“Determination has ever been his to command. Perhaps I’ll share Mr. Sherbourne’s table.”
“Your Grace.” Charlotte curtsied. “You’ve arranged lovely weather again, and I neglected to bring my shawl. Elizabeth, perhaps you’ll be good enough to retrieve it for me?”
Damn you, Charlotte, and bless you. “Your Grace.” Elizabeth dipped at the knees—barely. She was angry with the man she loved, which was a new and difficult experience. No handy quote came to mind, no witty passage from some classic tome. Not the Bard, Mrs. Burney, Mr. Burns, or even Old Scratch ruling over perdition had words adequate for the moment.
“Miss Windham.” Haverford bowed and offered his arm. “I’ll happily accompany you back to the castle, and perhaps you’ll select that book I owe you? If you leave the choice until tomorrow, you might forget.”
Elizabeth took his arm, and barely refrained from dragging him along the walk. She held her tongue only until Charlotte had sauntered off in the direction of the cake.
“I will never forget you.”
Haverford’s hand closed over her fingers. “You sound less than pleased to make that admission. Would you be comforted to know that the condition is mutual?”
How ducal he could be, and yet, Elizabeth knew him, knew his body, and knew that beneath his civil tones, he was vibrating with emotions that would shock the guests watching from every corner of the garden.
They reached the library, and when Haverford would have left the door open, she pushed it shut.
“Elizabeth, this is not wise.”
“For us to part is sheer folly, Haverford. I will not find your like again, ever, and you will not find mine. I have waited years—half my life—to meet you, and they have been lonely, trying years. Now your great nobility of soul consigns me to the worse purgatory of knowing that I should be at your side, though you deny me that privilege.”
Elizabeth stalked across the library, skirts swishing. “I’ve been here three weeks, Haverford, and you’ve shown me literary treasures beyond compare, shelf after shelf, but they are nothing, nothing, next to the wonders we share on a lumpy chaise during a stolen hour.”
She rounded a bust of Plato and marched back to the dunderhead who would break her heart. “You can tell me where every item in every collection is, but tell me this instead: Why have I never seen you reading these beautiful books, Haverford? The only bound volumes I’ve seen in your hands are ledgers. The only words you see on pages are in your blasted correspondence. What good are these books if they bring you no joy?”
Haverford stood beneath the portrait over the mantel, his expression as severe as if Elizabeth had ruined him all over again, and yet, she could not stop until she’d made him see the foolishness of giving up.
“I love books, but I love lending libraries more,” she went on, snatching a book some careless guest had left on the mantel. “Books that merely sit on the shelf, generation after generation, are like children nobody loves. A tragic waste, a reproach. And yet, you are more concerned with housing and dusting these thousands of unread books than you are with your own happiness.” She used the book to point at him. “I cannot allow that to happen, Haverford.”
“You cannot allow—?” he said softly.
“I cannot.” Elizabeth dashed the back of her free hand against her cheek. “You’d throw away love, just as your father threw away security. I would throw away every blessed book in this castle before I’d let them come between us, Julian. I don’t care about ruin, or penury, or a lot of bloody books. I care about you.”
Three weeks ago, Elizabeth could not have spoken the word bloody aloud. She could not have cried before another. She could not have ignored thirty thousand bound volumes, though now she was entirely concerned with one man who was too honorable for his own good.
Haverford held out a white handkerchief but came no closer to her. “I’ve asked Sherbourne to meet me within the hour that we might discuss a modest mining operation, and I’m hopeful, determined even, that renegotiation of the various notes and loans will free me to make an offer that, at this point, I cannot make.”
Elizabeth paused between blotting her left eye and her right. “You’d consider a mine in this valley?”
Haverford studied her, which was ungentlemanly when her nose was probably red and her eyes doubtless puffy.
He pivoted on his heel and opened a window. “You reminded me that part of my antipathy toward mining was because Griffin came to harm twenty years ago. That has colored my outlook—and doubtless colored my father’s outlook—though the state of Welsh mining districts is also not to be dismissed. Sherbourne is apparently willing to bargain—or he was—and so am I.”
