The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” she said evenly. “I merely meant that something dramatic must have happened to change your opinion of the canal so completely.”

  Attwood huffed and snapped his fingers at the servant with the wine. “I daresay it wouldn’t concern you much, if it had.”

  Charlie saw the flush of color come up in her face. She was quite a beauty when she blushed, even though it meant she was working up a head of fury. “On the contrary, sir,” he said lazily. “The lady is considering a rather large investment in the canal. Surely it behooves you to explain your statement, particularly since you made it in the presence of two of the canal’s directors. You must admit it’s curious.”

  Attwood’s eyes narrowed on Charlie. “Ladies don’t invest! God’s breath, man, you can’t say you support this?”

  “Now, Sir Gregory,” interjected Scott. “Mrs. Neville is here on behalf of her brother, Lord Marchmont.”

  Attwood remained sullen. “Then he ought to be here himself. What sort of man sends a woman to make his decisions for him?”

  Mrs. Neville was staring at him with loathing in her gaze. The flush had confined itself to two bright spots in her cheeks. “My brother values my judgment of such things, sir.”

  “Damned fool him.” Attwood poked his finger at Scott. “And you, too, Scott, for encouraging this nonsense.”

  “You haven’t said what changed your mind about the canal,” said Charlie. He leaned back in his chair and tossed back some more wine. “Was it just a whim, Sir Gregory? You seem inclined to quick judgments.”

  The older man’s face turned purple. “As if you would know the first thing about canals, you London popinjay!”

  Charlie bared his teeth in a smile. “Instruct me, then. I’ve already learned far more from Mrs. Neville than from anything Mr. Scott has told me.” He waved one hand as Scott drew breath to speak. “Not now, Scott.”

  Attwood glanced from man to man. His lips pressed together. “I don’t have to explain myself.”

  “No, you have every right to make yourself out to be impulsive and bad-tempered,” said Mrs. Neville under her breath, yet loudly enough to be heard by everyone.

  “Impulsive!” Attwood sputtered. “How dare you!”

  “Was it carefully considered, then?” Her eyes flashed with that fury Charlie had sensed earlier, but she kept her frosty calm steady. “I wonder you could stand to sit at the same table with men who mislead you into a foolish investment.” Attwood gaped at her in shocked fury, but she just raised her eyebrows. “Either you were duped in the first place, you took the money for the cut across your land out of pure greed, or you’ve discovered new information about the canal that reasonably changed your mind and made you regret your investment. Which is it?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Neville!” Scott cried.

  “This is unseemly,” said Tallboys through thin lips.

  “Where is the fault in my logic?” she fired back. Charlie could only watch in awe, his mind blunted by the rather large quantity of wine he’d consumed. She was magnificent, like the Archangel Uriel. If she’d had a flaming sword in her hand, he had no doubt Attwood, and perhaps Tallboys as well, would be missing his head by now.

  “This was not intended to be a business meeting,” pleaded Scott. “Can we not return to more cordial topics?”

  She turned on him. “I would only dine with you upon business matters, Mr. Scott.”

  The man flushed under the rebuke, but Tallboys was the one who replied. “Madam, we have been most accommodating. I wonder at your insistence on pursuing all hints of displeasure. Perhaps your interest in the canal isn’t genuine.”

  “So you fear what Sir Gregory might say?” she asked. “You must wonder why he just told Lord Gresham not to invest—unless you already know his complaint.”

  “Sir Gregory spoke in jest,” said Mr. Scott hastily. “He keeps us on our toes, don’t you, sir?” He bent a significant look on the man in question. Attwood scowled in reply, but grumbled something vaguely agreeable.

  Belatedly Charlie realized Scott was right. Attwood was a bit of a troublemaker, but he was also an important part of Scott’s plans. The canal ran through his property, which made him a shareholder and thus gave him power over Scott. Attwood could wheedle what he wanted from Scott by being a constant burr in the man’s side, even denigrating the canal to potential investors. Chances were, Attwood was merely trying the same tonight, and in a company of gentlemen, over a great deal more wine and cigars, he would have backed off his charge, mentioned his petty grievance, and Scott would have been pleased to demonstrate his efficiency—for Charlie’s benefit—by solving it.

