Afterward, when a somewhat flushed Lord Elliot had finally joined them in the drawing room, he had claimed that the brandy had been stronger than he was used to, and had proceeded to amuse them with stories of his travels.
As for the Dark Duke, Hester was as puzzled by him as ever. Their meeting in the stable had been disturbing, because of what he had said and because of the excitement that being alone with him inspired, try as she might to deny it.
The stories she had heard painted him as a debauched Lothario, a man given solely to his own pleasures.
Yet if that were so, why would he generously support a woman who made no secret of her dislike for him? No doubt he paid Lord Elliot’s way, too—hardly the actions of a selfish cad.
He had kissed her, and come upon her when she was alone in the stable, but she had never felt in any peril. Surprised, embarrassed, excited—not endangered or entrapped. In fact, in the stable she had enjoyed his melodramatic antics very much.
The duke intrigued her, too, by his shifts from drollery to intensity with unexpected speed. And if she took his warning seriously, she could easily be influenced by the notion that such a man cared about her.
But no matter how she felt at present, she had heard the gossip about the Dark Duke’s deeds, and she couldn’t forget it.
When he had not appeared at dinner, his relatives had not seemed surprised, until Jenkins had announced that the duke had gone to see someone named “Old Bolby.” This knowledge had not pleased the duchess, and Hester had decided that by asking who Old Bolby was, she would only make matters worse. Nevertheless, she had spent several minutes in bed last night racking her brain for any reference to “Old Bolby” she might have heard before, to no avail.
“What are you doing here?”
The duke’s harsh words interrupted her reverie and she stared at him as he limped into the room, his face even more ashen than it had been when he had first arrived. He wore what he’d had on in the stabtes, there was mud on his boots and his hair was so disheveled, he looked quite wild.
“Is that coffee hot?” he demanded, Teaching for her cup and downing the contents in a gulp before she could respond. He pulled out a chair and winced as he sat down.
“Are you ill, Your Grace?” she inquired gently.
“I am not ill.”
“Is your leg troubling you?”
He regarded her with a tired and cynical expression. “While I appreciate your concern, Lady Hester, I would prefer some peace and quiet.”
Hester turned her gaze back onto her plate. If he was going to be rude, she would remain silent. As for his state, no doubt he had been drinking too much. Maybe he had even fallen off his horse. Given his incivility, she didn’t pity him.
“Jenkins!” the duke bellowed.
“I want some eggs and bacon,” he ordered when Jenkins appeared. “And more coffee, for me and Lady Hester, if you please.”
“Oatmeal at once, Your Grace.”
“I said eggs and bacon,” the duke repeated impatiently.
“That’s not as filling as oatmeal, Your Grace,” Jenkins murmured, not meeting his lordship’s petulant gaze.
“I want eggs and bacon!” the duke repeated, and this time Jenkins nodded.
When the door closed behind the butler, the duke sighed heavily, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m going to have to speak to that man,” he muttered. “Oatmeal indeed! I’d rather eat mud.” He opened one eye and regarded Hester. “Do you think oatmeal more wholesome?” he demanded.
“I believe it does not matter a whit what I think, Your Grace,” Hester replied. “You will eat what you want.”
The duke barked a laugh. “You read my character aright in that, anyway,” he acknowledged. “You might also have realized by now that sometimes Jenkins hears only what he wants to hear.” He sat up straighter and looked at her. “No doubt you suppose I have been out all night carousing?”
“I have no idea where you have been, or what you have been doing. It is none of my concern.”
“Very prettily said, my lady. Noncommittal to perfection—but the effect is somewhat weakened by the frown of your lips and the censure in your eyes.” The butler returned with a tray bearing a covered plate and another silver coffeepot. “Jenkins, about time!” the duke said wearily. “I have been forced to converse to fill the time of waiting. Please refill Lady Hester’s cup.”
“May I inquire how Bolby is this morning, Your Grace?” the butler asked quietly as he poured the hot, dark liquid into Hester’s cup.
“He’s dead,” the duke said flatly. He didn’t look at Jenkins, or her, all his attention apparently riveted on the table.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace.”
“Yes, Jenkins.”
“Will you be attending the funeral, Your Grace?”
The duke nodded, still without raising his eyes. “Tomorrow morning.”
The butler nodded, then silently withdrew.
“Mr. Bolby was a friend?” Hester asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry that he has died.”
The duke regarded her coldly. “You never knew him. Why should you care if he is alive or dead?”
Hester could think of no response to that, other than to say that she was sorry because he had been the duke’s friend, but she could easily guess how scornfully he would react to that remark. Therefore, she said nothing.
Adrian started to eat, trying all the while to ignore the quiet presence of Lady Hester as she drank her coffee.
Instead, he recalled the things he and Bolby had spoken of, the hunts and the sport, the tricks and the jests, until Bolby had grown so weak, Adrian had insisted that his wife take his place on the stool. She had cried until she could cry no more, and at the end, when Bolby had breathed his last, her wail had been a sound Adrian hoped he never heard the like of again. Then young Bolby, who had been silent all night, began to cry, great choking sobs racking his slender frame.
