Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  He addressed himself to a bit of ham while Miss Beckett drank her tea and nibbled a corner of toast, apparently uninterested in him because she made no attempt to converse.

  After several minutes of silence, he tried again. “And where do you reside when you are not availing yourself of the duke’s hospitality?”

  That caused her to pause in her toast-nibbling. Was she about to offer some tidbit that would reveal her identity? If she’d known Mrs. Firth beforehand, which he suspected, given the laughter of the night before, that might explain Miss Beckett’s presence here.

  “My family resides a few hours north of here,” she said.

  “And no one accompanied you on your holiday here? No sister, aunt, or maid?”

  A pause. Was she going to apologize again?

  “Like you, I found myself traveling alone for unforeseen reasons.” She returned to sipping her tea in that graceful way.

  She’d given him nothing. He could press her more specifically to provide the kind of information any relative of the duke would surely know, such as the names of his siblings, but he realized that he didn’t want the mystery of who she was solved so bluntly.

  She was, for some reason he could not understand, the most interesting woman he’d encountered in a very long time.

  He frowned as he recalled a conversation he’d had a few days before with his mother, of whom he was extremely fond, though she would continue to introduce topics he did not wish to discuss.

  “Rowan, I suspect you of putting off marriage indefinitely, as though you have all the time in the world.”

  “Expecting my imminent demise, Mother? ” he’d said with a grin. “There is always Henry.”

  She’d given him a reproving look. “Your brother is fifteen and far from ready to be a duke, should your demise turn out to be imminent. Which, as your mother, I refuse to consider.” Her intelligent brown eyes had softened. “I want to see you happily settled with a good woman.”

  “Hmm, ” he’d said. He’d found with his mother that it was best not to offer actual words in such cases, or she would pounce shrewdly on them and attempt to change his mind.

  “Rowan, ” she’d said quietly. “Most women are not like Maria. She was simply… a mistake.”

  He’d wanted to laugh, though it would have been a nasty sound, so he’d restrained himself. But truer words had never been spoken. He thought it baffling that he hadn’t understood Maria’s true nature until it was too late, because he’d known her all his life.

  He and Maria had been childhood playmates, brought together frequently because of the friendship of their parents. His attachment to her had formed over time as they grew up—and wasn’t that just the sort of attachment everyone said was the best foundation for a life together?

  Everyone, it turned out, had been wrong. It seemed that people you thought you knew quite well, you might in fact not know at all.

  It wasn’t until the week before the wedding that Rowan had found the letter Maria had written to her lover, speaking of the babe she already carried and looking forward to the moment she would meet her lover again, once she was “safely married.”

  Rowan supposed he ought at least to have been happy that she’d broken off their engagement when he’d confronted her. What he’d felt, though, was nothing but relief—and a resolution never to get into a similar situation.

  * * *

  Mr. Fitzwilliam was frowning at the remaining sausage on his plate, and Claire was having a great deal of trouble resisting the urge to be cordial and try to cheer him, despite his blunt manners. Well, really, because of them, considering how she’d grown accustomed to averting others’ displeasure by being warm and accommodating.

  But now that she had gained some distance from home and given herself a chance to think, she was annoyed that she was tempted to smile at him. What she ought to do was get up and leave. She had, actually, had the cowardly urge to bolt when he’d first come into the breakfast room and turned those glaring dark eyes on her. He seemed to occupy an inordinate amount of space in the room, and even as she dabbed composedly at her lips with her napkin, the breadth of his shoulders made something inside her unfurl.

  However disagreeable he might be—he was surely the haughtiest person she’d ever met, and she’d once met an earl—Fitzwilliam was also… manly. And she felt that there was more to him than just his blunt demeanor. She couldn’t have said what exactly, though, and she told herself sternly that it had nothing to do with the visions she kept having of him in his shirtsleeves wielding a blacksmith’s hammer.