  But Tessa Neville didn’t think that way. She was logical and focused, and the glass at her place was largely untouched.

  “No doubt Sir Gregory will find a way that Mr. Scott can help him,” Charlie said. “That’s what you do, isn’t it, Scott?” He got to his feet. The room swung rather wildly for a moment, and he leaned one hand on the table, regretting the last few glasses of wine. He’d lost his head for liquor out here in the wilderness. “I feel in need of some fresh air. Mrs. Neville, may I escort you back to your inn?”

  Hiram Scott was already nodding, leaping to his feet as if he, too, was anxious to leave. “Indeed! The hour’s grown quite late, I must be off. Tallboys, are you staying the night here?”

  The flush had suffused Tessa Neville’s face. “Is that your answer to me, sir? You doubt my interest in this canal?”

  “I’m sure Tallboys doesn’t know what he doubts now, after this excellent Madeira,” said Charlie. Tallboys was looking at her with dislike, and he might have been drunk enough to say something even ruder than he already had. “Scott, thank you for the illuminating evening. Attwood, Tallboys, a pleasure.” He made a vague bow toward them. “And Mr. Lester,” he added, catching sight of the engineer, sitting with his shoulders hunched in misery. “Good night, sir.”

  “Good evening, sir,” called Scott with obvious relief as Charlie took Mrs. Neville by the arm before forcefully escorting her from the room. She didn’t protest until they reached the main hall of the inn, while the servant rushed off to gather her cloak and Charlie’s coat.

  “How dare they,” she finally said through her teeth. “I am not a child to be bullied about! They should go bankrupt for treating any investor that way!”

  Charlie glanced at the eavesdropping crowd in the taproom. “Of course they should.” He pushed open the door of the small parlor behind him and pulled her into the room. “But they’re idiots, Tessa.”

  “I have every right to ask questions, especially when Sir Gregory says such provoking things!” she continued in a lather. “What did you call me?”

  “Tessa,” he answered. “But look here—Attwood’s being an ass in order to get something from Scott. He wasn’t trying to insult you, he just . . .”

  “Belittles women out of habit?” She made a sharp motion with one hand. “I didn’t give you leave to call me by name.”

  “But I like your name,” he said softly, the wine flowing warm and hazy through his blood and trampling all caution into oblivion. “Ignore Attwood.”

  She took a deep breath. “I could,” she said. “But I cannot ignore Mr. Tallboys’s complete dismissal of my concerns! And you should not call me by name.”

  Charlie nodded. Part of his brain acknowledged she was right, and justifiably irate. The other part of him had already forgotten Scott and Tallboys and Attwood, and could only see how very luminous her skin was in the low light of the single lamp. How her hair seemed to be tempting his fingers to touch it. How strongly he wanted to feel her arms around his neck, and discover what sort of sigh she would make if she were kissed. If he kissed her.

  “You see, it’s like this,” he began, and then he stopped, mesmerized by the way her eyes flashed and her chin tipped up so boldly toward him. When had he fallen so
hard for her?

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, and leaned down and kissed her.

  She jumped and made a muffled squeak, but Charlie already had his arm around her waist, drawing her against him. He threaded one hand into her gleaming curls and brushed his lips against hers, “Tessa,” he murmured. “Darling. My God, Tessa . . .”

  For a heartbeat she was still. Then, with a soft sigh of capitulation, she wound her arms around his neck and pressed against him, kissing him back as hungrily as she did in his dreams. For the span of a few minutes time seemed to stop for Charlie. She was heat and passion and perfectly female in his arms, not a prudish, cold creature, not a dried-up widow, but a woman who felt the same desires he did. And for those few minutes nothing else in the world mattered but her.

  The tap at the door broke the spell. He lifted his head and looked down at Tessa, feeling oddly as though he’d been knocked in the head and yet now thought more clearly than ever. She blinked at him, her eyes soft and starry for a moment, before the servant with their cloaks tapped again. With a gasp she stepped back, out of his arms, and turned away. “Yes,” she said in a strained voice. “Come.”

