by Lenora Bell
She was the one who intimidated him. She breached his walls. Pitted out handholds in his defenses.
And it was terrifying. She’d accused him of tyranny. Making servants dance to his whims. Everything he’d vowed never to do.
This must end, and never be repeated. He must keep his hands off her.
And hers off him . . .
Gently, reluctantly, he removed her hands from his chest and stepped away, putting distance between them.
“I’m not your typical duke, Miss Perkins. I left London for seven years and lived in disguise as a commoner, working in a foundry. It was because of what happened with the children’s mother. I didn’t tell you the whole story,” he said. “Of Sophie.”
She backed away. “Sophie.”
Nothing like introducing the topic of an ex-lover to dampen a fire. “Sophie seduced me.”
“She seduced you?”
“When I was only seventeen and she was nearing thirty.”
Her eyes widened. “I see.”
“She’d had a very brief affair with my father years ago, but he never kept one mistress very long. She seduced me to have her revenge on my father. Flaunted it in his face. She was only using me.”
“That must have stung.”
“She strung me along on a leash for three years before cutting me loose. She left without warning, without a word of good-bye.” Such a heartbreaking, shameful story.
He really should stop talking now, but something compelled him to keep going. It wasn’t in his nature to leave something unfinished. “Sophie wrote a letter that she sent with the twins. I only received it after her death. After she returned to London and . . . took her own life. She swore they were mine, and no one else’s. The timing was right. They resemble me.”
“They do, indeed.”
“The whole experience taught me a valuable lesson, Miss Perkins. Love, especially the love experienced in youth, is illusory, elusive, and fleeting at best. A cruel joke at worst.”
There. He could see that she had received the message.
Don’t long for me to kiss you. Don’t fall in love with me.
“I’m glad their mother sent the children to you,” she said.
“I’m not sure the children are glad of it,” he said. “They run away every chance they have. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid they’ll decide to run away forever.”
“Have faith, Your Grace. I believe anything broken may be mended. While we yet breathe, there is hope.”
“You’re a woman of strong convictions.”
At nine and twenty, he’d made far too many mistakes to hope for new beginnings.
Firelight played across her skin, bathing her freckles in golden light.
“I’m beginning to understand now,” she said. “The complicated nature of your relationship with your offspring. You think of them as mistakes. If you think of them as regrets, you’ll never see them any other way.”
“I don’t . . .” he began vehemently, and stopped.
Could that be true?
“It’s more that I see them as the innocent results of a mistake. Nothing about my interlude with Sophie was pure or innocent, except the results. These two beautiful children, raised in hardship and poverty. I will ensure the rest of their lives are lived in comfort and security.”
“Maybe this guilt isn’t something you’re supposed to carry. Maybe you don’t need to wallow in it.”
“Wallow? Pigs wallow. Dukes never wallow.”
“I chose my wording poorly. Perhaps revel. It’s almost an indulgence, isn’t it? To repeat one’s missteps over and over in one’s mind until that’s all one can see? If you’re not careful, you could become stuck in a continuous loop in your mind, going over and over the dark, bad things and never moving forward, into the light.”
How had she become so wise? Her words solidified in his mind like molten metal cooling into a new shape. But it was too late for him to be reshaped. “What light? There’s no light to find. Why don’t you go and tell the twins a story with a happy ending? Because there is none to find here, do you understand me?”
She took a step backward.
“I understand.” Tension played along her jaw. “Because I’m merely the governess. Not fit to give a duke advice.”
“Something like that.”
She glared at him, and then gathered her pile of books and left the library without a backward glance.
Which should have made him happy. He’d achieved his aim of driving her away.
He sat in the chair she’d been sitting in, remembering the way she’d eaten the grapes with such gusto and pleasure. She was so vibrant and opinionated.
So beautiful and intelligent.
They’d had such a far-ranging discussion.
They’d covered death, lost love, children’s education, marriage, rights for women . . . it had felt like a year’s worth of conversations fit into one evening. India had been right, he reflected. Miss Perkins was exactly what his children required. The problem was, she was also precisely what he desired . . . and could never have.
The stars shining in her eyes were not for the likes of him. She was filled with light and conviction. Just on the beginning of her luminous path in life.
Any light in his heart had been snuffed out long ago, leaving him in darkness.
Take my books, Mari-rhymes-with-starry.
But leave my heart and my rules intact.
Chapter 9
“Wake up, Miss Perkins. Are you still abed?”
Mari rubbed her eyes.
Five o’clock and time for morning prayers.
Rise and scrub her face, supervise the sleepy masses in face washing and hand scrubbing. Walk with them to the stone chapel.
Kneel on the cold stone floor. Scent of tallow and penitence.
Her eyes flew open.
No Underwood. No lumpy straw ticking. No smell of mildew and mouse droppings.
Soft linens beneath her cheek.
A mattress fashioned of feathers and clouds.
And a beautiful face leaning over her bed, violet eyes dancing, and glossy black hair tumbling forward. The spicy scent of bold perfume.
Lady India?
Mari bolted upright. “I’ve overslept. Where are the children? What time is it?”
