener assisted by the girls; and finally, the nearby village, at which Oak Hall students enjoyed all sorts of extracurricular activities, including the annual Mayfair celebration and Christmas pageant.
“What about their lessons?” the duke asked almost scornfully, tapping his fingertips together.
She ignored his obvious impatience to be rid of her and described the academic advantages at Oak Hall—the tremendous teachers, the attitude that no questions are silly, the educational trips the girls and staff took to London to see the museums and galleries.
The duke merely grunted.
And then she scooted forward on her seat. She’d saved the best for last. “But there’s a special something Oak Hall has that separates it from all other boarding schools in England, Your Grace.”
He didn’t bother to stifle a yawn. “That’s what they all say. Every school simply wants my money, young lady.”
“It’s love, Your Grace,” she said firmly, refusing to be frustrated by him. “And that’s something money can’t buy.”
“Love? Hah.” The duke turned his attention to a platter of the cakes, all identical with cherries on top. “Hmm … Which one shall I choose?”
Oh, she knew that old tactic. She had brothers. She was used to being tormented by them.
“I can wait, Your Grace,” she said, “as long as I need to, to get your full attention. Meanwhile, I’ll eat my own cake. If you don’t mind, please hold off your questions about Oak Hall—and I know you have many more—until I’m through with it.”
The duke’s hand froze above the plate of cakes, and the earl, by the sounds of it, almost choked on his tea.
Take your time, Marcia told herself, sensing that this was a crucial moment in her quest to save her school. Whoever would have thought the winning of such a momentous objective would come down to eating cakes with cherries on top? And sipping strong, hot tea?
The clock on the mantel ticked loudly. Even Joe watched avidly as she partook of her refreshments with what she hoped was both élan and detachment.
“What is it?” she asked Joe when he wouldn’t go back to his toys.
“You talked back to a duke.” His little boy’s voice was full of wonder. “I thought you said we weren’t allowed to do that.”
She smiled at him. “Actually, I didn’t talk back to His Grace. I simply asked him to wait. Did I not?”
Joe nodded his head slowly.
She refused to make eye contact with the earl. She knew somehow she’d fall apart. And she wasn’t even sure how. Would she giggle? Or sob?
No, she had to stay focused on the blasted cake, delicious as it was, and her cup of tea.
Finally, after another torturous minute, she was done with both.
“Scrumptious,” she said, and set her teacup back on its saucer. “My compliments to the cook.”
When she looked at the duke, his expression was—she didn’t know what to call it, exactly. But she knew she had his full attention.
At last.
“Would you like to hear more about Oak Hall’s special qualities?” she asked him as if she hadn’t just put on the performance of her life.
“Go ahead,” he said, his usually commanding voice slightly less authoritative than usual.
“Very well.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Your Grace, our students at Oak Hall receive a great deal of love. When a girl feels supported that way, she has the courage to strive to reach her own potential.”
On the rug, Joe had taken a break from his soldiers and was now eating his second cake. The cherry, of course, was the first thing to go.
The duke leaned back in his chair and sat for a moment, studying her face. Marcia refused to look away.
“I can tell you’re the daughter of an Irishman,” he said. “You’re full of sentiment. Useless stuff.”
The fire flickered in the hearth.
“It’s not useless stuff,” she said into the silence, allowing the slightest bit of temper to creep into her tone.
Joe resumed his miniature epic battle.
The duke glared at her. Lord Chadwick seemed poised to intervene, and she hoped he wouldn’t. Please, she tried to communicate to him without looking his way. I’m almost there.
She hoped he understood, but in case he didn’t, she stood, her spine straight, and walked behind the sofa, laying one hand on its back. “The families of girls at my school don’t want to consider that their daughters, or granddaughters, as the case may be, might someday not find themselves supported or loved, Your Grace. It’s anathema to them to even consider the possibility. But you and I both know that life isn’t always a bed of roses … even for rich, irascible old men like you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Your Grace, you.” She waited for him to throw her out, but once again, she’d rather stunned him. When she got home, she’d have to thank Gregory, Peter, and Robert for the unexpected training she’d received from them in the art of parrying jibes. “At Oak Hall, we prepare girls for every circumstance. That’s what a true education is for, I believe. It’s a ladder leading to an open window when one finds oneself in a dark cavern. Or to put it in terms a typical society parent or grandparent might understand, when one of our girls finds herself a wallflower at a ball, she’s able to rise above her situation. All because she knows love, Your Grace, and what it can do for her.”
He put down his own cup. “Did you say ‘wallflower’?”
For the first time, he didn’t sound annoyed. Or uninterested.
“Indeed, I did.” Marcia felt a spark of hope. For the flash of a second, she allowed herself to look at Lord Chadwick, who’d turned in his seat to watch her.
