The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

  They lapsed back into silence as she forced more food into her mouth. It was not necessarily an uncomfortable silence, just a heavy one.

  “Please stop glaring at me while I eat,” Clara said and set her fork down. “It really is unsettling to eat with you glowering at everything.”

  Andrew blinked a few times, not realizing he had been glaring. “I apologize. I assure you I did not mean to glare at you.”

  Andrew gave himself a mental shake. He was normally in such refined control of his features and emotions but seemed to forget himself around Clara. Her melting charm appeared to affect him as well. She was the exact opposite of him, he realized. Whereas he was dark and brooding, staring people down with his piercing blue eyes, she was happiness and sunshine, lighting up the existence of everyone around her. It was remarkable that even under the tyranny of her brother, her fire had not waned.

  “The banns are to be called in Kent tomorrow,” Andrew told her. “The messenger should be arriving in Cumberland next week sometime, so next Sunday they will be called.”

  “Lovely, thank you,” Clara said, not meeting his gaze.

  They lapsed back into silence. Andrew inclined his head towards her plate of half eaten food. “You do want to make sure you leave room for dessert. I thought I smelled an apple tart when I arrived, and Cookie’s tarts are the absolute best.”

  Clara looked down at her plate. “That does sound divine. But I would hate for this food to go to waste.”

  “Nonsense,” Andrew said, motioning with a wave of his hand for Clara’s tray to be removed. “After everyone in the household, including the serving staff, is properly fed, all the excess is sent to the poor.”

  Clara’s surprise was evident. “That is very kind of you.”

  “You may be surprised to learn that I am a kind person.”

  Nodding, she replied, “I suppose I never doubted that you were. I am mainly surprised at the differences between you and my brother. I had assumed all peers were as horrid as he. But you are not like him at all.”

  “I would certainly hope not,” Andrew retorted. “I don’t aspire to be great, but I do know right from wrong. I know my place in this world, and I know to appreciate it.”

  A warm smile crept across Clara’s face again, and he was lost in the depths of her eyes. Brown warmth swam around him, dancing and teasing his senses, reminding him of simpler, happier times. Her bottom lip slipped a breath away from her top lip, and Andrew was overcome with an insatiable need to capture her lips with his. He wanted to know what she tasted like. He felt desire pooling in his blood, pulsing with a hunger for her, a longing he had not known this strongly in a long time, if ever.

  A lovely flush rushed across her face, and he smirked, realizing she was not immune to him. It was reassuring, even if it just confused him more.

  “Did you have a pleasant day?” she asked.

  “It was normal,” he replied. “Tedious and busy, as was the entirety of the week. I apologize for staying away. I wanted to allow you time to rest and . . . adjust.”

  “Adjust?”

  “To the idea of becoming my wife.”

  “Oh,” she replied, not meeting his eye for a long moment. “Yes, I suppose that will take some adjusting.” She paused and watched him. “You can make it up to me tomorrow.”

  “Really? And what would you have me do?”

  “Good question,” Clara said. “Let’s see . . .” She paused to think, cocking her head to the side and pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “You are playing with fire, Lady Clara,” he warned, not taking his eyes off hers. They widened in mock innocence, the audacity and daring of her behavior teasing and tempting him. She truly was unlike any other woman he had ever known.

  “I do not know what you are talking about, your grace,” Clara said with a little shrug of her shoulders. “You cannot possibly know what I was thinking.”

  “I’m not convinced I want to know what you were thinking,” he confessed.

  “Oh yes, you do. You want to know what went racing through my mind, what could possibly get me . . . excited.”

  Andrew swallowed. She was doing it again. Just her voice alone was almost his undoing.

  Two can play at that game, Andrew thought.

  “And tell me, Lady Clara,” he drawled, dropping his voice to a seductively low octave. “What excites you?”

  “There are many things that excite me, your grace,” Clara said softly, her eyes slowly trailing up the length of him. “But you want to know what activity is most stimulating for me?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you want to know the most arousing thing we could possibly do in here together, alone?”

  Andrew swallowed and nodded again, dumbly.

  “Read.”

  He hadn’t expected that. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Books, your grace,” Clara repeated, her seductive tone vanished. “I wish you to read to me tomorrow.”

  “You want me to read to you?” Andrew repeated, still trying to clear his muddled brain. Was that a euphemism for something?

  Clara narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you think I wanted you to do?” she asked. “Do you have a better idea of what you can do to make up days’ worth of abandonment to this room? What other talents do you possess that could possibly entice me?”

  Andrew’s mouth had gone dry. She was a spitfire, this little blonde thing.

  She laughed and leaned back into her pillows. “You are quite fun to tease, Andrew. And it is so easy.”

  “I have not a clue to what you are referring,” Andrew replied, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.

  Clara laughed again. “Yes, you do.”

  “Pray tell, what book shall I bring to our reading session tomorrow?” he inquired. “How about Sense and Sensibility?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “How about Richardson’s Virtue Rewarded?”