  He lifted his eyes and scowled at her, and unexpected warmth crept up the back of her neck. As he reached for a piece of toast, his sleeve strained against his arm, defining the heavy curves of his muscles, and she made herself look down at her plate.

  She was absurdly, considering his scowling and that fact that he seemed to think a grunt was an acceptable conversational response, fascinated by him.

  His eyes really were dark, as they’d looked the night before—not black, but a sharp chocolate brown. His hair was truly black, though—black as Vulcan’s would be, she thought before she could catch herself.

  Stealing a glance at him as he spooned sugar into his coffee, she noticed a small cut on his neck, the kind that her brothers sometimes got from shaving, and she supposed he must be missing his valet. Of course—he was the cousin of a duke and clearly a wealthy gentleman, even if he looked like he could forge a neat horseshoe.

  Louisa entered the room at that moment carrying a fresh pot of coffee, which she put on the table. On her way to the sideboard, she caught Claire’s eye and winked. Claire glared at her. Did Louisa want her to burst into inappropriate laughter, or say the wrong thing and expose their charade?

  “Mrs. Firth,” Fitzwilliam said, not turning to face her as he continued stirring, just as if he were a lofty duke himself, “I should like you to send a message to the local vicar, asking him to find someone suitable to stay here at Foxtail as a chaperone now that I’ve come. It’s not appropriate for Miss Beckett and myself to be here alone.”

  “Of course,” Louisa said, catching Claire’s eye. Fitzwilliam was right about the impropriety of them being there alone. But Claire hardly wanted yet another person living in the house—someone else she’d have to fool as well.

  Louisa finished fiddling with the sideboard and left, but not before giving Claire a meaningful look that she took to mean, “Don’t be nice!”

  “It’s odd,” Mr. Fitzwilliam growled, cutting into the last sausage on his plate—he’d already made three disappear, not that she was counting, “but I heard laughter late into the evening. It was loud enough to keep me awake.”

  Claire busied herself with taking a spoonful of strawberry jam to avoid his gaze. “Laughter? Surely not. Doubtless it was just the dogs. In the stables. One hears them sometimes.”

  “The dogs?” he scoffed. “It was surely women laughing, the way they do at a party.”

  “A party? Here, last night? You were evidently imagining things, sir. Perhaps it was a dream.” Claire was practically squirming with the need to apologize that she and Louisa had kept him awake, but she resisted. Even if she hadn’t been trying to undertake the plan to be not-nice to him, she couldn’t afford to let on that she and Louisa were friendly enough to be laughing together late into the night.

  “I don’t dream,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you,” she replied, experiencing an immediate thrill at being contrary. It was quite exhilarating, actually, not to care about his feelings! “None of us can avoid them, whether we want to dream or not.”

  “Then it must have been you and Mrs. Firth laughing.”

  She nearly choked on her toast, but she somehow managed to force it down. “What an idea.”

  “Is it so preposterous?”

  She just smiled and left his words hanging there.

  “The butter,” he said a few moments later, motioning with his chin as he took some more toast from th
e platter between them. It was ridiculous how much she liked the deep sound of his voice, especially when he was being so boorish. “Please,” he tacked on as she hesitated.

  “No,” she began, then laughed as his eyebrows slammed downward. “I mean, of course.” She passed him the dish of butter, and he accepted with a cocked eyebrow.

  “It seems strange, Miss Beckett, that no one in my family has ever mentioned yours.”

  “Well, no one in my family has ever mentioned yours either.” That was even true!

  “Hmmph. My mother is quite interested in family,” he growled, “and she ought to have mentioned you.”

  “Perhaps she did, and you forgot.” She gestured at his neck, where a small spot of blood had appeared on his crisp white cravat. “I think you may have cut yourself a little.”

  His brows drew together, as if he was annoyed that his neck had dared to bleed. “It’s nothing. Tell me, have you seen the duke lately?”

  Pasting a sincere look on her face, she tried not to think about the wages of lying. “Not for some time. And you?”

