One that did not fail him when, alone in his bed at night, he fantasized about Lizzie. And then told himself not to and tried to think about that widow in New York. She’d had a lush body, luxurious blonde hair that had caressed him even as her hands and mouth did. There had been no conflicts or demands. She’d been happy with the monthly stipend she received and the jewelry he brought every so often. He’d given her a generous parting gift as well.
She was nothing like Lizzie, who told him when he was wrong even as she stared at him with those starry eyes. That was the worst of it. She thought the best of him, thought him some sort of hero, and in return he…
He spent himself four times into his hand before his restlessness dissolved into sleep.
But he’d managed to find a tutor for John, a very educated black Englishman whose presence Nate hoped would ease any alienation the boy felt. George Linden would join them at Beckworth after the holiday. Although Nate wasn’t certain if educating the boy at Beckworth was better than sending him off to school. Not that he knew if any of the schools Miss Vere had mentioned for Thomas would be willing to take on a black boy. Not that he knew if a single school in England would, despite the solicitor’s assurances that the Beckworth name would open most doors. Even with a pried-open door, Nate knew from his own childhood the cruelty of boys. Perhaps John had been through enough in the past year. In any event, he’d asked the solicitor to inquire, and in the meantime, the tutor would be necessary to make up for the years of formal education John had lacked.
Additionally, he had successfully employed a valet. Phineas Margreave was the son of a valet and had trained under the Duke of Manfrey’s valet for two years before taking a primary position with Baron Tisdale. Margreave knew when to talk and when to hold his tongue. Could supply all the latest gossip and information, as he excelled at listening, and yet he was a man who understood the importance of discretion. All skills that had made it worth stealing the man from under Tisdale’s nose.
Margreave would join Nate at Beckworth within the week, after he had helped Tisdale find a replacement.
Nate had never had a valet, and despite his confidence that he had found the right man for the job, he was curious to see how the relationship developed. While servants had cared for his clothes and his belongings in the past, no one person had held so private a position, and Nate thought it possible he had been independent too long to comfortably adapt to another man being in charge of so many private details.
Yet it was simply one more in a long line of changes to which Nate needed to adapt. When he met with the solicitor, Mr. Tompkins hinted none too subtly again that it was in the title’s best interest for Nate to marry and procreate as soon as possible. He even mentioned a handful of eligible heiresses.
That was the main difference between managing his fortune in New York and managing the Beckworth lands: here he was Beckworth and not Nate. Here his preferences and desires needed to be subsumed to duty. And that damnable Twelfth Night ball would be another moment during which everyone would expect him to, if not choose a bride, at least show interest in several possibilities. As Nate returned to Beckworth, despite the work achieved, he felt London had been a miserable failure. After all, not only had he not found a mistress, but also distance had made his fantasies about Lizzie stronger.
• • •
In Nate’s absence, Lizzie started to develop a new rhythm to her life at Beckworth. She visited with the tenants’ wives and did what she could to ease the rough winter. She found these women, for the most part, easy to converse with as their lives were not so drastically different from what her own had been growing up. She even started to like Mr. Beebumbler as she helped the vicar with plans for the holiday celebrations for the poor as well as took food and goods to anyone in great need or ailing. The village was very like and very unlike the small town in which Lizzie had grown up. There was the same sense of careful observation and suspicion of strangers, and Lizzie, with her foreign accent, was most definitely a stranger, even if she had the protection of the new duke. At the same time, as she became a familiar sight, the suspicious looks turned to respectful nods.
And at Beckworth Park, once Nate had sent word that the Twelfth Night masquerade ball was to happen, she and Lady Maude had found a mutual enjoyment in deciding how to decorate the ballroom and house. It was perhaps the most frivolous thing Lizzie had ever done.
Or the second most frivolous thing, as she was quite certain that the most frivolous thing was spending her money on a costume for the ball. And on the day Nate was expected to return, she stood in front of a mirror in the back room of the village dressmaker.
“I think a columbine mask might be the best choice to complement your costume,” Beatrice Hawkins said.
Lizzie looked at her blankly.
“It’s a slightly longer mask than the domino, usually completely covers the nose and part of the cheeks, where as a domino mask truthfully does little to disguise one’s identity.”
“I don’t need to disguise my identity.” Lizzie felt very daring being there, about to spend her own funds on something completely frivolous. She had been so careful to save over the past year, aware that the incredible luck that had made Nate her benefactor could be gone at any instant. But step by step, Beatrice had been pushing her to be even more daring. To design a costume that was far more revealing than Lizzie would choose on her own.
Beatrice gave her a sidelong look. “Yes, my dear, you do. I hear the gossip. No one quite knows what to make of you, although most have determined you are not, in fact, the duke’s mistress unless you both are extraordinarily discreet. In any event, if you wish to enjoy yourself, it is better to disguise yourself until the midnight unmasking. You will dance with everyone. Perhaps even your duke himself will not recognize the beautiful masked Titania of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
The dressmaker in the village was quite different from the one Nate had commissioned from London, but Lizzie liked her instantly, appreciated her straightforward manner. Beatrice was not very much older than herself and had actually worked as a dressmaker’s assistant in London before taking over her aunt’s shop here in Beckworth. Although Lizzie was too cautious to reveal much of her own secret thoughts. As Beatrice said, there was gossip. The last thing Lizzie needed was for Nate to discover how lovesick she was.
