by Naomi Boom
“Your Grace,” Charles murmured before offering a sly grin. “Or should I address you as Sir Logan?”
Logan shook his head as he downed his aged port and ordered another. “She won’t see me. I visited her twice, and she refused to see me both times.”
Charles nodded. “Women are strange creatures. Was she mad at you when you left the house party?”
“No,” he said as he leaned back, crossing his right ankle over his left knee. “She had taken the news of my identity quite well.”
Charles’s eyes flew to his in surprise. “You told her at the house party?”
“Not exactly, but she overheard my steward address me as ‘Your Grace.’ ”
The noise of an argument rose nearby, and Charles grinned at him until the din died down. “Before I left Waking Hall, Lady Gammon and I chatted about your lady love. She was under the assumption that Miss Ashford believed you to be Sir Logan. Are you certain she knew?”
She had to know. They had conversed about his lie, and she said his lie was unnecessary. He thought her response odd at the time but concluded females were complex and would say nonsensical things.
“So you have tried to see her twice as the duke?” Charles asked with a gleam in his eye. “I cannot say I am flattered if she refused to see me twice. Perhaps you should return as Sir Logan.”
“That should not be necessary. We are to marry this Saturday, you know.”
“Ah, congratulations.” Charles inclined his head. “She is likely upset, believing she will marry me. Not you.”
“That can’t be possible.” Could it? Could she still think he was Sir Logan and Charles the duke? Such a belief would be absurd, and yet, she refused to see him. He shook his head. She couldn’t.
They chatted over a couple more rounds, and then Logan rose. He returned home, despite the sinking feeling that bothered him since his conversation with Charles. Upon entering his house, his eyes fell on some letters in a silver salver. He picked up the stack and scanned the various invites until his eyes fell on a letter from his butler at Briarthorn.
Opening the missive, he searched the document before his good mood vanished. He swore loudly as he called for his horse to be brought around. His butler at Briarthorn was a trusted servant and would not report falsehoods. How was it he now reported a young lady’s arrival that matched the description of Ellie?
He needed answers, and the Ashfords were going to give him some.
****
After a mad dash through London, he reached the Ashfords and knocked on the oak door. When the door swung wide, Logan entered without waiting for an invitation. “Where are Lord and Lady Ashford?”
The butler rushed to follow Logan and said, “Her ladyship is in the parlor, Your Grace.”
Logan retraced the route to the parlor used to receive guests and entered to the sight of Lady Ashford and Mrs. Westfield reading books by the fireplace and sipping wine. “Lady Ashford.” He bowed. “I must see your daughter. Now.”
With a gasp of surprise, she rose to greet him. The color drained from her face and she swallowed. “Such a request is impossible, Your Grace. She visits her cousin and will not return ’til the morrow.”
“Your Grace?” Mrs. Westfield’s eyes widened. “You must be mistaken. This is Sir Logan.” She placed her hand over her mouth and whispered, “You know, the one that Eleanor wishes to marry.”
Mrs. Westfield needed to work on her whispering. The volume she used was only a minor decrease and audible to anyone in the surrounding radius. Lady Ashford speared her with a scathing glance, and Mrs. Westfield clamped her lips shut.
Mrs. Westfield did not appear to believe him a duke, and such a reaction did not bode well for Logan. Mrs. Westfield had been absent every time he visited as the duke, so if she did not know who he was, then Ellie must not either.
Lady Ashford rose and advanced on Logan. “Forgive my sister’s confusion. We know you are the Duke of Waking.”
Mrs. Westfield’s eyes widened, and her countenance turned excited. She hid her reaction by returning her gaze to her book. Her happy response to the news of his identity was as well-hidden as her whisper, which was poor indeed.
Returning his attention back to Lady Ashford, Logan scowled. He could not say why, but he did not trust Ellie’s mother. Not one bit. “And how long has Miss Ashford visited her cousin?”
Lady Ashford gulped. “Not long at all, Your Grace.”
He raised his eyebrow in patent disbelief. He would never receive a straight answer from her. He turned and departed the house without saying another word. He had one last visit to make before returning home which should give him the answers he so ardently desired.
Knocking on the front door of the Farris townhome, he waited impatiently for the door to open. Finally, it swung wide, and a butler greeted him. The time was well past traditional visiting hours, but he did not care. With an imperious expression, Logan said, “I am here to see Lady Farris.”
“And you are?” the butler asked, giving Logan a cold once-over.
“The Duke of Waking.”
The man gulped, then turned to lead Logan into the house. Logan didn’t always enjoy his title, but moments like these accented how useful a ducal title could be.
“Let me see if she is in, Your Grace,” he said as he led Logan to a small sitting room and departed to find Lady Farris. Logan crossed to a wall and found a small picture hung above a settee. Masterful brushstrokes depicted a scene with a weeping willow and a stream flowing next to it. With a start, he realized why the painting seemed so familiar. It was Eleanor’s spot, and she had most likely painted it. “Where are you, my darling?” he asked as he stared at the nostalgic picture.
“Who are you talking to, Your Grace?”
