The Perfect Duke

by Ireland, Dawn

  Cara let out the breath she’d been holding. He wouldn’t leave her here. “Happy to meet you, Mr. Sanding. Please, lead on.”

  They headed down a short stretch of muddy lane that entered a carefully culled forest. She had to admit the cooling shade felt wonderful after the humid heat of the open road. She didn’t fear this dappled darkness. In fact, she’d always loved the woods. There was something magical about the smell of damp earth as its rich aroma wrapped around her, making her one with the various creatures scurrying through the leaves on the forest floor.

  On the rare occasions her parents had taken her to the park, she’d imagined at any moment she’d come upon Pan playing his pipes, or a fierce centaur pawing the earth. She’d never given up hope that something wondrous would be around the next corner.

  In this forest, her apparitions would have nowhere to hide; the trees were all neat and tidy, with very little underbrush. Mr. Sanding had hinted at the duke’s need for order, which obviously extended to the care of his lands. With such a large estate to run, she doubted he’d have time for his niece’s governess.

  “What is the Duke of Kendal like, Mr. Sanding? I’d discovered very little from the Gazette, other than a passing reference in which members of the Ton referred to him as the ‘Marble Duke.’ It seems odd that he’s avoided notoriety, considering his station.”

  “His Grace prefers to be private.” The driver gave her a wary glance. “You’ll have to decide for yourself. It’s not my place to be discussing my betters.”

  A shiver of unease passed over Cara. Mr. Sanding’s comments increased the questions that had started the day the duke’s secretary had showed up on her doorstep. He’d told her the Duke of Kendal had requested her services as a governess during the summer months. At the time, the position seemed heavensent. She’d refused to consider the odd circumstances, even after Tess had wanted to know how Cara had come to the duke’s attention.

  True, she hadn’t petitioned anyone to secure her a post as a governess, but instead of listening to her childhood friend, she’d laughed at her. Tess was always worrying. The duke had probably heard about The McClure School for the Betterment of the Mind.

  She hoped Mr. Russell and Papa could manage to keep the school open during her absence. Benefactors seemed less willing to donate as of late, even though she’d proved education made a difference. Many of her students were now servants in respectable houses, instead of having to make their way on the street.

  Cara stopped. “Oh, my.” The forest had ended and Belcraven spread out before her, as if the mansion were attempting to cover all the land in sight. The duke’s home was everything she’d dreamed it would be. In fact, the elegant structure felt familiar somehow. She shook off the feeling. Her imagination had always been strong and almost all the fairy tales she loved centered around places like this.

  The building sat on a hilltop, fronted by terraced lawns and fountains depicting mythological creatures. The oldest part of the castle—no mere mansion would have these proportions—was comprised of a square tower with spires rising from each corner.

  The architecture varied. Every generation seemed to have added a wing or a tower until the roofline became no longer predictable: two stories or more, spires, bay windows, parapets, even what appeared to be a conservatory on the level portion of one roof. Only the unity in materials kept it from appearing ill-conceived. The entire structure was comprised of red brick, with white stone lintels around the windows and doors. In spite of its massive proportions, Cara found it charming.

  Excitement lightened her steps, and she hurried up the drive, ignoring her injuries and attempting not to trip on her skirt. Mr. Sanding’s labored breathing seemed to grow fainter as Belcraven rose above her. Soon she was in its shadow, torn between exhilaration and fear. This would be her home for the summer.

  At the bottom of the thirty or so steps leading to the front entrance, she stopped and waited for the driver to catch up. Raspy gasps rattled in his chest and the redness of his face made her think of Papa when he exerted himself.

  Cara hugged her reticule to her chest. Papa tired so easily as of late. If anything happened to him, she’d be alone. Fear stole into her like a wolf slipping into the woods. She swallowed around the tightness in her throat. With a shake of her head, she pushed the thought away, refusing to let what might happen ruin the present.