Elizabeth did not care one tattered Radcliffe novel for what Sherbourne was willing or unwilling to do.
“What of your plan, Julian? The plan that has run and ruined your life? The plan that says if you live to be eighty-seven years and five months old, you might enjoy seventy-two hours of wedded bliss.”
He stood by the window, hands behind his back. “Plans can be modified. A budget, a schedule, a series of estimates are all well and good, but they should serve to support a goal, not dictate every particular. The ‘best laid plans’ of mice, dukes, presuming neighbors, the lot of us…can benefit from rethinking. Some plans should be chucked over the castle wall, because they make no provision for love.”
Elizabeth balled up the handkerchief and stuffed it in a pocket, for Haverford would never get it back. Plans could be modified, and hearts could change.
“If every one of these books went up in flames, Julian, I would rejoice, provided your burden was lighter. Negotiate with Sherbourne if you must, but I’ll follow Charlotte’s example in this and knock his arrow from the sky. If he insists on ruining you, then I will see to his ruin as well.”
Haverford’s smile was unlike any previous versions Elizabeth had seen—all diabolical dash and élan.
“You’d ruin him?” he asked.
“I can and I will. I may appear to be a managing bluestocking firmly on the shelf, but the blood of duchesses runs in my veins.”
Ducal brows rose, but before Haverford could reply, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him as a conquering army plunders underdefended countryside, kissed him with all the passion and desire in her, and kissed him with a new and slightly violent sense of hope.
If she ruined Sherbourne, her own reputation would doubtless go up in flames as well, and maybe then, her stubborn, handsome, well-planned duke would propose to her.
Elizabeth patted Haverford’s cheek, tossed the volume of poetry at his chest—Mr. Burns, as luck would have it—and would have made a grand exit from the library, except Lucas Sherbourne met her right at the door.
“You,” she snapped.
Sherbourne offered her a bow.
He was big, male, and standing in the way of her happiness. Elizabeth walloped him across the cheek, the sound reverberating amid the books.
“His Grace is doing you the courtesy,” she said, “of allowing you to apologize for your disgraceful behavior at Friday’s ball. Fail to appreciate his generosity, Mr. Sherbourne, and every one of the letters I’ve written to the various dukes, marquesses, earls, and viscounts to whom I’m connected will be in tomorrow’s post. Each epistle describes your rudeness and arrogance in detail, and that is just the first volley from my cannon. Please stand aside.”
He scurried to the right like a chastened puppy. Elizabeth curtsied to Haverford with more dignity than a queen would show her king, then swept into the corridor without sparing Sherbourne even a glance.
* * *
“I fancy that look on you,” Julian said. “One cheek bright red, your shrewd blue eyes for once dazed and uncertain. Do come in, and please close the door.”
Sherbourne cradled his left cheek with his palm. “I believe Miss Windham has taken me into dislike.”
“She hates you,” Julian said, cheerfully. “While I pity you. Have a seat.” What a re
lief, what a joy, to sincerely pity Sherbourne.
He closed the door and took four steps into the room.
“Be seated,” Julian said, gesturing with the volume of poetry Elizabeth had pitched at him. “Now, if you please.”
Sherbourne flipped out his tails and took the chair by the hearth. “I’m meeting with you as a courtesy, Haverford. Say your bit and then—”
“The courtesy is all mine, Sherbourne. I cannot tell Elizabeth Windham what to do when she’s determined that a man is in need of ruining, but I can suggest that one small, local mine, run according to model standards of safety, and employing no small children, might be acceptable to me provided you meet certain conditions.”
Sherbourne shot his cuffs and sat back, then turned a signet ring on his left smallest finger. He was fidgeting, rearranging emotions and objectives, and that meant he was listening.
“You are not in a position to dictate, Haverford. I’ve shown your family years of tolerance on notes long past due. For my pains, I’m the ogre of the valley, while you use my money to endear yourself to every yeoman and goatherd in Wales.”