“It’s a bit shocking to know everyone thought we were…”
“Lovers?”
Heat stung Lizzie’s cheeks. Her embarrassment was twofold, first for this moment, and second for remembering the day she had essentially propositioned Nate and he had turned her down with an utterly disgusted look upon his face.
That disgust should have ensured he never entered her fantasies or dreams and yet… he did.
It was time to turn those thoughts to ash. In seven nights’ time, there would be a ball at Beckworth, one which beautiful and beautifully dressed women would attend. And men. Possibly very eligible men. And though she was terrified of marriage to a stranger—though she very much doubted any man would compare in her mind to Nate—she needed to open herself up to possibility.
She forced herself to laugh. “Yes, lovers.” The word seemed to scorch her throat. “But this is foolish conversation. Tell me, Miss Hawkins, as I only had the briefest time in London, what is life like there?”
• • •
As simple as it was to dismiss the idea to the dressmaker, the word lovers lingered long in Lizzie’s mind. She first saw Nate at dinner that night, and the few days apart had made him seem almost a stranger to her. There was no time to be alone, to reestablish the familiarity and ease she felt in his company. It seemed, too, as if he were avoiding her gaze, avoiding conversation with her beyond the trivial. Still, in the few moments that brought her and Nate together, she couldn’t help but stare at his mouth, at his arms, at the breadth of his chest. Somehow, knowing that he was growing further and further out of her reach made him all the more tantalizing.
The next morning, she wen
t to his study as she had before the trip to London. When she stepped into the room, Nate glanced up and their gazes locked. Something very like lightning raced through her body, scorching her in the moment before he looked away.
With a cold heat claiming her neck, she realized she was wearing one of her new gowns, as she had every day since he had left for London.
“How was London?” she said, moving farther into the room, pretending that her heart wasn’t racing and the desire to cry not stinging at her eyes.
He shifted a set of papers from one file to another, and the movement of his hands attracted her gaze, gave her something upon which to focus. She sat down in her usual seat.
“As I mentioned at dinner, I think John will like his new tutor. Oh yes, and I’ve also directed Mr. Tompkins to look for a house steward. It is odd that an estate this large relies solely on its butler for its function.”
“The house is running quite smoothly now that the funds are flowing easily and priorities have been set,” Lizzie said quickly. She had learned the hierarchy of a great house such as Beckworth Park quickly in the past weeks. She understood now that much of the task set to her by Nate was a mixture of hostess and steward duties, both which would no longer be needed once he hired a house steward and… married.
There was still the matter of his investments, the mines in South America, the shipping ventures, and more. As the estate was brought to order, he would again pursue those matters and new ones with as much dedication as he had in the past, but would Lizzie be the one to whom he turned?
“That is excellent to hear,” Nate murmured. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks burned. She had not been pushing for any acknowledgement of her part in creating order in the house.
With a sigh, Nate put down the papers and looked up at her. “London was London. Strangely, exactly as I remembered it from my university days. Full of accidental meetings with acquaintances, endless social obligations with people I hardly know, except this time, they all knew of me and the recent inheritance. Homes of which I had never imagined crossing the threshold were opened to me. And then there’s this.”
He thrust a thin newspaper at Lizzie. In the middle column, the letters loudly proclaimed: Duke of Beckworth Found. She scanned the article, which stated everything that was likely publicly known about Nate and some details she was surprised to see, from his sojourn in America to his position as the last remaining descendent of the Hughes family and his upcoming “bride-finding ball,” to his eccentricities such as possessing a female secretary. She glanced at the name of the paper, The Weekly Scandal.
Her cheeks burned again. There was nothing scandalous about Nate inheriting. However, the sadness she felt every time she thought of Nate marrying was surely a scandal.
“Someone did meticulous research,” she said simply.
“Apparently, this rag has become all the rage in my absence. My new valet…” Nate paused. “I did mention him yesterday, did I not? In any event, Margreave shall be arriving in a few days, and a room should be readied for him—he has informed me that I should expect to be a prominent subject of any number of these columns.”
For a man who valued his privacy, such public discussion of his concerns would grate. “I am sorry,” she said simply.
He shrugged with a tight smile. “It is part and parcel of this life. As is Parliament. I had not thought of that aspect of my new position as there was so much here to be done, but Beckworth comes with a seat in the House of Lords, naturally.”
“And as it is the duke’s duty, you shall naturally throw yourself into political matters with as much dedication as you do everything else.”
Their gazes met again. He didn’t look away, and it was simply Nate and Lizzie, as it had been for so long, understanding each other perfectly.
“I’m not complaining, Lizzie.”
“I know.”