  If the driver suffered the same chest pains, then he shouldn’t be exerting himself. “You needn’t come with me, Mr. Sanding. I understand the urgency in returning for the carriage and horses. Thank you for escorting me.”

  The driver glanced at the stairs, then gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Miss McClure.” After a slight nod, he hobbled away, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind a bit of advice . . . I’d stay clear of His Grace.”

  The door swung open and Cara gazed up at a butler wearing the tallest powdered wig she’d ever seen. She stifled a smile. Lavender curls did not become him. Straightening, she coaxed her face into her best governess expression

  He surveyed her appearance, top to bottom, then looked down his nose at her—a very long nose that matched his face. “You have kept His Grace waiting.” He drew his thin lips into a tight line until they disappeared altogether. “In future, this will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. I am sorry, but the delay was beyond my control. I—”

  “Excuses are unacceptable. Go around back to the kitchen. You will use that entrance.”

  “But why would . . .?” Cara felt a puff of air on her face as the door closed and her voice echoed off the polished mahogany. The gargoyle knocker seemed to mock her before she turned and headed down the steps.

  So far, this foray into society wasn’t what she’d expected. What had happened to treating others with respect? If the butler’s actions exemplified what was to come, she was going to need all her resolve.

  Her papa’s words came back to reassure her. There is good in every situation, Cara, but sometimes the Lord expects you to dig for it. She decided, on the twenty-minute walk around the house, that her shovel might not be sharp enough.

  Feeling weary and dirty, she stopped in front of what must be the kitchen door. An herb garden, as orderly as everything else, stood to the right of the whitewashed entrance. Cheery pink roses, humming with the buzz of bees, rambled up and over the doorway. They were the first roses she’d seen this season and their smell perfumed the air.

  As a child, roses had inspired the memory of an elegant lady near a trellis. Perhaps, the vision was her real mother, though she remembered very little from her life before she came to the McClure’s.

  Trying to dredge up those early memories made her head ache. Her adoptive parents thought she may have seen her family die in the fire. Whatever the reason, after a while all but the memory of the woman by the trellis faded and she stopped asking questions, hating the pain she’d see in the McClures’ eyes.

  With one final sniff of a rose, she brushed as much dirt as possible from her gown, stuck a few stray wisps of hair behind her ears, and squared her shoulders. Her tentative knock received an immediate reply. The door opened into a kitchen filled with servants of all shapes and sizes. A young woman about her own age stood by the entrance. She wiped her hands on a flour-covered apron as the heavenly smells of baking bread and roasting meat wafted out of the opening. Cara’s stomach growled, reminding her she’d missed tea.

  A matronly woman—keys dangling from a ring at her waist—scurried over to them. “Go on now, back to work.” She chased away the servant who’d opened the door, but the chatter subsided as several of the workers turned toward her. “Come in. We were expecting you before this.”

  Cara entered, feeling like she stood at the center of a storm. People constantly moved about: kneading bread, chopping vegetables, icing cakes. “I only just now arrived. There was a problem with the—”

  “Here.” The woman shoved an apron at her, her soft round feature
s scrunched up in disapproval. “It’ll do no good giving excuses. We need you to help with the pasties. His Grace will have my hide if his guests have to wait for their dinner.”

  Cara handed the apron back. “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. I’m the new governess.”

  All chatter ceased. Cara could hear the sizzle of the meat juices as they dripped into the fire. Shock registered on each face. She glanced from one to the other. Hadn’t they been told to expect a governess?

  “You’re Miss McClure?” The matronly woman sighed and pushed a wiry strand of gray hair off her forehead. “This won’t do at all.”

  After a glance at her dusty traveling gown, Cara raised her head and gave a slight shrug. “I realize how I must appear, but the carriage broke down about a mile from Belcraven and the butler sent me around here.”

  “No sense,” the woman mumbled. “His wig must be putting too much weight on his head.” She smiled at Cara, revealing dimples in her plump cheeks. “I’m Mrs. Shaw, the head cook. As you’ve not been here before, Dearie, you’d not be knowing. His Grace has a strong sense of propriety, so naturally we thought you’d be a wee bit older and more . . . well, reserved.”

