Marcus lifted the cover to the keyboard and played a few notes, grimacing when the sound emerged. “Perhaps they are only for show. I should get them tuned.” He smiled at Lady Nerine, who had not left his side. “Do you play?”
“Excellently,” her sister put in. “If she were born to a lesser family, Nerine would have become a performer. London would have flocked to hear her.” Her voice warmed when she talked of her sister, so the Lady Damaris did possess feelings after all. She was not the cold fish Ruth at first thought her. She would never forget the chilly stare Lady Damaris sent her. It had pierced through her like an icicle.
The next room was the double drawing room, the largest room in the enfilade. Marcus talked them through it. “The painting is of the estate before my grandfather refurbished it and added the façade to the frontage.” He barely glanced at the picture. He must have seen it many times. The house was smaller, but just as imposing, dominating the landscape. The rolling fields and woodlands were similar to the way they were now, with fewer pavilions and grottoes. Just as beautiful, but in a different way.
Ruth gazed in wonder, losing herself in the landscape.
The rest of the room was laid out elegantly, with furniture that was polished and gilded to within an inch of its life. It must be worth a fortune. Uncomfortable and out of place, she continued through the rest of the tour, and breathed a sigh of relief when they got to the antechamber at the end that led to the corridor leading to the rooms assigned for the everyday use of the family. Which, at the moment, was one person.
Marcus rarely used these chambers, preferring the more informal rooms downstairs. If the tour did nothing else, it hammered home to Ruth how out of place she was here. She would have happily toured them in the company of Mrs. Brindlehurst, if she’d offered, but not on her own. She couldn’t imagine herself the mistress of them. The brief daydreams she allowed herself, of marrying him and spending every night with him, died a swift death here.
D’Argento spent most of his time talking to Lady Damaris, but he did not neglect Ruth. His manners were far too good for that. Neither would he let her slip away when she passed a door that led to the servants’ quarters, or another part of the house. She perforce must go along with them. At one point, when Lady Nerine moved to admire a portrait her sister beckoned her to share, he murmured to her, “So, Miss Simpson, you are enjoying your stay here?”
“I was not sure the duke would welcome me, but I had a duty of care to my sister’s children.”
“You’re here with your parents’ blessing?” He spoke dryly, with no attempt at sincerity.
“You must know I am not. I loved Rhea, and I cannot see relatives of mine treated badly.”
He flicked a glance at the richly appointed drawing room, the sofas set at the right angle, the carpet luxuriously thick under their feet. “You had cause to think that?”
“I knew nothing,” she said, lowering her voice, but her vehemence remained. “I wanted to discover for myself. They could have been stowed in a cell to die for all I knew. I would not rest.”
He patted her hand in warning. Lady Nerine was returning. “I see. Then I must commend your loyalty, ma’am.”
“I should hope we are all loyal,” Lady Nerine said, catching the tail end of what Ruth was saying. “It would be unconscionable to be anything else.”
“Indeed.”
After half an hour of vacuous small talk, Ruth wanted to scream. D’Argento deposited her in a chair and left her to her own devices. Similarly, Lady Damaris kept Marcus’s attention. Ruth had no idea why he wanted her here, but when she shifted with the idea of discreetly leaving the room, he merely said, “Could you call for more tea, please, Miss Simpson?”
Hearing him call her by her formal name like that sent a flame of fury into Ruth’s heart. No matter if she had done it to herself by accepting him, she was still angry. How dare he disregard her so effectively? As soon as a lovely woman came on the scene, she was left to her own devices.
So it proved. She had only just settled back with a relieved sigh in the nursery when she received a summons to dinner. She merely tidied her appearance before she went downstairs to sit in silence in a corner of the drawing room while the others talked and exchanged views on matters Ruth knew little about. They went through to the dining room. Mrs. Brindlehurst had brought out the best china, and the table looked splendid. At this time of year, the sun was not yet set, and it glowed through the windows, setting fire to the cut crystal glasses, glancing off the highly polished silverware.
Ruth ate sparingly and thought longingly of the pretty, everyday china they usually used. It had disappeared with the visitors, no reminder left of those convivial evenings when she and Marcus discussed everything and anything, sometimes straying into fierce debate.
Everything was gentility and politeness. The ladies did not disagree with the gentlemen, and Lady Damaris steered the conversation adroitly into less contentious paths. They could agree on the Jacobite menace, these days much dissipated, so they wasted time on that, and then moved to mutual acquaintances, effectively cutting Ruth out of the conversation. She did not wish to engage. She was perfectly happy eating her dinner.
The ladies had visited London more than once, but Lady Damaris explained with a pretty laugh that their father, an invalid, had taken them to Italy for most of their lives. “After our father’s death, we lived quietly for a while, but our mother insisted we appear in London. By that time Nerine came of age, and she had her season, but although she refused several flattering offers, she found nobody she wished to spend her life with. Of course, with our arrangement…”
Marcus stared at her, his eyes widening briefly. “We have no arrangement.”
Lady Damaris gave a tinkling laugh, but it held a note of menace to Ruth’s jaundiced ears. “We shall see. Discussions can keep for another day.” She shot a telling glance at Ruth. “We will bore Miss Simpson to death if we’re not careful.”