  “Oh... not since I was a child,” he said. “Precisely how long do you mean by ‘some time’?”

  Clearly he was on to her vagueness. But by his own admission, he hadn’t seen the duke for years, so surely she could make up something to give substance to her claim to having met the duke? “Oh, a year or so.”

  “And how did you find him? Is he very handsome?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “Well, honestly, he’s a thin, fragile, bald man—you know the type. Probably eats kippers for breakfast.”

  “What’s wrong with kippers?” he growled. Didn’t he ever get tired of growling? “I like them for breakfast.”

  “They smell terrible. And they give you kipper breath. I’ll wager no one can stand you when you eat them.”

  He blinked, as though no one had ever suggested to him that he might be unappealing in any way. “I always brush my teeth. And no one has ever objected to my kipper consumption.”

  She laughed. “Not that you know of.”

  He cleared his throat. “You will accompany me today on a tour of the estate, Miss Beckett. Our cousin has charged me to look into the old model village in the woods, which was built years ago for some ladies of the family and has been neglected all this time. It’s called Trethillin. I’m certain our cousin would wish to have your opinion on… any improvements needed there.”

  She almost wanted to say yes, but that would be a foolish thing to do for so many reasons, starting with the foolishness of being attracted to such a powerful man. Because she was. Her fingers itched to explore his unruly black hair, to smooth over the hard lines of his mouth and ramble over the muscles that bunched under his coat sleeves.

  A jumble of unmaidenly thoughts assailed her, of naked bodies and rumpled sheets—surely the result of those wayward ideas about the sweating god Vulcan at his work. Had she lost her mind? A powerful, commanding man like Fitzwilliam was the last kind of man she ought to spend time with.

  Maybe she did need to be looking for a husband—and in truth she had to agree with Louisa that it was probably her best plan for the future—but she needed a reasonable man like Mr. Rutledge, not some rough god who bent mortals to his will.

  “No,” she said. Her reflex was to add “thank you,” but his words hadn’t been an invitation.

  “No?” he repeated, obviously taken aback by her bluntness.

  “Exactly,” she said, though she was actually a little curious about this Trethillin place. But she couldn’t acquiesce to his attempt to dominate her. He stared, as though waiting for her to provide an excuse for her refusal, or to soften it, but she managed not to do so. Instead, she took a sip of her tea, replaced the cup in the saucer, and stood.

  “Is it your policy, Miss Beckett, to answer ‘no’ whenever you are asked anything?”

  “No.” She smiled, quite enjoying herself. “Good day, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I hope you have a pleasant time touring the estate. It is quite fine.”

  “Just a minute, Miss Beckett,” he said, standing as well and moving closer. “What are your plans for the day?”

  “Fortunately, I don’t need your permission to go about my own business, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I can’t imagine what’s given you the impression that I do.”

  As she turned to go, she thought she caught a glimpse of his lips twitching in begrudging amusement, but surely she was wrong.

  In the corridor at the top of the stairs, Louisa intercepted her. They both glanced around to make certain no one was about, since they couldn’t afford for anyone to notice that they were especially friendly with each other.

  With a grim expression, Louisa handed Claire an envelope that was addressed to Louisa in a familiar hand. “This came for me a few minutes ago.”

  Claire recognized her brother Stephen’s handwriting, and her stomach dropped. “How could he know I’m here? Oh God, does the whole family know?”

  “He writes that he knows you didn’t go to Aunt Mary’s because he stopped by there on his way home from a trip, and she said there’d been a change of plans. He thought it odd, but when he later stopped at the Loxford village inn, the innkeeper asked after you, saying how you’d taken the mail coach south. When Stephen heard that your father had announced his plans for you to marry the baron, he guessed you’d found it a bit of a shock and might have come to me.”

  “Stephen always was my favorite brother,” Claire said.

  “You may feel less charitable toward him after you finish reading.” Louisa pointed to a section of the letter.