  Cara didn’t know if she should be insulted. She’d been on this earth twenty years. Surely that was old enough for a governess? Madame Hasting had never had anything but praise for her aptitude. Comforted by that knowledge, she smiled at the head cook. “I’m well-qualified, Mrs. Shaw, if somewhat disheveled.”

  “I’m sure you’re a fine governess, Miss McClure, but we’d best get you to a room so you can freshen up.” With her hands on her ample hips, she searched the kitchen until her gaze landed on a sullen young woman sweeping ashes from the stone hearth. “Isabel, you’re the only one I can spare. I want you to be showing Miss McClure to her room. Mind, take her by way of the back hall.” Mrs. Shaw turned toward Cara. “If His Grace sees you like this, he’ll relieve you of your position before it’s begun.”

  Cara passed by yet another exquisite carved table where delicate porcelain vases held flowers of many varieties. If she closed her eyes, she’d think she was in the garden. Could this truly be the back way to her room?

  The young servant moved quickly, giving Cara very little time to exclaim over the wonders around her or to get her bearings. She should have asked for a loaf of bread. Then she could have left a trail to find her room again. She shook her head at her fanciful notion. Breadcrumbs would never be tolerated at Belcraven.

  They came to an ornate staircase, wide enough for three women wearing panniers to walk side-by-side. Flanking the stairs stood two birds carved in some type of wide-grained wood. Their onyx eyes seemed to assess her worthiness to ascend as she hurried past. “Isabel, are you sure this is the right way?”

  “That depends on who you are and what you are doing in my home.” A man’s deep voice carried up to her from the bottom of the stairs. His tone was smooth, cultured, dangerous, and without heart.

  The Marble Duke.

  Cara cringed and gripped the railing, unable to climb another step. She chewed on her lip, wondering if she had the courage to turn around.

  What would have happened if Beauty had refused to face the Beast?

  He would have eaten her alive.

  Cara squared her shoulders. Best to face her fear. What was the worst that could happen? She turned.

  It was him. The man from her dream.

  She clutched a newel post as the stairs seemed to shift beneath her. It couldn’t be. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on her pounding heart until her breathing slowed, then risked another peek at the coldly aloof figure who stood so still at the base of the staircase. The same build and facial structure, but, no, it wasn’t him.

  Disappointment rushed through her as heat flushed her face. The man in her dream had golden hair, an easy smile and laughing green eyes.

  How could she have mistaken her dream lover for this bloodless nobleman? Granted, their features were enough alike for them to be twins, however, this man’s demeanor held no warmth. He was speaking to Isabel, but his gaze never left Cara’s face. A glimmer of . . . something . . . appeared in his eyes, then vanished.

  Cara descended the steps one at a time, feeling her way, unable to resist the lure of the duke’s stare. He broke the connection by taking a slow perusal downward.

  When he met her gaze once again, he had one eyebrow raised ever so slightly, as if she didn’t merit the effort it took to show surprise.

  Garret took measured breaths as he stared out the study window. She had the same eyes, large and trusting. Guilt crept over him, urging him to stop this charade before it began.

  He didn’t doubt Cara’s identity; her face had haunted his dreams for years. Her features were more refined now, and her lush figure curved in a manner that proved she was no longer a charming child, but an alluring woman with an innocence that made him long to protect her.

  Even from himself.

  Cara, pale as linen, had reached for the railing after she’d turned on the stairs. Had she remembered him? His hand strayed toward his waistcoat and the keepsake she’d given him fourteen years ago. That boy no longer existed.

  Grandfather had seen to that.

  He lowered his hand at the slight rustling sound behind him. He’d ordered her to follow him, then had refused to turn and face her. He’d used the ploy hundreds of times with errant servants. It was meant to remind her of her place, but somehow he had the nagging suspicion his reluctance was due to something else entirely. He gave himself a mental shake. “Explain yourself.”