Was that meant to be a joke? Ruth met the lady’s gaze, careful to keep her own steady. A shot of warmth spread through her head, rather like when a headache was starting. She rarely suffered from them, but perhaps she should set up a fiction that she did. That would give her a ready excuse to leave, should she need one, and she would certainly require that before this visit was over.
“I am perfectly content,” she assured the lady, but used the words to get to her feet. “However, I must see to my charges. We are a nursemaid short, although one will be arriving soon.”
“I see,” Lady Damaris said, in frozen tones. “So you are an acting nursery maid?”
“They are my nephews.” Pleasure touched her. She could talk of the boys in those terms openly now, and it felt good. “I take my responsibilities seriously.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” Her ladyship graced Ruth with a smile, but it disappeared as soon as it came. “Do not let us keep you.”
Ruth scurried away, praying the visit would not last long.
That night she slept alone. She should be glad, relieved Marcus paid her no more attention, but a few tears escaped before she told herself roundly she was better off for it, and she would continue with her plan.
Marcus should marry one of those ladies, or one much like them, someone who could do justice to the furniture and treasures she’d seen for the first time today. She did not belong here, and she would not for much longer.
Chapter Eleven
Ruth should have been relieved Marcus did not come to her last night. After all, she would only send him away. At least, she would have every intention of doing so, she amended as she quietly went about her duties. She missed having breakfast with him, because she did not wish to meet the other ladies. Although he might command her presence, she would do her very best to keep out of their way and not draw attention to herself.
After their frankly hostile reception of her, Ruth would not put herself up for
more insults. Andrea was a much more restful presence.
Determined to leave the nursery in as good a heart as she could, she propped Andrew and Peter against a bank of cushions and played with them. She talked to them, making them laugh. They made her laugh too when they rolled, or when they dragged their bodies around the room, uncoordinated as yet. When Andrew grizzled, she found his teething ring and set him back on the carpet, where he gnawed away happily. Peter pulled himself across to them. Reading the signs accurately, Ruth lifted him into her lap. Andrew was hungry again, but he must wait until his proper time.
“Charming!”
The delicate female voice almost shocked Ruth into dropping the baby. Instead, she tightened her grip on Peter and looked up.
Lady Damaris took her time taking the scene in. Lady Nerine stood just behind her. Both ladies were resplendent in the best London could offer, Lady Damaris in cool blue and white, Lady Nerine in pink. Their lace rivalled spiders’ webs in the skill and fineness of the threads.
Ruth refused to allow their appearances to daunt her in the least. This was her kingdom and they were the invaders. She wished Andrea were here.
“One can see the family resemblance,” the elder sister remarked, gliding forward on satin-clad feet. From her position sitting cross-legged on the rug, Ruth could see that quite clearly. She did not even own shoes that would compare with the gold-buckled brocade extravagances the sisters were wearing.
Enough. They said beauty was skin deep, and whoever “they” were, they had the right of it. She did not get to her feet. The baby in her lap was snuffling, and with Peter that meant he was on the brink of sleep.
“Your true calling,” Lady Damaris said. “You look perfectly at home there. Babies worry me. They always seem so fragile.”
“They do possess that reputation,” Ruth said. “They are much tougher than they appear to be.”
“They will if they grow up like their father.”
Ruth raised a brow. “Oh, do you know him?”
The corner of Lady Damaris’s mouth kicked up. “I believe we all do.” She waved a hand airily. “Oh, we all know he denies it, but my dear, who would take someone else’s babies into care?”
Ruth shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. The baby grizzled, and she turned her attention to him. “The duke is a good man. He knew my sister, he never denied that, but he says he is not their father, and I believe him.”
“Or you want to.” Lady Damaris drifted around the room, touching one item and then another. “If you bear a tendre for him, that is perfectly understandable, but it is a mistake to blind oneself to a man’s true nature. Mar—the duke is a man of keen appetite in all things. Do you not agree?”
“I could not say, my lady. He seems perfectly reasonable about this matter, however. It is a shame we will never know.”
“Oh, I think we know.” Lady Nerine watched Ruth, her gaze fixed. “Are you his mistress too?”
Ruth gasped. She did not expect a direct assault on the truth. Her vow not to lie was catching up with her. “No,” she said. Because she was not his mistress and had no intention of becoming so. That would involve money changing hands, or items of value. It would mean putting herself into his care. As it was, she refused to think of that possibility, even if he intimated it.
“I see.”
She feared Lady Damaris saw too much. The lady also delicately implied she knew Marcus rather better than to be on formal terms with him.
Ruth bent her head and murmured to the baby. At least she wouldn’t have to look at the ladies wandering around the large room, spreading their perfume in waves of cloying sweetness.
Andrew sneezed and his brother stirred, whimpering as he roused a little.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Taking the baby, Ruth got to her feet. Not without effort, as rising without using her hands was not easy, especially with Peter’s weight. Despite her careful regulation of mealtimes, he was growing at a considerable pace. Neither boy would be a featherweight.
