by Darcy Burke
Quince finally admitted to himself that he was, in fact, relieved that she was home.
Sabre sent all of the maids away and sank down into the warm water, wrapping her arms around herself and leaning her forehead on her drawn-up knees. Robert had blindfolded her before leading her out of the house she had been held in. Then he and his men, men she hadn't recognized, had left her in the woods after ensuring her horse did, in fact, have a stone in his shoe. That last part was a bit cruel, she thought. She had tried to dig it out with her hatpin but was afraid of causing the animal more pain than good and had given up. With the stone in the gelding's shoe she had only walked a bit, not nearly as far as she had pretended in order to account for her absence. While walking she had practiced in her mind what she would say when arriving back to Belle Fleur. It had to be believable and she needed to seem distraught enough that they wouldn't question her too closely.
Then he had walked into the foyer and she actually had felt distraught. Terribly so. Until that moment she hadn't even realized that her confrontation with Robert bothered her. Robert was just being Robert. Controlling and manipulative. She loved her brother, but as she had grown older she had come to know his flaws. She worried that she shared many of them. But if she was honest with herself, Robert had scared her this time. Her abductor had pulled her from her horse and covered her head with a black sack. She had struggled and fought, but with the close air inside the bag she had passed out after a few minutes. Then to awaken tied to a chair in a cellar? Under those circumstances finding her brother there had only added to her unease. She might try to talk her way around a common cutthroat, try to trick or beguile a thug, but Robert? No, her brother was more than her match.
She believed Robert cared about her, and it seemed obvious to her that he was as, or even more, interested in keeping her away from the duke rather than the reverse. It made her wonder what sort of trouble the duke might be in and how, exactly, it had occurred to Robert to use her to advance his own aims. Or what those aims might be.
But those few moments in the hallway, when she hadn't been able to control herself and had flung herself into the duke's arms? She had felt uncharacteristically comforted. Safe. In a way that perhaps she never had before. Her friends had certainly always been a comfort to her. And her brother Charlie. But something always made her push them away. To insist she could do everything on her own. But the duke... he didn't seem bent on telling her what she should do. He wasn't patronizing or judgmental. At least he hadn't been with her. She sniffled. Perhaps she was just being maudlin and reading more into the situation than it warranted. Perhaps the duke didn't care about her at all, making it quite easy to keep from telling her what to do. It seemed a bit more likely that she was just a lonely girl crying in a bathtub, wishing someone cared about her.
She finally pulled herself together and finished her bath. Returning to her room she found a note that made her heart leap.
If you would care for company we could dine in the north sitting room.
- Q
Smiling, she rang for her maid and sent a reply for him to read while she dressed.
That sounds lovely, but wouldn't it have been easier if I were still in the adjoining room?
- S
She was, she thought, even closer to being a duchess than she had realized.
Quince drummed his fingers on the small, round table in the sitting room that would serve as their dining room table this evening. He wasn't usually an impatient man but he could feel that he was on edge now. Too many pressures building up, both large and small. And he imagined Miss Bittlesworth was taking her sweet time arriving just to put a point upon the idea that if she had still been in the duchess's quarters she could have arrived sooner.
The light outside had gone to dusk but the sitting room was lit up with enough candles to hold a ball. The double doors to the hallway were wide open, the hallway lit as well. When he first saw her she was hurrying, almost running in her haste. Then she saw him and slowed her gait. He felt his heart race at the sight of her. What he thought had been general impatience was clearly just a need to see her, as his attention focused almost acutely. He rose to wait for her.
For a moment he thought she was wearing that dress again. The red one that had so distracted him when they met. But this one was darker, more modestly cut. If the previous gown had made her look a courtesan, this one made her look, he conceded, like a duchess. And he supposed that was exactly what she wanted it to convey. Women were transparent in their desire to marry up and he couldn't blame her for that. If she weren’t Bittlesworth's daughter he would consider it. He might more than consider it.
As she entered the room she smiled and held her hands out to him. "Thank you, your grace, for understanding that I would like some company, if not the formality of a meal in the dining room."
He bowed over her hand and kissed it. "You've had a tiring day."
She seemed loathe to release his hands and as he enjoyed the feel of her fingers clasped in his own, he did not pull away either.
Havers' voice gently intruded. "Would you like for me to serve, your grace?"
"Yes," Quince answered automatically, still not taking his eyes off her. The butler and footmen organized the table and pulled out chairs for the duke and his guest. Quince finally released her after seeing that she was properly seated. He watched her as she settled into her seat, smoothing her skirts and fidgeting with the silverware.
"What?" she asked, smiling and looking at him from under her lashes.
"Nothing," he answered, but still didn't look away. She riveted him. Like a living, breathing painting that he couldn't get enough of studying. This evening she had pinned her hair up, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck and jaw. The curls were not in evidence so they must be more artifice than natural. The candlelight softened her features, lending her a gentleness that he hadn't previously noticed. She seemed more reticent than usual, but he supposed it was her tiring day of hiking around the countryside.
After the wine was poured he asked, "Are your rooms comfortable?"
She nodded. "Indeed. It's a beautiful estate."
"Thank you. Keeping Belle Fleur was one of my few vanities."
She gave him a confused look. “What does that mean, your grace?”
"For all that you lived in Giddy's pockets for a fortnight he didn't speak of me?"
At that she rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, they spoke of you."
Quince couldn't help the burst of laughter. "Then what did they say that earned your disdain?"
"They made you sound boring and saintly."