  “Your carriage broke down about a mile from here. I decided to walk.” Cara’s mesmerizing voice flowed around him—soft and warm in spite of the subtle criticism.

  Garret stiffened. He would not be waylaid by a beautiful voice. True, the accident was unacceptable, but so was her behavior. He needed to remember that. “Miss McClure, I hired you to instruct my niece in deportment. Do you believe any woman of quality would have walked to Belcraven, especially looking as you do?” He heard her sudden intake of breath. Was it due to embarrassment or outrage?

  Petticoats swished as Cara moved further into the room. “I’m well aware of the impropriety of my conduct, Your Grace, but there were extenuating circumstances. I can assure you I would not encourage your niece to follow my example.”

  She sounded sincere. Perhaps he should make allowances—this time.

  If only he could be certain that she would never damage the Kendal name. Scandal could so easily destroy the reputation he’d spent fourteen years cultivating.

  He turned. Awe stilled him in a way his practiced indifference never could. This fragile, vibrant woman belonged to him. She was his destiny.

  Or might have been.

  He studied Cara, attempting to be impartial. A duchess needed to have aristocratic features, like Regina’s. She was deemed a classic beauty by the Ton.

  Still, if he’d been allowed a preference, he’d have chosen Cara’s ethereal beauty. With eyes almost too large for her heart-shaped face, she reminded him of the angels painted on the drawing room ceiling.

  He clamped his jaw shut. How ironic that his angel had come back to life and he was forced to play the Deceiver. It seemed appropriate, considering he already lived in hell.

  Cara shifted under his scrutiny.

  Garret indicated a massive wooden chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Miss McClure.”

  She came forward and perched on the edge of her chair. Garret followed her uneasy gaze as she studied the room. The paneled walls displayed all matter of battle regalia he’d never considered imposing—until now.

  He took a seat behind the broad desk, neatly piled with correspondence. “As to your suitability . . . we shall see. I believe a duke’s estates are a reflection of his abilities, including the attire of those in his employ. In future, I will provide your clothing. Until something suitable can be made up, I will send you several of my sister’s old gowns.”

  Cara
gave him a brilliant smile that made his stomach clench. “That’s very kind, Your Grace, but you needn’t trouble yourself. I have several serviceable gowns.”

  He didn’t want her to be accommodating. A lady was never accommodating, at least none of the ladies of his acquaintance. “The matter is not open for discussion. Your gowns may be serviceable in a church parish, but I assure you, they will not be appropriate for Belcraven.” Her smile didn’t falter, but hurt shadowed her eyes.

  He averted his gaze. Perhaps he’d handled that badly, but what right did she have to be upset? Didn’t every woman desire new clothes? He was being damn generous. Schooling his features into a nonchalant mask, he stared at her.

  Cara’s brow furrowed. She studied him a moment before her soft voice enfolded him, only the slightest tremor revealing her distress. “Very well, Your Grace. Though I don’t see what need a governess would have for finery. The schoolroom won’t often entertain guests.”

  “That’s true.” Garret leaned back against the leather seat. “But Lady Mallory, my sister, has decided to visit our aunt for the next month. I would like you to act as hostess in her stead.” For once, Mallory had gone along with his suggestion to visit their aunt, without an argument. Her ready agreement still made him uneasy.

  Cara stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to act as your hostess?” With her eyes wide, she reminded him of a child who’d been promised a favorite toy. Garret hoped whatever was in her reticule could stand being crushed.

  “What better way to prove your abilities?” He was taking a chance. As his governess, no one would question his decision to appoint her hostess, but he’d still make sure only minor nobility visited until he could determine her competence. Fortunately, Belcraven was secluded.

  He straightened a stack of papers in front of him. “I will, of course, make allowances. Rachel’s classes will take place in the afternoon, leaving you free to deal with the household details in the morning.” He stood, crossed to the tapestry bell-pull, then tugged on the ancient cloth.