“It’s just…”
“Nate, I know,” she emphasized. “You love the challenge. But everyone is watching you this time, and so many depend on you.” I depend on you. But she couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t add to the weight that burdened him.
He nodded.
“Whatever you need, I’m here,” she said, feeling the words were inadequate and silly. He employed her to be there, even if slowly he would be replacing her.
“I know,” he said and then smiled. A small one, but for the first time in days, even in weeks, for that moment everything between them was as it should be.
And Lizzie was as hopelessly in love as ever.
• • •
Just as Nate started to feel he understood exactly what challenges lay ahead in the coming months for Beckworth Park and all the minor estates he had inherited as they battled winter and prepared for the possibility of a year as cold as the last with hopes that such fears would be unrealized, the house turned into a flurry of activity as preparations for a grand ball began in earnest.
The greenery that had decorated the house since his arrival suddenly multiplied, and little sprigs of mistletoe appeared here and there. There was even one uncomfortable moment when Nate happened upon the Fords sharing a brief kiss under one of those decorations. Guest bedrooms were aired out and prepared for families traveling from as far as London—families with whom Nate had only the merest connection—and foodstuffs were amassed from far and wide to ensure each meal would be generous and delicious.
Nate was beginning to feel as if the house were preparing for a siege, and indeed, even though he had little to do with the planning other than approving the costs, the signs of the impending invasion were apparent everywhere.
Such as the enthusiastic pounding of the pianoforte one afternoon as Nate and Mr. Ford walked down the hallway discussing repairs on one of Nate’s minor estates.
“No, the other way, Miss Smith!”
Lady Maude’s distinct tones ran down the corridor, followed by some low mumbling, the thud of hurried footsteps, and then laughter.
Nate glanced at Mr. Ford, his eyebrow raised.
The land agent shrugged.
Curiosity rising, Nate strode to the open door of the sitting room just in time to see Lizzie turn in place on the wood floor revealed by the rolled-up carpet and then move a few steps down the floor, walking through the motions of a simple country dance.
“Your Grace, Mr. Ford, such excellent timing,” Lady Maude said. “Men are exactly what we need.”
Lizzie stopped abruptly, as did the music, which had been provided by Miss Vere. She looked at Nate, her face flushed with a mixture of exertion and embarrassment. Desire spiraled through Nate’s gut.
“Everyone is being so kind as to ensure I know how to dance,” she said, although he’d already arrived at that logical conclusion.
“I see.”
“I’ve learned that the dances we enjoyed at home share only a few figures in common with the most popular ones here. And I’ve never heard of the waltz or the quadrille,” she continued.
“Is waltzing fashionable now?” Nate asked, despite himself. When he had been at university, only those who had done the Grand Tour had learned it, and it was only in New York in the past year that he had first seen it undertaken at a ball.
“Only in a scandalous way,” Miss Vere said. “But I believe it would not be remiss to have a handful played during the course of the night.”
Scandalous. He could just imagine the headline in that gossip rag when the news hit London. New duke supports sinful dance, or some other such nonsense.
“Enough chatter,” Lady Maude said. “Play a quadrille, Miss Vere. We shall begin there.”
After a brief explanation that this was a dance to be performed by four couples, the Fords took one corner of the imaginary square and Nate and Lizzie slowly took another. His gaze met hers, but she quickly looked away.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.
“I need to brush up myself,” Nate said. And it was true. Although he had not previously considered it, news of
the Duke of Beckworth being a clumsy dancer was not what he wished to promote. But even more, now he had to prove to himself that he was not a coward, that he didn’t need to flee Lizzie simply because his imagination had a tendency to run rampant.
Ruthlessly squelching his need for her these last two weeks had taught him how often he turned to her for companionship, to share opinions and discuss the events of the day. He missed the ease of their friendship.
Miss Vere began playing. The Fords went first, performing the dance, simple steps that would be relatively easy to repeat when it was Nate and Lizzie’s turn. The married couple looked very much in love, and as Mrs. Ford moved, her dress swayed against her body, showing the outline of the pregnancy Lizzie had mentioned. Something in Nate’s chest ached. A yearning, an emptiness. That sort of happiness was a dream he had let go of when he’d left for America.
He was wealthy beyond measure, and yet he was lacking the richness of that love.
“Your Grace!” Lady Maude said impatiently, and he realized his woolgathering had made him miss their turn. Lizzie was looking at him quizzically, and he offered a shrug. He tapped his foot with the rhythm as they waited for the next opening.
A step forward, a turn, and then Nate’s bare hand touched Lizzie’s, and for the first time, he understood just how important a protection gloves were. That brief touch of warm skin against his scorched him. It felt illicit and right all at once. The next contact was worse because he wanted to linger, to explore, and yet he couldn’t. He could only hold her hand as they pretended to go up the line, and then he had to let her go.
Just the way he’d have to let her go eventually.
The torture continued. All of Nate’s senses were fully engaged. He was aware of Lizzie’s scent, her shape, the sway of her body to the music, the flush of color in her cheeks, the warmth of her skin, the sound of her laugher as she grew more comfortable with the figures.
A Duke by December Page 7