  The serving wench brought in her cloak. Tessa swirled it around her shoulders before he could take it, and she wouldn’t look at him as she tied the fastenings. Feeling more sober by the moment, Charlie put on his own coat and motioned the wench from the room.

  “Well, this has been an exceptional evening,” Tessa said unevenly. She pulled up her hood, hiding her expression from him. “Mrs. Bates will be waiting up for me. Good night, sir.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. He wanted to kiss her again. “I’ll call on you tomorrow . . .”

  “No!” She recoiled from his extended hand. “I’m going now. Good night.”

  “Let me escort you to your door, at least,” he tried to say, but she gave him a single alarmed glance.

  “No. Leave me in peace!” She turned and hurried out the door and out of the inn, her head held valiantly high even though she was almost running.

  Charlie cursed under his breath. He couldn’t let her walk back alone. Keeping well back, he followed her through the streets just until he saw her duck safely back into The Golden Hind.

  Grimly, he turned back toward The Bear, where his horse and gig were stabled. He wished he’d never agreed to attend that miserable dinner. He wished he hadn’t drunk half a barrel of wine. He wished he’d shot Hiram Scott the first day he arrived in Frome. He wished he’d kept his head and not kissed her. He wished he hadn’t let her go, no matter who knocked upon the door.

  He stalked around another corner, and almost collided with a man coming the other way.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” mumbled the man, stepping aside and snatching off his cap. It was Lester, the engineer who had been tense and quiet all evening.

  On some impulse, Charlie stopped. “What the devil is Scott hiding?”

  Lester said nothing. The guilt stamped on his face told all. Charlie gave a predatory smile, casting off restraint and scruples. “Let me buy you a drink, Mr. Lester.”

  Chapter 12

  Early next morning Tessa gathered her mortified dignity around her like a suit of chain mail and sent off a peremptory letter to Mr. Scott, telling him that if he didn’t have the account books ready for her examination by the next day, she would understand that he did not mean to show them to her and she would return to London to tell her brother not to invest. It was the sort of note that would send Louise into the vapors, brutally direct and abrupt without the slightest hint of tact, but Tessa was beyond caring. She almost hoped Scott put her off again; it would give her an excuse to leave Frome without admitting defeat of any kind.

  But this unvarnished demand worked wonders on the man. Within an hour she received his reply, apologizing profusely for the delay and inviting her to visit the ironworks at her convenience, where the books lay ready and waiting. Somewhat mollified, Tessa decided to take him up on it and instead of sending her answer, dressed to go to Mells herself.

  “Ought you to tell His Lordship?” ventured Eugenie, watching her tie on her bonnet.

  “Why?” Tessa kept her eyes on the mirror. She’d told Eugenie almost nothing of the horrible dinner, just that it had been unpleasant and a waste of time. Then she’d gone straight to bed to forestall any more questions, especially about Lord Gresham or why he hadn’t walked her back. No one needed to hear about that. If she could have purged it from her memory, she would have, especially that last intoxicating, treacherous moment.

  “Well, dear, he might accompany you . . .” The older woman’s voice died away as Tessa turned a sharp look on her.

  “I don’t need an escort. I don’t need to be driven when I can drive myself, at my own convenience. And if he wishes to examine the books himself,” she added as Eugenie’s face brightened and her mouth opened, “he is welcome to visit at any time.” Welcome indeed; Hiram Scott would leap from his bed in the dead of night to show Lord Gresham anything he wanted to see at the canal, from the account books to the privy pits.

  Eugenie’s face fell. “Whatever happened, Tessa dear? You made no effort to keep your actions from him earlier.”

  Her face burned. “Nor did I rely on him to nursemaid me from Frome to Mells! I’m surprised at you, Eugenie, urging me to impose upon the kindness of a busy man.”

  Now Eugenie blushed. “It’s only because I worry about you so,” she argued, following Tessa across the room. “The roads here are so dreadful, you know—you admitted it yourself—and for a woman traveling alone—”

  “Yes, perhaps you are right.” Tessa went into the bedroom and came back out with her loaded pistol in one hand. “I should take this as well.”