Yes, his expression told her. Keep going. It was like having someone handing her a drink of water after a long day in the sun.
She took a deep breath. “Your Grace, Oak Hall is—in a wonderful way—a wallflower among schools.”
The duke’s white eyebrows flew up. “A wallflower among schools? You mean you pale in comparison to Greenwood and other schools? My goodness, girl, what kind of roving ambassador are you?”
She held tight to the back of the sofa. “We don’t pale in comparison, Your Grace,” she said in unruffled tones. “We’re different.” She walked back around the sofa, resumed her seat, and laced her fingers in her lap. “Yes, we prepare a well-bred young lady to navigate the Polite World’s treacherous waters. Yet what girl wants to blend in with all the other debutantes? Young ladies from Oak Hall have the backbone to stand out—all on their own, if they have to—because they know their worth.”
The duke slapped his right hand on the arm of his chair. “You’re too honest for your own good, Miss Roving Ambassador.”
�
�And I’ll never change,” she said with a smile. “Not even for you, Your Grace.”
He eyed her shrewdly. “My own duchess was like you. My daughter was the same.”
“Were they?”
“They held out for love. And they were always themselves—and happy—until the day they died. I suppose they were wallflowers in their own way.” For the first time, his gaze softened as he looked at the portrait of a young girl above the mantel. “I want the same for my Marianne. Especially if I’m not here to guide her. I’m getting old, you know. She might find herself alone in this world sooner rather than later.”
“Well, she’ll find what she needs to sustain herself at Oak Hall,” Marcia said. “I know she will. I did.”
“Tell you what.” The duke rubbed his chin. “Marianne is returning in another month. Prove to her that you can be a clever beauty and still be happily independent. A wallflower by choice, as it were. This means you won’t accept a marriage offer this Season, Lady Marcia. If you agree to my terms, I’ll send my granddaughter to Oak Hall in the autumn.”
“I shall have no problem fulfilling that requirement, Your Grace,” she said with alacrity. “None at all.”
“We have an agreement, then.” The duke pushed himself up from his chair.
It was done.
Done!
Marcia restrained herself from looking at the earl, but she hoped he was as excited as she was and happy for her.
The duke looked at Joe. “As for you, young man, are you prepared for a sword fight?”
“Yes, Your Grace!” Joe hopped up and immediately brandished his invisible sword.
“Stand back,” the duke commanded the other adults.
The atmosphere in the room was somewhere between festive and unruly, every boy’s dream. Whether because of the agreement or the invisible sword fight, or both, Duncan found himself relaxing for the first time since they’d entered the house.
He caught Marcia looking at him from across the room. She was guarding the breakable treasures on one side; he, the other.
Thank you, she mouthed. She was positively beaming.
For what? he mouthed back.
You know what, she returned.
But he really didn’t. All he’d offered was the introduction. And dammit all, here she was with another good reason to turn down his marriage proposal. Yet he found himself gratified anyway. Perhaps it was because the gratitude came from a lovely spitfire who’d talked back to a duke and gotten away with it.
Some ten minutes later, after Duncan and Marcia had both caught precious vases from tipping over as a result of Joe’s and the duke’s invisible sword clashing (the duke was more sprightly than he had a right to be at his age), the party made their farewells.
At the front door, Joe shook the old man’s hand and thanked him for a lovely fight.
“You won again,” the duke said. “But next time, I plan on trouncing you thoroughly.”
“Next time?” Joe’s voice went up an entire octave.
“Of course there will be a next time,” answered the duke crossly, but then his expression softened. “I’ll have my secretary write your father’s secretary, and we’ll arrange it, shall we?”
“Thank you, Duke!” Joe hugged His Grace’s knobby knees, then raced out the front door and scampered down the steps. Kerry was already waiting for him by the carriage.
Lady Marcia gave the elderly peer a graceful curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace. You won’t be disappointed in your choice of schools. And I assure you, neither will Marianne.”
“Don’t count on us yet.” He sounded grumpier than ever. “You have a lot to prove, young lady.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, smiling broadly.
Duncan saw the duke watch her exit his house with obvious speculation.
His Grace then turned to him. “My secretary is a thorough man, Chadwick.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.” The duke lowered his brows. “I understand that Joe is your by-blow.”
Duncan inclined his head. “I prefer not to refer to him as such. He is my son.”
“Yet you had the temerity to bring him to a duke’s house.”
“I did, Your Grace, and I can’t apologize, I’m afraid. I don’t make a habit of going out with Joe, but I recalled something from the visit I made to your house when I was ten years old.”
“And that was?”
“That your daughter wasn’t born on the proper side of the blanket. A servant’s son told me when we were swinging upside down from a tree limb. Yet she lived with you, ate with you, and was treated as one of your own. As she rightfully was, God rest her soul.”