Logan turned to find a small, lovely lady with a welcoming smile standing before him. Behind her stood the large frame of Lord Farris. “Never mind,” he muttered, annoyed at being overheard. “I have been informed Miss Ashford is in residence. May I see her please?”
“Please, sit down.” Lady Farris indicated a chair as she took a seat on an elegant, claw-footed sofa. She crossed her ankles and smiled at him.
Logan ignored her offer and said, “I must see Miss Ashford.”
Lord Farris’s expression remained impassive as he sat beside his wife. “You may be a duke, but you can have manners. I suggest you sit down.”
Lady Farris placed her hand against her husband’s sleeve before turning back to Logan. “I am afraid you cannot see her. She is indisposed.”
Dealing with this family was frustrating, and Logan was growing annoyed. “I must ascertain her location immediately. If she is not here, then I can only assume she is at Briarthorn as my butler said.”
Lady Farris’s brow furrowed. “Did you say Briarthorn?”
“Yes.” He scowled and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “My estate in the northern region of England is called Briarthorn.”
She stilled. “Do you know a Sir Logan, Your Grace?”
A sick feeling overtook him. How could he have muddled things up so much? He placed his head in his hands and laughed. “I am Sir Logan.”
Her lips parted as if she wished to speak, but no sound issued forth.
He shook his head. “I acted as Sir Logan to make Miss Ashford fall in love with me. I thought she knew the truth, but now I see she does not.”
“You mean you are the one she is in love with?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair with an avid expression of interest.
He nodded.
She turned to her husband and said, “Only Eleanor would manage to fall in love with a duke unwittingly.” He chuckled, and she turned to give Logan the answer he was looking for. “I am sorry, Your Grace, she is not here. She left days ago for Briarthorn, afraid she was going to be forced into a marriage to you. Of course, she didn’t realize you were the same man she wants to marry. It’s unfortunate really. She could have avoided an enormous amount of trouble if she had known.”
He nodded. He could have sworn she understood he was a duke when he left her at Waking Hall. How could such a massive misunderstanding transpire? He would have plenty of time to think on all of that when he rode up to Briarthorn. Standing, he smiled at first Lady Farris and then Lord Farris. “Thank you for clarifying this matter. I have a lengthy journey ahead and should get going.”
Chapter 18
Eleanor settled into Briarthorn, reveling in all the opportunities it offered. She enjoyed the quiet which also presented her with a chance to think. As an uninhabited estate, only a few servants were around, but Eleanor quite enjoyed the lack of people. The butler at first had been a bit unapproachable but had warmed to her, although she still sensed he was skeptical about her visit. She couldn’t blame him. He would see soon enough he was right to trust her. Then there was the cook and housekeeper, Mrs. O’Conner, who had made Eleanor feel welcome. An older woman, Mrs. O’Conner had worked at Briarthorn for many years and was more than happy to keep Eleanor company whenever she happened down to the kitchen.
After a morning walk along the river, Eleanor was famished and went down to the kitchen for some lunch. She entered the warm room and caught a whiff of the intended meal. Her stomach revolted at the scent, and she turned and ran from the room.
Her morning sickness had not abated in the slightest, and it was at its most touchy whenever she was around fish or paint. She managed to make it to a chamber pot, although her stomach was nearly empty. Mrs. O’Conner must have noticed her abrupt departure and soon found her as Eleanor sat by the chamber pot.
“Are you all right, dearie?”
“I think I am just a little under the weather,” Eleanor said in a cheery voice, hoping Mrs. O’Conner would believe her.
“I am hardly a spring chicken, my lady. I can recognize when a lady is increasing.” Mrs. O’Conner knelt beside Eleanor and placed a hand on her back in reassurance. “I am sure His Grace will make whatever amends he can once he arrives.”
“He would be so lucky,” Eleanor muttered as she rose. “Would it be possible to have something other than fish today?”
“Of course!” Mrs. O’Conner also rose and said, “You know Her Grace, the duke’s mother, God rest her soul, was unable to stomach fish when she was with child, also.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t realized Mrs. O’Conner was quite that old. “So you knew Logan as a boy?”
Mrs. O’Conner led Eleanor to the dining room as she chatted. “Of course, I practically raised him. He was always such a sweet boy, forever trying to do the right thing. Now his cousin, Lord Thornwick, was a little hellion.”
After directing Eleanor to take a seat at the large dining room table, Mrs. O’Conner continued regaling Eleanor with stories of Logan’s childhood until Eleanor’s stomach growled in angry defiance.
Mrs. O’Conner blushed. “Let me make you a sandwich, my lady.”
Eleanor consented and was left alone in the large dining room to her thoughts. Hearing of Logan as a youth interested her. He must have been adorable, and hopefully he would pass that cuteness down to their child.
She rested her hand on her flat stomach and considered her future with Logan until she heard the faraway sound of voices. She rose from her seat and went to see where the sounds came from. A mixture of apprehension and anger filled her as she realized Logan must have arrived.
Rounding a bend in the lengthy hallway, Eleanor spotted Logan striding in her direction. Her stomach jerked at the sight of him. She had forgotten just how handsome he was. Her heart beat with renewed life, until she reminded herself she was still angry with him, and rightly so.