  If Claire is with you —well, I can suppose that she’s nervous about marrying Haight. I haven’t said anything to the family yet about her not being at Aunt Mary ’s, but the thing is, the baron means to pay for the wedding and take Claire on without a dowry. So Papa has already begun spending the money he set aside for her dowry on repairs to the manor.

  Claire gasped. “Papa is all but selling me to The Haight!”

  Horror and disgust and a profound sense of betrayal washed over Claire, and she sank against the wall behind her. Apparently she was nothing to her family but a bargaining chip.

  “I could wish Stephen hadn’t written this, clearly urging you to come home and marry The Haight,” Louisa said, her voice tight with emotion. “I could wish that he’d told your father that you were not to be bargained away to a disgusting old man.”

  “Yes,” Claire said, still reeling. “Though I suppose Stephen thinks he wouldn’t be able to do any good. Papa and my brothers never agree on anything anymore.”

  “Still, if they all insisted together on what a mistake it’d be—”

  Claire shook her head slowly, forcing herself to accept the full truth of her situation. “Papa would just dig his heels in. The more anyone opposes him, the more he resists. No, I must simply do as you and I discussed: I must find my own husband as soon as possible.”

  “Ah,” Louisa said slowly. “So you will set your sights on Mr. Rutledge, then?”

  Claire nodded once, firmly, and straightened her spine. “Mr. Rutledge. Now, if you could find me a pen and paper, I’ll send a note back to Stephen.”

  “What if I wrote and said I haven’t seen you?”

  “Stephen would just worry and tell Papa I’m missing, and there’d be a grand hunt for me. They’d be bound to find me.”

  “But how will you keep Stephen from telling them that you’re here? Or coming to fetch you?”

  A crafty tilt pulled at the edges of Claire’s mouth. “I didn’t say I’d tell him everything. I’ll write and tell him not to worry, and that I came to you because I needed a last time with my dearest friend before marrying. All of which is true.”

  Louisa quickly found writing supplies, and Claire penned her note.

  Reading over Claire’s shoulder, Louisa said, “He might not find that an entirely satisfying reply.”

  Claire added, I’ll be home in good time.

  “Which could mean anything,�
� Louisa said approvingly as she rang for a maid to take the note.

  “It will buy me some time, because he won’t expect me not to cooperate as I always have.”

  As Louisa watched Claire seal the envelope, a calculating look came over her face. “What about Fitzwilliam? Just think how wonderful it would be if you married a duke’s cousin! And you can’t deny there’s something excitingly potent about the man.”

  Claire treated Louisa to a look of profound incredulity, even though the suggestion gave her an excited shiver. “Have you taken leave of your senses? I’ve done nothing but lie to the man since I met him. What would happen when he found out I’m not the duke’s cousin? Besides, he’s the most grouchy gentleman I’ve ever met.”

  “Is he, though? I know he’s been gruff—”

  “Gruff? He keeps trying to order me about! Clearly the man expects to be obeyed.”

  Louisa cocked her head. “And have you cooperated at all?”

  “No,” Claire said, and then smiled, pleased with herself. “I’ve done rather well with the contrariness plan, haven’t I?”

  Louisa nodded, but she seemed distracted. “How does he respond when you say no?”

  “When I declined to go to the model village with him, he demanded to know what I was doing with my day!” Claire reported, enjoying her outrage. “Of course I refused to say.”

  “And quite rightly,” Louisa said. “Did he seem very angry?”

  Claire considered. “No. But he was annoyed that I’d thwarted him.”

  “Ah,” Louisa said.

  “What do you mean, ‘Ah’?” Claire demanded as a smug expression curled Louisa’s lips.

  “You had a dispute, and there was no disaster, right? He didn’t do anything that scared you, right?”

  “Well… no.”

  “See?” Louisa said, as though she was making sense. “You both expressed your opinions, even if the other one didn’t like it.”

  “I thought the plan was simply for me to be difficult.”

  “And you have apparently excelled at that. And advanced nicely toward a proper argument.”