Lady India laughed. “Don’t fret, it’s still quite early. I wanted to catch you when I knew that Edgar wouldn’t see me. The man is nocturnal. Always poring over his engineering plans past midnight.”
It had been a week since Mari’s encounter with the duke in the library.
Edgar, Lady India called him with such familiarity. The name fit him. Hard-edged and guttural, like his voice had been, telling her to leave.
Or I could be the bad one . . .
She still couldn’t believe she’d spoken those words. Placed her hand over his heart. Raised onto her tiptoes.
Oh God.
Her cheeks burned, thinking of their last encounter. Lady India wouldn’t be smiling at her if she knew what Mari had done.
“Are you well, Miss Perkins?” asked Lady India, peering down at her. “You look rather flushed.”
Mari startled. “Quite well. May I help you with something?”
Lady India nodded. “You may. Hop straight out of bed and put this on.” She handed Mari a silk dressing gown of a dusty rose hue. “The footmen are queuing at the door.”
Mari rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was still dreaming. “Footmen?”
“Hurry now.” Lady India tugged her out of bed and helped her into the dressing gown, tying the sash tightly. “Enter,” she called.
The door swung open and a line of footmen streamed into the room, their arms filled with boxes and parcels of all shapes and sizes.
“What’s all this?” Mari asked.
A maid in a white frilled cap arrived carrying several long flat glove boxes. “Where do you want these, my lady?” she asked Lady India.
“On the bed for now, Fern.”
More footmen. More boxes.
“Your portmanteau was pilfered. This is the new wardrobe you were promised.”
“I can’t accept all of this! I don’t have the resources to . . .” She knew a proper lady never discussed finances, but she must impress upon this woman that she couldn’t afford such clothing. “I can’t recompense you, Lady India.”
“Piffle. What would I want with recompense? These were all purchased on Edgar’s account.”
The duke was outfitting her? Out of the question.
“Take it all back.” Mari was beginning to have the sinking feeling that the duke might have formed the wrong impression of her.
“Nonsense.” Lady India opened a box to reveal a gauzy white muslin gown with puffed sleeves and a scarlet sash.
She lifted the dress, shaking it out and holding it up to Mari. “What do you say, Fern? Will it suit her?”
“Splendidly,” the maid replied. “Such a slender figure you have, miss. When Lady India described it to me, I scarcely believed her but now I’m glad I nipped everything in at the waist.”
Governesses did not wear filmy white muslin with scarlet sashes.
A woman like Lady India would wear such a stunning gown.
“I fear perhaps the duke may have formed the wrong opinion of me.” Could it have been her wanton behavior in the library?
What had come over her? She blamed it on the grapes. They had tempted her to thoughts of kissing.
You’re addled, Mari Perkins.
A freckled, carrot-haired governess kissing a duke.
What utter rubbish.
She didn’t want to offend the lady, but she must say what she had to say. “I’m a respectable governess and I’m not for purchase. These gowns are far too frivolous and dear and therefore I can only assume, lamentably, that they are intended for a lady of the . . . light-heeled persuasion.”
“Light-heeled? Heavens!” Lady India dissolved into giggles, throwing the gown across the bed. “You think Edgar is trying to make you his mistress?” Her peals of laughter rang through the room, turning the footmen’s heads.
“Er . . .” Why was that so funny?
“Wait a moment.” Lady India clutched her hands together. “Do you think . . . do you think I am Edgar’s mistress?”
The maid made a strangled sound.
“I’m sure I haven’t formed any opinion at all on the subject of your relationship with His Grace.”
“Yes, you have! Why, Edgar is my brother, you silly goose.”
“Your brother . . . ?”
Of course.
If she’d been thinking clearly she would have seen that they had the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark hair and pale eyes, though the lady’s were lavender where the duke’s were an icy gray.
Because you wanted to believe Banksford was a profligate who casually entertained his paramours in front of his children.
Because it would have made him easier to hate.
“I’m terribly sorry for jumping to conclusions, Lady India.”
“I’m not trying to corrupt you, Miss Perkins.” Lady India fluffed the delicate white fabric of the dress strewn across the bed. “I only want to clothe you. Besides we’ve already thrown out your old gown. So you’ve nothing else to wear.”
“It was an honest mistake. These garments aren’t exactly . . . governess-ish.” Mari stroked the red silk sash. “This one looks as though it should be worn to an elegant ball.”
“As it was intended to be. My poor mother. She sends me these girlish, flimsy gowns in the vain hope that I will attend a ball and snare a husband at last.” Her eyes lost their laughter. “I’m a lost cause. And so the dresses are now yours. They suit you perfectly. Fern had all the alterations made.”
The maid curtsied. “It was a pleasure, milady.”
“I’m far too plain and obscure for gowns such as these,” Mari said.
“Is that how you see yourself?” Lady India shook her head. “Gracious, but you’ve a lot to learn about the world.”
“I haven’t.” Mari knew her place in the world. And she wasn’t meant for these gowns. “Where would I wear something like this?” she asked.
“Oh I don’t know,” said Lady India. “Swan about in it any old time. I never follow the dictates of fashion.”