“Yes,” the duke said softly, “God rest her soul.” He speared Duncan with a challenging look. “You live only once, Chadwick. Too many riders rein in their horses when they should be giving them their heads.” He poked him in the chest. “You have a fine son, my boy.”
“I do.” Duncan swallowed. “Thank you for noticing, Your Grace. Thank you very much.”
“And you’ve got excellent taste in women.”
Duncan gave a short laugh. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”
“The race is on for you, Chadwick,” he pronounced cryptically. “Or should I say races?”
“I—I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“Certainly you do.” The duke eyed him shrewdly. “I look forward to seeing what you do with your horse, young man.”
He slapped Duncan on the back and sent him on his way.
Chapter Twenty-three
That night in the library, long after he and Joe had said good-bye to Lady Marcia and Kerry, Duncan was in the midst of writing a letter to his American solicitors concerning the sale of the Richmond property when a knock came at his front door.
It sounded too polite to be Finn. Duncan listened while Jenkins answered it, and over the strains of Warren’s fiddle in the kitchen, he could swear he heard the voice of Kerry, Lady Marcia’s maid.
He leaped up, strode through the open library door, and made his way to the entrance hall. It was Kerry, and she turned beet red when she saw him. Jenkins stood back to give him room.
“Is everything all right with Lady Marcia?” he asked rather brusquely.
Kerry nodded. “Yes, but we were coming home from a rout, you see, earlier than most”—Duncan looked at the case clock behind him and noted that it was barely after midnight—“and my lady said she needed your advice immediately.”
Somehow, she managed to turn even redder.
“Where is she?”
“In there.” The maid angled her head to the carriage, waiting along the curb several houses down. “And she’s in a right state, Lord Chadwick.”
“Very well, I’ll look into the matter.” He scrambled down the stairs and looked back over his shoulder at the girl. “Why don’t you get something in the kitchen? Some hot milk, perhaps? Warren, my valet, is practicing his fiddle. You might enjoy meeting him and the rest of my staff.”
Kerry smiled. “Thank you, my lord.”
At the vehicle, Duncan called up to the driver. “Go inside, man, and get some refreshment from my kitchen. I sent Kerry there just now.”
The driver doffed his cap. “That’s kind of you, my lord. But I shouldn’t leave Lady Marcia. Marquess’s orders.”
The vehicle door opened. “It’s quite all right, Max,” Marcia called up to him. She was breathtaking in a gold gown that clung to her curves. “Kerry will be back any moment. I promise you.”
“Sorry, my lady. I can’t do it.” Max had a stubborn set to his mouth.
Duncan gave up the quest for total privacy. “You’re a good driver,” he called up to the fellow, and entered the carriage.
Marcia wore a stark expression. “I’m so glad you came.”
He took her hand. “What is it?”
She bit her lip. “I was at a rout, minding my own business—”
“It’s impossible to mind your own business at a rout.”
She ro
lled her eyes. “Very well, I was caught up in a throng of gentlemen circling me and asking endless questions, when I saw a beautiful French countess who looked terribly alone. So I broke away from the gentlemen and asked her what was wrong. She said she missed her lover in Paris. And I had to pretend I didn’t know what she was missing, but I knew—”
“Where are your brothers? And Janice?”
“They were there, as well, but we went in two carriages. Janice decided to remain behind with them—”
He stayed her with a hand. “You could go on for hours describing the rout and the Sherwood logistics. You’re here now. Why is that?”
“Because in the midst of all that talking and laughing … I missed you.”
He was floored. “That’s why you’re here?”
She nodded. “We never got to properly celebrate today.”
That was true. She’d had to get back home, and although the carriage ride had been one of the most memorably happy occasions he’d ever had, he’d had no time with her alone.
Of course, she’d already told him in very clear terms that she didn’t want to be alone with him.
Which was why he said nothing at the moment beyond, “I see.”
She bit her lip. “We were so busy with the duke and Joe, and Kerry was there…”
Duncan got the distinct impression she was embarrassed. “Do you mean, you wanted to celebrate with a kiss?” he asked her gently.
“Yes,” she squeaked, and turned beet red. “I wanted that very much. More than one, actually. A million of them.”
He allowed himself a grin. “A million kisses … I don’t know. That might take the rest of our lifetimes. I think I’d have to marry you to accomplish that.”
“Oh, no. We don’t need to talk of marriage. Just kissing. If you please,” she added.
“Why didn’t you say so immediately?”
“I tried, but you kept inter—”
He skipped the preliminaries and started with deep, intimate kisses. For good measure, he followed them with a gentle tugging at her bodice and a thorough teasing of one of her breasts with his tongue.
He never took his eyes off hers when he lifted the sumptuous gold fabric back into place and pressed it smooth, his hand brushing her nipple. It was torture pulling back.
Loving Lady Marcia Page 21