Adrian had realized that it was better to leave them alone with their dead, and so had quietly slipped out to ride home. By the time he reached Barroughby Hall, his leg was aching terribly. All he wanted now was to eat and go to bed. He didn’t want to sit here with a young woman whose eyes held such tender sympathy, as if she understood what he was feeling.
“Your Grace, are you quite all right?”
He glared at her, wishing she would leave him alone. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.” She said the words very, very quietly and regarded him with calm compassion.
He angrily swiped his cheek. “I have something in my eye.”
She rose and came around the table, standing beside him and drawing a handkerchief out of her narrow sleeve. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing,” he replied, not looking at her. “Just a piece of soot or dirt.”
“Your Grace, it would not be wise to leave anything irritating in your eye.”
Adrian told himself he was too tired to argue, and too weary to explain away the lie, so he half turned and raised his face to her. With a wrinkled brow and pursed lips, Lady Hester took hold of his chin and peered into his eyes.
Her touch was gentle, but firm, like the very best of nurses. “It is a pity you come from a titled family,” he remarked, trying not to notice that her eyes were a very bewitching shade of blue, or that her lips were half-parted.
“Why do you say that, Your Grace?” she answered absently, her gaze still scanning his eyes. “Look toward the window, please.”
“With that tone of command, you would have been a remarkable governess.”
She let go of his chin. “I do not see anything here,” she said, stepping back.
He tried not to be troubled by the loss of her touch. It didn’t take a great deal of perception to realize that he had upset her. He had not meant to, but then, being compared to a governess was probably not much of a compliment, and he regretted distressing her.
What was he doing,
having such feelings? He was the Dark Duke, and no decent woman should come near him.
“You look very tired, Your Grace. I think you should go to bed.”
“I shall. Care to join me?”
She stared at him, aghast. “No, I do not!” she declared before hurrying from the room as if he had started to disrobe in front of her.
He would feel no remorse over his coarse request. It was better that she think the worst of him.
Hester paused outside the library and tried to catch her breath. She wrung her hands together anxiously, mindful still of the feel of the stubble on the duke’s chin when she had held him there, and the look in his dark, intense eyes. As if he was asking her something. What? What could he ask of her?
To share his bed was the obvious, most disturbing answer. She, with her lack of beauty, had never expected any man to make such a proposal, and certainly not the Duke of Barroughby, especially after what she had seen when she examined his eyes. There had been no lascivious speculation, or even his usual sardonic cynicism.
She saw a yearning that touched her heart.
Maybe she should have been a governess, if she could see the Dark Duke as more like a man asking for her regard than the rogue he was reputed to be.
Oh, she was being ridiculous and far too sentimental. A man like that—what would he know or need of tenderness? He wanted only one kind of love, or so it seemed, and she was not prepared to give him that. Not now, and not ever.
“I tell you, I ain’t a-goin’! Not till I see the duke himself!” a male voice said loudly from the direction of the side entrance.
There was a small room there that Jenkins had told her was used as an office when the duke was in residence, for meeting the tenants of the estate. Obviously, a disgruntled tenant wanted to speak with him now.
Another man’s murmuring voice seemed to deny this request, and Hester realized that the hushed tones sounded suspiciously like Reverend Canon Smeech. Surely it was not his place to interfere in the business of the estate, unless it touched upon the welfare of the people of the parish.
At that moment Lord Elliot came trotting down the stairs. He smiled when he saw Hester, and despite her reservations as to his character, she couldn’t help but feel warmed by his friendliness, which was blessedly different from the coolness his sibling exhibited most of the time. “Something sounds amiss,” he noted jovially.
“I believe a tenant wishes to see the duke.”
There was another loud, confirming demand from the same direction as the previous one. “So I hear,” Lord Elliot noted. “I suppose he isn’t back yet,” his lordship continued with a condemning frown. “He was out all night.”
“He is. I left him in the small dining room just now.”
“Did you?” Lord Elliot ran his gaze over her in a most unexpected, measuring way she did not at all appreciate. It struck her as much more impertinent than even the duke’s impromptu kiss, which could at least be excused on the grounds that she had awakened him unexpectedly.
“He is eating his breakfast. I understand he was visiting a family friend, who died.”
Lord Elliot’s face expressed surprise. “Who, pray tell, was that?”
“His name was Bolby.”
“Ah, Old Bolby, of course.” Lord Elliot did not seem particularly affected by the news of the man’s death. “I suppose Adrian started at the Bolby cottage and ended up…somewhere else.”
With a pang of disappointment Hester realized Lord Elliot might be correct in his assumption. She had no idea when Bolby had passed away, or how long the duke had stayed with him. She did not doubt that Bolby’s death had truly grieved the duke; however, taking himself to a local tavern to drown his sorrows in drink would, unfortunately, be in keeping with the duke’s reported habits.
The duchess appeared at the top of the staircase, surveying the foyer imperiously. “Where is Adrian?” she demanded angrily. “The scoundrel! Not home a week, and he’s already acting as if this house were no more than a hotel!”