Clearly. Mari glanced sideways at the masculine cut of her clothing. Was she wearing a waistcoat?
“I’ve never understood why females must garb themselves in fripperies and furbelows as if to draw the male gaze by sheer volume of ruffles and bows,” said Lady India.
It was no wonder she didn’t understand. Lady India would draw every gaze in every room, no matter what she wore.
“It’s very kind of you to outfit me so lavishly, I’m sure, but I simply can’t accept any of it.” Mari caught sight of a darling pair of ivory slippers trimmed with scarlet ribbons and rosettes. Merciful Heavens. She’d never seen such delicious shoes. They looked almost edible.
“I’m a thoroughly practical person who wears serviceable clothing,” she continued. “I’ll be knee-deep in mud following those children about. I couldn’t possibly . . .”
She tore her gaze away from a box marked with the name Madame Clotilde.
Even she had heard of Madame Clotilde, fabled dressmaker to the nobility.
What was in that box?
Fern caught the direction of her gaze and lifted the lid. “What a shame it would be to return this one,” she said, lifting a blue-and-white-striped poplin dress with long sleeves and a high, ruffled neckline. “It’s poplin, so it will wear well. And one could wear a nice apron over it. Very practical, aprons.”
Mari drifted toward the dress. Traced one of the blue stripes with her finger.
It did have a modest neckline.
“Poplin is rather serviceable,” she said.
“Ever so serviceable,” whispered Lady India in her ear, untying Mari’s dressing gown.
Before she could protest, Fern had fastened Mari’s stays around her chemise.
Lady India raised Mari’s arms while Fern slipped the striped gown over her head.
“I won’t . . . accept charity,” said Mari, her voice muffled by poplin.
“Stuff and nonsense. You can’t wear that old black rag every day for the rest of your life. You must look the part of governess to a duke, mustn’t you? It’s not your fault your trunk was stolen.”
Mari’s head emerged from the neckline and Fern began doing up the buttons in back.
What did she mean by look the part? Did she know Mari wasn’t as superior as she was pretending to be?
But the lady’s eyes were earnest and her smile open and friendly.
“I see commanding natures run in the family,” Mari grumbled, to mask the sudden wave of gratitude flooding her heart.
It was like all the Christmastides she’d never had, all arriving at once.
Lady India’s kindness almost made her feel like crying. But that would be far too sentimental. “Why are you doing all of this?”
Lady India gave her an enigmatic smile. “I have my reasons.”
“Thank you,” Mari said. “It’s very generous of you.”
“Please don’t mind my brother, Miss Perkins,” Lady India continued. “He’s brusque and bearish at times, but his heart is the truest I know. Only give him time and you’ll see. I’ll leave Fern with you for a time, to see you settled and to make any further alterations.”
The clothing would help her act the part. “Thank you, Lady India.”
It was all so seductive. The fine clothing . . . the handsome duke.
She mustn’t forget her true purpose in being here and become caught up in an impossible dream.
“Until my antiquities exhibition, then.” Lady India kissed her on the cheek. “I look forward to seeing the progress you make with the twins.”
Fern drew a silver hairbrush from the vanity.
That wasn’t her old hairbrush
with the missing bristles. Had they gotten rid of it along with her dress?
“Such hair you have, miss.” She tugged the brush through Mari’s hair. “Such a rich auburn and it spirals so easily.”
“It certainly has a mind of its own. That’s why I always braid it so tightly.”
“A less severe style might look well on you.”
As Fern dressed her hair, Mari thought that perhaps she could become accustomed to the genteel life. It was certainly easier than struggling into one’s clothing and wrestling with one’s hair by oneself.
“There, miss. Come and see.” Fern gestured Mari toward the standing looking glass.
Her hair was drawn back in a simple knot and Fern had artfully drawn several spiraling curls to softly frame her face. The blue-and-white-striped gown matched her eyes and gave her cheeks a healthful bloom.
For the very first time in her life Mari felt almost elegant.
What an unusual sensation.
She’d always been told by the matrons of Underwood that she was the scrawniest and plainest of girls, with knobby knees and jutting elbows.
“You’ve worked quite a transformation, Fern.”
“Not I, miss. It’s all you . . . with a little help from Madame Clotilde.”
Mari was about to admit that she’d never worn such a modish gown, when she remembered the role she was playing.
She mustn’t thank the servants. Or make up her own bed. Or admit to being anything less than superior.
“That will be all, Fern,” she said briskly. “I’d best go to the nursery now.”
With one backward glance at her reflection, Mari left, half hoping she might run into the duke today.
Now that Mari looked the part of a superior governess, there was no one to impress.
She hadn’t seen the duke since the unfortunate incident in the library.
She was determined to be the very model of propriety at their next meeting. So prim, proper, and superior that he would question whether he’d fabricated the whole sordid episode in his mind. And he’d never even think to question her past again.
Her days were spent instructing the children. She’d composed a schedule of lessons and posted it on the wall of the nursery, so they knew what was expected of them every hour of the day. Their life had been so chaotic of late, that staying with a schedule was important for building their trust.