  “Come now, Clara, it has to be Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew?”

  She let out a tiny gasp before grabbing the pillow beside her and lobbing it at his head. Luckily he was quicker and ducked out of the way, but it did not stop him from laughing harder.

  “You, your grace, are—are—” Clara sputtered, unable to find a proper insult.

  “What am I, Lady Clara?” he asked, enjoying her ire.

  “You, sir, are a scoundrel.”

  “Really, that is the best you could come up with?”

  “I could say more, but such things are not fit to grace a lady’s mouth,” Clara said primly. “Now, I am tired, and I wish to rest. Good evening to you, your grace.” She crossed her arms and turned her head away from him, her nose in the air.

  Andrew laughed, watching as her features softened, and she tried not to laugh with him. Finally she threw her arms down in exasperation and huffed at him. He thought if she was standing she might have put her hands on her hips and stomped her foot.

  “Oh, Andrew, will you cease? You can stay as long as you stop that racket escaping your mouth. I swear, how very unduke-like you can be.”

  “Why, thank you.” He grinned at her. She grabbed another pillow and lobbed it at him, but this time he caught it and threw it back. She blocked it, and it fell to the ground beside the bed.

  “Andrew Macalister!” she cried in outrage. “I have a head wound!”

  Andrew’s face fell in horror, his eyes flicking to the bandage still wound around her head.

  “You are right, that was stupid of me,” he admitted. “I apologize. Is your head feeling better? What did Dr. Lennox say?”

  “That my head is healing,” she admitted. “But he still wanted to watch for a fever or dizziness.”

  “I am happy to hear you are healing,” Andrew replied. “You gave us all quite a fright.” He frowned, remembering her collapsed at he
r brother’s feet, the blood that had soaked through his coat and shirt.

  “Well, remember that when you want to toss a pillow at my head,” Clara chided. “The least you can do is rearrange my remaining pillows. They are all out of place and quite uneven now.”

  “Of course,” he replied and leaned over her, fluffing and pulling her pillows back into place. “Better?” he asked.

  He should have seen it coming; he should have seen the flicker in her eyes for what it was. But he did not see her lift one last feathery down pillow and whack him on the head with it.

  He staggered sideways, reeling from the blow.

  “I cannot believe you just did that!” Andrew exclaimed in mock irritation and true shock.

  Smirking, Clara’s eyes danced as she teasingly taunted, “Believe it.”

  Andrew wanted nothing more than to capture her smirking lips with his and kiss her senseless.

  “You, my dear, need to be very careful who you hit with pillows,” Andrew said, his tone low and dangerous. He leaned towards her and her eyes blazed up at him, darting lower to his lips. He wanted to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. He was going to turn her bold words into moans, he was going to—

  “Ahem.”

  Andrew silently thanked Martha for clearing her throat at just the right—or wrong—moment. He thought he also might throttle the maid for it.

  Leaning away from Clara, the urge to kiss her still pulsed through him, but doing so would only complicate everything. She was injured and under his protection. Ravaging her in her sick bed probably was not the most gentlemanly thing to do.

  He stood, removing his weight from the bed. She looked so innocent lying there surrounded by mounds of cloud-like pillows, her blonde hair pooling around her shoulders like a cherub angel.

  “Are you going to stay for dessert, your grace?” Clara asked.

  “I would like to,” Andrew answered truthfully. “You have no idea how very tempting that sounds. But I really should be going. My valet will have a fit if I do not allow him two hours to dress me for this evening.”

  “Where are you off to tonight, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I don’t mind. Tonight is the Sheffield Ball, though truthfully, none of us want to go. It is our brother Ben’s birthday, and it always feels as though he is miles away when he isn’t here on his birthday.”

  “Isn’t he always miles away?”

  “Yes, but once a year it is his day, and we don’t know where he is,” Andrew explained. “It makes him feel that much farther away.” It was true, he had been thinking about Bennett today more than usual. Truth be told, he missed his rambunctious younger brother with his big, barking laughter echoing off the halls. It had been too long since he’d been home.

  “I understand how it feels to have a beloved sibling on the other end of the earth,” Clara said, her tone trying to be reassuring. “My brother Patrick is at sea. I am sure wherever he is, Captain Lord Bennett is thinking about you all today as well.”

  “At least he does not have to put up with stodgy balls like the rest of us do,” Andrew replied. “And that damned birthday ball always falls on my birthday.”

  “Your birthday was not so bad this year, was it?” she asked. “I mean, you danced the dinner dance with me, which should place it among your favorite birthdays, at least.”

  “It was a nice birthday this year,” Andrew admitted. “Even though I do have to be another year older. Twenty-nine, practically an old man as Luke keeps reminding me. Have a pleasant evening, Clara. I’ll stop by before I leave and bid you good night.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she replied.

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before turning and quitting the room.