“What were you thinking, coming all the way up here by yourself?” He pulled her to him in an encompassing embrace, and she melted against him for the briefest of moments. She was home, at last.
Unfortunately, she could have felt at home in London if he had admitted his true identity in the first place. She could not focus in his arms, so she took a step back and crossed her arms before her. “What was I thinking? How about what were you thinking? What sort of a duke masquerades as landed gentry and doesn’t bother to tell his intended that small detail?”
He scoffed. “You said you knew of the secret before I left Waking Hall. What more was I expected to do?”
“I knew of a secret, which was evidently the incorrect secret. Lady Gammon had informed me you are as rich as the duke. Isn’t it amusing just how accurate those words are?”
“That is the secret you thought I kept from you? That I was rich?” The lines of his face softened, and he laughed. “I thought you already knew that.”
She scowled. Why did everyone think that? Landed gentry were usually not one of the wealthiest in the kingdom. “Well, I did not.”
His grin intensified, and her heart began to beat in an erratic tempo. His sinful mouth, coupled with those enigmatic green eyes were treacherous. “You would have married me without piles of money?”
“Naturally I assumed you had some money, otherwise you would have needed my dowry. I just assumed we might have to pinch pennies on occasion.” She averted her eyes. Why were they having this conversation in the hallway? Shouldn’t they at least speak in a less public area? “Your Grace.”
He held up his hand. “My name is Logan to you.”
“I will call you what I want.” She stomped her foot to emphasize the point and raised her eyebrow at him. “All this time, you tricked me into believing you were a mere baronet, so forgive me if I don’t listen to you.”
He grinned at her again. “Technically speaking, I do hold the title of baronet, so it wasn’t a complete lie.”
How dare he look so cute with his dark hair set over his scintillating green eyes and luscious lips, and then say something so frustrating? “How is masquerading as a baronet anything other than a complete lie?”
All traces of humor left his face and he shook his head. “My actions were logical. Your quest to marry a titled gentleman is what led me to invent this little masquerade in the first place.”
“I did not force you to do anything.”
A movement down the hall caught Eleanor’s attention. Someone must be eavesdropping, so she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the nearest room. She shut the door and enclosed them in a dimly lit, musty parlor. There were sheets draped over the furniture, and she sneezed from the general air of disuse.
She ignored his questioning brow at their hasty change of venue and asked, “Well, how did I force you to lie?”
He walked over to one of the covered pieces of furniture and pulled the sheet off. Sitting down, he crossed his legs and regarded her with an impassive look. “When we first met, I couldn’t tell you I was a duke for fear you would claim I compromised you. You drew your own conclusions, and I went with them.”
She glared at him, not wanting to concede his point, although she supposed it made sense. He continued his tirade while she remained silent. “I decided I should marry you, but only if I could make you love me. If you knew I was a duke, I would have never known if your feelings were genuine.”
Her pride dictated she grow angry at his words, but deep inside, she knew he was right. “Why couldn’t you have admitted who you are after I declared my feelings for you? Why wait?”
“I didn’t want to anger you before we left for Gretna Green, not when I could wait until after the wedding.”
“That decision worked so well for you.” Another covered piece of furniture was beside Logan that looked like a chair, so she crossed over and uncovered it. She sat and ignored the dust that swirled around her. “That still doesn’t explain why you changed our plans.”
He sighed and shifted so he faced her. “Why face the scandal of elopement when we could have a traditional wedding?”
“If I had known you were a duke, then your words would have made perfect sense. You never came back for me, despite the letter I wrote you, which is why I concluded this was your way of ruining me and leaving.”
He stiff
ened, and his eyes darkened. “How dare you impugn my honor? I never received your letter, and I called on you twice. I would never stoop to such devious methods to bed a lady.”
She ground her teeth. His skull was amazingly thick. “You mean when you visited as a duke?” She waved her hand and affected a casual demeanor. “Of course, how could I forget? You thought I knew. Never mind the fact that I did not know and assumed your cousin had decided to force me into an unwanted marriage.”
Obviously, Logan did not feel he deserved blame. He shook his head. “If you had deigned to meet with me, you would have known the duke was I and not my cousin.”
“So now it is my fault that I did not know you are a duke?”
He frowned. “Of course not. I am simply suggesting your actions created more trouble than they solved.”
She stood and smoothed her skirts as she said, “I suppose you think I should have never come to Briarthorn.”
“It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble if you hadn’t,” he said in response.
He reclined in his chair, with one ankle propped over the other leg, and Eleanor could only shake her head. He did not understand. She required an explanation, of course, but she needed more. She needed him to understand what he had put her through. He might have been well-intentioned in his schemes, but she had lived for weeks in agony.
“I spent weeks waiting for you to come for me. You never did.” She closed her eyes and turned from him. Admitting her feelings to him was painful. “I waited and waited. Eventually, I believed you would not come for me. Then, a duke shows up and requests my hand in marriage. If I had not come to Briarthorn, I would have been forced to marry him tomorrow.”
“It was today.”
“What?” She turned to him with a fierce scowl.
“We were supposed to marry today.”
She flexed her fingers and breathed. “How is that relevant?”
“I thought you would like to know.”