Cradling Peter, she took him into the night nursery and laid him down. Then she came back for Andrew.
Lady Damaris handed him to her. Ruth shot her a startled look. She had not expected either woman to handle the babies. Her ladyship followed and stood in the doorway, while Ruth laid him down. “We are not your enemies, you know,” she said softly.
“I did not think you were.” Ruth straightened and glanced at the babies to ensure they were safe. She’d ordered the cradles moved in here, because the babies would probably feel more secure in a smaller room. She had seen it work before. It had worked, and it left the larger room open for other activities. “They will sleep for an hour.”
Lady Damaris retreated as Ruth advanced, going into the main room and closing the door behind her.
Lady Nerine stood in the centre of the floor and waved her arms around. “This is rather Spartan, is it not?”
“I gave orders for all extraneous furniture removed,” Ruth explained. “I believe a nursery should be easily cleaned, so it may be swept and dusted often. Babies spend much time on the floor, crawling, at this age. They will be walking soon.”
“I see you take your duties seriously,” Lady Damaris said. She went over to the window and gazed outside. The windows here were higher set than the ones on the floor below, and smaller, not just because of their position in the house. They were a deterrent to children who should be working. While Ruth did not approve of such tactics, she could not deny they were sometimes necessary. Not that she would know. Everything she learned, she did for herself, seeking out the books when her brothers had done with them, and helping them with their studies.
These boys would do considerably better. She would ensure it, even if she could only do so at a distance.
“They deserve the best start,” she said, crossing to the table and beginning to tidy up. She put the bowl of warm water at the back of the table, so nobody would knock it off. “Who knows what geniuses we missed by not offering them a complete education?”
“That’s very egalitarian of you,” Lady Damaris remarked.
Lady Nerine laughed, but the sound was shrill. “Not everyone needs education to make a success of their lives.”
Lady Damaris cast her sister a darkling look. “Indeed, that is true, but a great lady needs to know more than the rudiments of knowledge if she is to keep her marriage alive and interesting.”
For once, Ruth agreed with her. “She must keep the accounts of several great houses, oversee the servants, engage in whatever business her husband is involved in, or at least know what he is doing.”
Lady Damaris nodded gravely. “I see you are a sensible woman, Miss Simpson.”
Not sensible enough. She craved to see Marcus, despite fighting against the urge. So much he had not left her thoughts all morning. She would break the attraction, she would not give into it. His presence lingered. She was finding sleeping difficult, only because he had been in her bed, shared it with her. Although she’d changed the sheets, she could still sense him there.
Why were the ladies here instead of paying him attention? Lady Nerine in particular hung on his every word last night, until she quite sickened Ruth.
Footsteps closed on the nursery, but they did not belong to Marcus. Ruth would recognise that firm tread anywhere. Lord d’Argento appeared in the open doorway, his easy smile revealing precisely nothing. “Good morning, ladies. I wondered where you all congregated. I thought to take a turn around the gardens. Would any of you care to join me?” His gaze encompassed the whole room, including Ruth. He showed no surprise at her homely wear, even the fact she left off her hoops that morning.
Despite the inclusiveness, which she appreciated, Ruth was first to shake her head. “Thank you, but I volunteered my services here this morning.”
Lady Damaris glided across the room, her skirts hardly disturbed by her movements.
“I would appreciate some fresh air. Besides, sir, I have something very particular to discuss with you.”
Lady Nerine did not follow, as Ruth expected, but hung back. “Will the duke be visiting his children?”
“They are not his children,” Ruth said automatically.
D’Argento raised a brow. “Indeed they are not, ma’am. In any case, Lyndhurst asked me to convey his apologies. He has travelled to York on urgent business, but he will be back by dinnertime. He sends his profound regrets.”
Ruth stilled, but did not look up. The table’s open grain was almost worn away by polishing, she noted absently. She traced her finger along one soft groove. Had Marcus sat here, learning his letters or cursing his way through Latin translations? While through her mind echoed, Where has he gone? Is he coming back?
Why should she care? He had not told her where he was going, but why should he? She was another conquest, easily forgotten. Or that was what she tried to tell herself while she desperately forced her emotions back where they belonged. She made no comment, but when she looked up, d’Argento was watching her, his keen silver eyes regarding her dispassionately. She lifted her chin and stared back.
He nodded, just for her before offering Lady Damaris the support of his arm and they left, as gracefully as if they were exiting a ballroom.
“We could call for tea,” Ruth suggested.
Lady Nerine shrugged. “If you wish for it. I am content.” She didn’t look content. She wore a perpetual expression of dissatisfaction, as if nothing was good enough for her. Her pout probably drew legions of men, since it featured her cherry-red lips, inviting a man to kiss. Ruth knew someone like her before—her sister Rhea. Rhea had adored the attention of men and would do everything she could to attract them. Her proclivities cost her her life.
For that reason she did not resent the lovely young woman. With any luck, Nerine would not follow Rhea’s sad fate, but would find someone willing to indulge her. She had birth and wealth on her side, therefore a better chance. If she did not follow the fate of the young countess in Hogarth’s “Marriage a la mode” series, that was.
War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 Page 16