  Eugenie made a gasping chirp, recoiling from the weapon. “Oh, dear! Could you really shoot someone?”

  “I could indeed.” She put the pistol into her reticule; the handle stuck out, but in her current mood, she didn’t care. Let everyone in Frome know she was armed. She was a good shot, and felt very capable of shooting someone at the moment.

  Eugenie made a few more despairing noises but didn’t try to stop her. Tessa went downstairs and hired a gig. The innkeeper’s eyes strayed to her pistol but he said nothing. This was the country, after all, not London, and women were generally judged more capable in the country. Or perhaps her expression was warning enough to hold his tongue. The gig was brought around quickly, and she set off.

  Her drive to Mells was uneventful, although it did seem longer than when she had gone with Lord Gresham. As she concentrated on navigating the wretched roads, she tried not to think about His Lordship, but it was impossible. Why must everything remind her of him? Tessa scowled as she reached a particularly twisted length of road, trying not to recall how he had driven so capably over the same stretch just a few days earlier, and how he’d been so charmingly deprecating, telling her he hoped she might eventually consider him merely benign. Benign! As if he weren’t the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

  First she tried to tell herself he’d been drunk, and that was why he kissed her. She had noticed that all the gentlemen last night seemed to drink a good deal, but Gresham outdid them all. It had reminded her that he was a London gentleman, with more decadent tastes and habits than she was used to. But she also had to admit he hadn’t seemed drunk until that last moment, when he looked down at her with that oddest expression—dazed? spellbound? She didn’t even know how to describe it—right before he kissed her.

  Then, Tessa was ashamed to say, the fault had ceased to be his alone. Even though he was drunk and she was shaking with fury at Attwood, the kiss had felt so right, so necessary, she lost all grip on reason and kissed him back. Not chastely, as a decent lady might have excused, but wildly, passionately, even desperately. As if something restrained and pent up inside her had finally burst its banks and overwhelmed her, leaving h
er drowning in nothing but the sharp awareness of his arms around her and his mouth on hers and the way he whispered her name. And once she started kissing him, she didn’t know how she would have ever stopped, if the girl hadn’t knocked on the door.

  No, he was not benign. She had sensed from the beginning that if she ever let him get too close, she would go up in flames for him. She had just never thought immolation would feel so wonderful.

  Mr. Scott seemed to grasp at once that she was not in any temper to be trifled with. He came out to meet her as soon as she arrived, and made no mention of the dinner as he led her inside. “I’ve got the accounts waiting, just as you asked,” he said cordially, as if he hadn’t delayed producing them for over a fortnight. “I’ve had them brought to a quiet room over here; take as long as you need to examine them.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She even smiled at him, although it was probably a frosty smile. It certainly felt stiff and frozen on her lips.

  Then Mr. Scott left her, bowing out of the room with a promise to answer any questions she might have. Tessa settled herself in the chair and opened the first account book, taking a deep breath as the smell of fresh ink and paper hit her. Her nerves began to calm down at last. This was what she was good at; the neat columns of numbers soothed something inside her, and she began to feel more like herself as she studied them. With numbers, she was confident and sure of her competence. The numbers never made her feel a fool. The numbers were steady and sure, telling their story plainly. Numbers could be made to lie and twist the truth, of course, but unlike with men, a close eye could divine the lies and tease out the truth. Numbers, at least, were perfectly benign.

  She spent the rest of the day there, occasionally catching a minor arithmetical error and noting it in the margins. Scott’s clerks weren’t quite as meticulous as they might have been, and the cost of wages had risen slightly more than projected, but overall the picture was very much in line with the prospectus. Scott had even written off the cost of some of the lock gates, which were being made in his own factory; there were small notes indicating they had been late, and so he absorbed their cost. Tessa approved of this show of compromise; one thing she had been particularly alert to was any sign of profiteering. When she closed the books at last, it was with a refreshed spirit of satisfaction. Scott’s canal looked to be as sound as he claimed, and she was relieved that this trip hadn’t been a complete waste of time.