  Chapter Seven

  It was two days later that Clara was alone with Andrew again. Each time he came to visit, she was encamped with one or more of his sisters, having tea or discussing books and ribbon colors. But true to his word, Andrew managed a few hours of uninterrupted time with her, though the doors were left wide open, and a maid was present the entire time, much to Clara’s annoyance.

  Andrew read to her after they had dined, and after Beverell brought in a traveling desk and his paperwork, he sat sifting through a stack of papers and correspondence. Clara had resolved to read quietly and simply bask in the comfort of his presence.

  “Are you reading horticulture?” Andrew asked. Clara glanced at him over the edge of the book. It was open before her, but she was not exactly reading it.

  “It is about the cultivation of roses,” Clara explained. “To clarify: I like roses.”

  Andrew looked mildly appalled. “They are just flowers,” he said, still trying to comprehend her choice of reading material.

  “Aux contraire, your grace,” she said. “There is so much more to the flower than you realize.”

  “Ah, but, what’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

  Clara rolled her eyes skywards at his teasing use of the famous quote. “I believe Shakespeare was very wrong.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Clara set her book aside. “When you give roses to someone, you are personalizing your gift with a much deeper sentiment. Flowers are wonderful and beautiful, but there is meaning behind each one. A pink rose, for example, is for admiration and gratitude. Yellow is happiness and friendship. You give yellow roses to a companion when you admire and respect them as a friend. White is for purity and innocence and often reverence, which is why you send white roses when someone has died.”

  “What about those?” Andrew asked, indicating the vase of flowers sitting beside the bed. It was a bouquet sent the previous morning to Lady Norah who had them brought in to “brighten the room.”

  “Yellow with red tips symbolizes friendship falling into love, just as the yellow bleeds into the red, making the transition between the two states seamless and effortless.”

  “What about red ones?” he asked.

  “A red rose is a symbol of a romantic love, of beauty and courage and passion. A bouquet with red and pink roses is for romance and passion, whereas red and yellow together is happiness and celebration.”

  Andrew looked at her in disbelief.

  Shrugging, Clara continued. “As I said, I like roses. I like their beauty and simplicity and elegance. I like their variety. It is like speaking a secret language. I read somewhere that it came from Persia where women used flowers to communicate, as written language was forbidden. I was hooked at forbidden,” she admitted with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “It was most amusing to watch as Christina was presented with bouquet after bouquet of roses that were screaming the wrong message.”

  “What did I send her?” Andrew asked.

  Clara knew it was useless to pretend she did not remember. “You sent her a bouquet of pink and white roses every day.”

  “How dastardly of me,” Andrew said, scrunching up his face in mock pain. “That meant what? I admire and am grateful for her purity and innocence?”

  Clara laughed. “Basically. It was a very platonic sort of bouquet. Not something I would care to see from a suitor or fiancé.”

  Andrew gazed at her intently, his blue eyes twinkling as he thought through what she had said. “What color flowers should I have sent her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Clara said, brushing away her comment with a wave of her hand. “The ones you sent were satisfactory.”

  “What would you want a suitor or fiancé to send you?” he asked more directly.

  Clara swallowed and looked down, afraid to read too much into his line of questioning. “Something a little more romantic. Red and white are for unity, whereas red and pink or pink and yellow would be appropriate as well.” She hoped he wouldn’t probe her further. It felt as though they were discussing something much more significant than the sillin
ess of flower symbolism.

  “It is interesting I had never heard of this secret language of roses before now,” Andrew said looking back at his paperwork. “Does every lady know of this?”

  “I think it is a bit of female common knowledge,” Clara admitted. “At least the basics. Red is love, yellow is friendship, that sort of thing. All sorts of flowers and herbs are said to have spiritual and mythical meanings, but no one has published a book about it or anything. Though I would be the first to buy it.”

  Andrew nodded but did not look up at her. “Well, I can assure you it is not something completely known amongst the gentlemen in society. At least, it is not spoken of. How unseemly it would be to present the wrong message to a lady through the gift of a flower.”

  “Unless the gentleman is choosing the flowers himself, I can hardly think such a thing would happen,” Clara replied. “I would think a gentleman would simply make the order for flowers to be delivered, and the flower shop would do the choosing.”

  Andrew’s eyes found hers and a crooked grin spread across his face. “This is exactly what happened when I ordered flowers for your sister. It seems either my secretary or the florist knew the message I truly wanted to send.”

  “Which is why you should always specify exactly what you want when placing an order,” Clara said.

  Andrew chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Very true.”

  She smiled, hoping their unusually heavy conversation was at an end. “What are your plans for this evening?”

  “Another ball, I think,” Andrew sighed and pulled a time piece from his jacket pocket. “I must be going. I need to stop by Brook’s before, and I think I shall pay Halcourt a visit as well.” He stood and rang the bell pull. It was only a few moments before Beverell was clearing away the desk and papers. Andrew bid her good night and left the room quickly.