That Sherbourne grasped the extent to which the locals resented him, and that he cared about their opinions, boded well.
“Poor lad,” Julian said. “You’ve made a profit off me that approaches usury, and now you want pity for your misfortune. The plan has changed, Sherbourne, and you either bargain with me in good faith, or suffer my continued opposition regarding your mine.”
Sherbourne took out a gold watch, flipped it open, then tucked it away—as if the clock on the mantel or the clock on the sideboard weren’t visible to him.
“What of your duchess-to-be? Will she pardon me as well?”
“I cannot speak for Elizabeth, but should you and I come to terms, I’ll attempt to intercede on your behalf with her. She is very angry, Sherbourne, and very well connected.”
Sherbourne tipped his head back and stared at the strawberry-leaf molding twenty feet overhead. “You are willing to support a mine. This admission had not caused the sky to fall, so please do go on.”
“You will incur a loss if you call in my notes,” Julian said. “I make every payment to the penny, year after year. Call in the notes, and you will have ruined me, disgraced yourself without any aid from Elizabeth, and lost money as well. Not a sound plan, Sherbourne, which is why I give you an opportunity to revise it.”
Sherbourne crossed both his ankles and his arms. “What can Elizabeth Windham do to me?”
“Whatever she jolly well pleases. Her uncle is a duke, one sister married a duke, another married a ducal heir. Among her cousins and cousins-by-marriage I count two marquesses, four earls, a viscount, several—”
Sherbourne yawned behind a manicured hand. “Hardly the circles I travel in.”
Julian set the volume of poetry on the mantel. “What do you dream about, Sherbourne? I conclude that, despite all conduct to the contrary, you are simply a man who seeks to be respected by his peers, to make a meaningful contribution, and to raise your children amid peace and plenty with a good woman at your side. Your dreams aren’t that different from mine or Griffin’s.”
Sherbourne rose and picked up the volume of poetry. “Your brilliance will blind me, Haverford, though you forgot the part about how I’d like to enjoy good health for as long as the Creator allows.”
“So build a model mine. My willingness to stand aside while you undertake that experiment—for it will be a modest, model mine—will cost you reinstatement of my father’s promissory notes on the schedule we’ve adhered to for years.”
Sherbourne ran a finger down the page. “I can build a colliery without any assistance from you, Haverford.”
He was holding the book upside down. Julian righted it for him. “You likely can, though you’ll tear this valley in two if you try to build that colliery with myself, Radnor, Hugh St. David, and many others standing against it. So far, you’ve shown an unwillingness to do that.”
Sherbourne set the book aside. “I can’t build a mine if all you do is remain silently brooding in your castle. Your cronies in the Lords will tut-tut and tsk-tsk and come up with some bill that affects only collieries in this valley, all but sabotaging my works without you lifting a be-ringed finger. I want your support.”
He wanted that support badly, and Julian would never have noticed, but for Elizabeth storming the castle. “You’ll reinstate my notes and desist from whispering in Griffin’s ear about a mortgage.”
Sherbourne began a circuit of the room, peering out each window, studying random shelves of books.
“I’d rather not reinstate your notes. You won’t have them paid off for nearly a decade, and anything can happen in ten years’ time. I can make more money developing a mine than I can waiting for you to dig yourself out of debt.”
Sherbourne brushed a gloved palm across Plato’s crown. “And I never breathed a word to your brother about a mortgage, though I saw him in close discussion with a worried Radnor last week in the churchyard. My experience of Griffin St. David is that when he wants a word explained, he will not desist until he’s satisfied. Stubbornness must be a family trait.”
One mystery explained.
But as for others…Julian studied the man wandering around his library. Sherbourne was a fashion plate, but also out of place in genteel surroundings. He was too restless, too blunt, and too ambitious, and yet, he’d made a valid point: The valley had the best herds in Wales because Sherbourne had not called in notes long overdue.
The castle could employ dozens of people in a variety of roles, because Sherbourne had been patient.