“Eating his breakfast, Mama—or so I was given to understand,” Lord Elliot replied, with a significant look at Hester, and she couldn’t help feeling as if he was somehow attaching blame to her. It was not her fault the duke was eating his breakfast after being away all night.
“I believe he spent the night at the bedside of a dying man, Your Grace,” Hester said, hoping this was the truth.
The duchess proceeded down the steps in awful majesty. “Adrian visiting the dying? I’d as soon believe Queen Victoria was sleeping in the stable!” She paused as she reached the bottom steps, and the sounds of conflict grew slightly louder. “What is that abominable racket?”
“It appears someone wishes to speak to Adrian, Mama.”
“Why does he not go to the office, then? Surely he can hear all the noise. Selfish creature, he only thinks of his stomach. Hester, fetch him at once.”
Hester bristled slightly. She was not a servant, and it was not her place to “fetch” anybody.
Thankfully, Jenkins tottered around the corner of the staircase. “May I be of assistance, Your Grace?”
“Yes. The duke is in the small dining room.”
Jenkins’s face was all astonishment. “There is a duck in the dining room? I shall get young Bolby to remove it at once, Your Grace. Fortunately, he is awaiting the duke’s convenience in the office.”
Bearing in mind what the duke had said about Jenkins sometimes hearing only what he wished to hear, Hester wondered if Jenkins was purposely confusing the situation. She glanced at Lord Elliot, who had half turned to hide a delighted smile.
“No, no!” the duchess cried impatiently. “The duke! The duke is in the small dining room. Fetch him at once! I cannot bear all this noise so early in the morning!”
“Neither can I, Your Grace,” the duke noted dryly.
They all turned in the direction of the corridor leading to the small dining room, to see the duke strolling casually toward them. To Hester’s surprise, he didn’t look nearly as weary as when she had left him.
Perhaps the food had had a restorative effect. Whatever it was, his eyes were bright and challenging, his manner brisk. “Good morning, everyone,” he said jovially.
The duchess frowned darkly at the butler, then her stepson, but the duke ignored her.
“Your Grace,” Jenkins said. “Young Bolby and the Reverend Canon Smeech wish to speak with you regarding the Bolby cottage.”
“I shall see to them at once. Since this is estate business, I shall leave you all to your various pleasures”, he said, heading toward the office, which was on the other side of the house.
“Come to breakfast, Elliot,” the duchess ordered, grabbing her son’s arm. “I shall expect you to be in the drawing room when I am finished, Lady Hester,” she continued. “We have to complete the invitations to the ball.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hester replied.
The duchess and her son walked away, Elliot with a rueful glance over his shoulder, the duchess in outraged dignity.
Hester decided she would get her book from her bedroom and read for a little while. It was likely to be some time before the duchess finished eating, considering that she would probably stop several times to criticize her stepson.
Instead of proceeding upstairs immediately, however, Hester waited until Lord Elliot and his mother had turned the corner toward the small dining room. Once they were likely to be inside, she hurried along the corridor, tiptoed past the closed door of the dining room where she could discern the angry muttering of the duchess, and made her way toward the far side of the house. This was a rather roundabout way to the servants’ stairs, but this route took her very near the duke’s office.
Chapter Nine
“Do you think this is the proper time to discuss this?” Hester heard the duke say in a reasonable tone of voice.
“He didn’t give me no choice, Your Grace,” a young man said in angry response. “Me dad’s barely washed, and he’s at the door say in�
� we got to get out.”
“Is this true, Canon?” the duke asked, his voice so quietly lethal that Hester was very glad she had never heard anything like it before. Drawn by the prospect of seeing the pompous canon in such a situation, she cautiously crept near the door and peeked inside.
The room used as an office for the estate was small and painted plainly in white. An undraped window let in natural light, and some small shelves on the walls held what looked like ledgers. The duke sat behind a desk that fit neatly into the available space, leaving room for a wooden chair across from it, upon which an obviously uncomfortable Reverend Canon Smeech sat. A tall, slender young man with a thick thatch of sandy hair and many freckles stood awkwardly in the corner, his eyes puffy either from lack of sleep or crying or both, and with his hat in his work-worn hands. His glances toward the duke were pleading, and to the reverend gentleman, vicious.
“Your Grace,” the canon began, “the Bolbys have been in that cottage by your leave these past five years, although the rent is always late, and they rarely attend services. The duchess and I have discussed this matter many times, and I know she agrees with me that this is the time that cottage is given to a more deserving family, one who will appreciate the bounty of the duch—yourself. Your Grace. I have the perfect family in mind. The parents are decent, respectable people with several small children. I have tried to be merciful—”
The young man snorted derisively and his fist clenched as if he were sorely tempted to hit the plump clergyman on the head.
“Merciful, Your Grace,” the canon continued after casting a severe look at the youth, “but young Bolby threw me bodily from the doorstep. Therefore, I have no recourse but to appeal to Your Grace.”
“Could this not have waited until Bolby was decently buried?” the duke asked, and again Hester was glad she was not the one he was questioning.
The canon was not immune to the displeasure in the duke’s tone, for beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he ran a finger around his clerical collar. “Your Grace, I—”
“Just because me mam wouldn’t sell him her hen!” young Bolby blurted out.
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