The merchants in the village were thriving, in part because Sherbourne was thriving, and had not—until recently—pressed his neighbor for overdue payments.
Something more was needed here, both because Sherbourne had—in his commercially astute heart—been somewhat reasonable, and because Julian was a duke. Dukes looked out for the less fortunate, and any man who lacked the love of a woman such as Elizabeth Windham was a very unfortunate creature, indeed.
Sunshine slanted through the open windows, while Sherbourne peered at the previous duke’s portrait over by the biographies. A small bird lit on the sill nearest the fireplace, then flew off into the lovely day.
The wood warbler, one of Papa’s favorites.
The something more that was wanted was the courage to go forward with the love Elizabeth Windham had brought to Julian’s life.
“You need a charitable endeavor,” Julian said. “A project that’s visible and genuinely beneficial, not a mere display. Because I am a helpful sort who doesn’t carry a grudge, I have a suggestion.”
Sherbourne studied the signature in the bottom right corner of Papa’s portrait. “Because I am the patient sort, who never tosses out an idea simply because it originated with a long-winded, self-important duke, I will listen.”
Julian reshelved the volume of poetry among its companions and said a prayer that Elizabeth was as fond of long-winded, self-important dukes as he hoped she was.
“I’ll be selling a few of my more valuable books, probably at auction. Andover will help coordinate the sale.”
Sherbourne turned slowly. “You’re selling the famed St. David collection?”
“Not the entire collection. I’ll offer some of the duplicates, rarities, and more historically significant volumes at an exclusive auction some weeks hence. The majority of the proceeds from that sale will be spent getting you disentangled from my finances.”
Sherbourne’s cool indifference slipped. “You have twenty thousand pounds worth of books and you’ve wasted years paying me avoidable interest? Haverford, you’re daft.”
“I had a long talk with Benedict Andover as we walked around the lake. Much to my delight”—much to Julian’s utter, elated confoundment—“I have a modest fortune in literary treasures, while he has the connections to find me buyers for the best of the lot. The books don’t matter to me half so much as Elizabeth Windham
does, nor half so much as I matter to her.”
Which was…lovely. That Elizabeth had had to spell this out for Julian was lowering, but he’d make it up to her. He and Sherbourne would make it up to her, rather.
“You’re sitting on a fortune in books, and you instead yoked yourself to debts you might have dispensed with years ago. The aristocracy is not right in the brainbox, Haverford. Simply not right. Was the prestige of having all these books gathering dust in your castle worth the burden of debt you carried? I cannot fathom such financial lunacy.”
Sherbourne wasn’t trying to be rude, he was genuinely bewildered.
“Safeguarding my family’s legacy mattered and still does, but back to your charitable endeavor.”
Sherbourne resumed his seat by the hearth. “I’m not given to charity, Haverford. You’ve surely noticed that much.”
“You’re about to change that lamentably narrow focus, Sherbourne, because the people in this valley do matter to you, because I’ve been assured you can be taught, and because you’ve offended my prospective duchess.”
He sent Julian an exasperated look. “The lady with the earls, marquesses, dukes, and whatnot aiming their pistols at me?”
“The very one. My business affairs with you will sort themselves out soon enough, but when it comes to redeeming yourself in Elizabeth’s eyes, I fear only one thing can save you.”
Sherbourne studied his boots, which gleamed with a military shine in the brilliant Welsh sunlight. “I won’t like this, will I?”
“I don’t like making monthly payments to you. We do what we must to ensure the family name remains unblemished. A charitable endeavor will relieve you of ogre-at-large status, do some honest good, and safeguard you against any stray bullets, political or otherwise, fired by Elizabeth’s large and magnificently influential family.”
“Lunacy must be contagious, because I am yet in this library listening to a man who kept more than twenty thousand pounds worth of books simply for the pleasure of dusting them.”
“Sherbourne, try to focus. Your situation merely calls for a sound plan, and your plan must involve a quantity of lending libraries.”
No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides) Page 29