"Boring and saintly?" he mused. "When you add poor to that list it does make me sound rather like a vicar."
"Poor?" she asked, looking around the room.
"Perhaps not compared to most, but for a duke? I am veritably in the poor house."
"But..." she trailed off, obviously at a loss.
"Worry not. Gideon has taken it on as his mission to ensure that all is straightened out."
"I thought... I thought that you and earl had been at odds for some time."
Quince smiled. "If you think something like a political feud would keep Gideon Wolfe from helping his friends then I submit that you don't know him."
"That's very odd."
"There are some weeks where we spend all Monday shouting at each other across the House, but on Friday he still pesters my man of business to review the books. Perhaps some weeks he won't talk to me, but he will always talk to my man of business."
"Why do you even let him have such access to your accounts?"
"Why wouldn't I? I detest paperwork. Gideon loves it."
She looked puzzled.
"I've disappointed you now, haven't I?"
"I'm just confused over why you wouldn't want to have control over your own interests."
He shrugged. "Ultimately I do."
"If I were you, I wouldn't be satisfied with that."
He tapped his finger on his wineglass. "Yes
, I think we may not be much alike, you and I."'
"How boring would the world be if everyone were alike?"
Quince smiled, finding himself amused by her observation.
"Do you need me to look at your papers?" she pressed.
He cocked a brow at her. "What would you do with them?"
"That depends on what I find in them. But certainly some attention to the goings-on of your estates is better than none."
Quince waved a hand. "I have men for that."
"And the earl is their only oversight?"
"Why does this bother you so?"
"I'm hopeful that it bothers you."
"Not in the least."
She frowned. "You want to complain that you're poor, but you don't want to do anything about it?"
"Why do you think I'm not doing anything about it?"
"It seems evident. Do you have any idea how much the candles burning in this room cost?"
"Do you?"
She scanned the room, turning in her chair to see all of the candles that were burning. "Four pounds, provided that you burn them all down tonight."
"Your talents run to pricing candles?"
"I was raised to run a household. Awareness of household expenses is a key component of that."
"Somehow I doubt that a viscount's daughter will need to run a household that scrimps on candlewax."
She gave him a speaking look. "Well, I suppose one never knows."
"I share these insights about my financial condition so that you may know how unsuitable a match that I am."
"As though I couldn't figure that out for myself?"'
"You seem a bit slow on the subject, yes."
"You think that's why I'm still here, to convince you of the suitability of our match?"
"I know that's why you're still here."
"Really? It couldn't be, as I originally said, to help you?"
"There has been nothing said on that front for three full days. Certainly you would have tired of waiting and taken yourself elsewhere by now if that were your only goal."
"I thought you needed time to decide if you trusted me before you would share your issue with me."
"And why should I trust you?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
That was the question. She was Bittlesworth's daughter, but seemed to have no particular affinity for her sire. And she was Jack's best friend. Perhaps he could trust her. But she was still holding something back of herself. He could sense it.
She fidgeted. "You're staring at me again."
"My apologies."
"Where do you go when you look like that?"
"Go?"
"You're obviously not fully here, but somewhere in your mind."
"I was just thinking about why I shouldn't trust you."
"It was a rhetorical question."
He smiled and took another sip of wine. "Even rhetorical questions should be entertained for their potential truth."
"And what potential truth might that be?"
"I shouldn't trust you because you're keeping something from me."
THIRTEEN
Sabre set her wine down. "What makes you say that?"
The duke shrugged. "Just a feeling I have."
"Is that how you run your duchy, then? On feelings?"
"Primarily."
"That's ridiculous."
He shrugged again. "Be that as it may, I feel we are at an impasse."
"Do you want me to tell you my entire life history in hopes of uncovering what is giving you this feeling?"
"No. Whatever it is, it's bothering you. Otherwise I wouldn't be aware of it."
Sabre paused. Was the duke as keen an observer as she knew herself to be? It was hard to feature since he was often not paying any attention at all. But he seemed quite confident in his assertion. She quickly thought through her options. "Well," she said, "it is true that my goal is to be your duchess."
He was quiet for a long time, absently swirling the wine in his glass as he looked at her. "That's unfortunate," he finally said.
His choice of words made her choke out a laugh. "Unfortunate? In what way is that unfortunate?"
"You're a lovely woman of many fine qualities. But I will never marry Blaise Bittlesworth's daughter."
The duke used such a tone of finality that for just a moment Sabre faltered. But, she reminded herself, she always persevered and won out in the end. This would be no different. "Well," she said. "I suppose we will see about that."
He smiled at that, gazing at her as though he was considering something. "I suppose we will," he said.
He turned his attention to cutting his roast and the conversation flagged for a moment. Sabre was contemplating what general topic to converse on when he spoke again.
"I went to see your brother because I'm being blackmailed."
She was surprised, both at his revelation and the fact that he'd shared it, but tried not so show it. "I see I'm not the only one uninformed about your poverty."
"Not over money. Over papers they believe I have."
"That you do not?"
At that he paused to stare at the dark windows. "No," he said quietly. "I don't believe that I do."
"Based on your interest in paperwork I have a hard time believing you know that conclusively."
Her acerbic comment brought his attention back to her. His habit of looking at her intently was becoming unsettling. "Here is a thing I wonder," he said.
"What?"
"How did you and Giddy spend a fortnight together without killing each other?”
Sabre flashed a knowing smile. "My incredible forbearance."
"Yes, I'm quite sure that was it," the duke said drily.
"What papers do they believe you have?"
"Something of my father's. Unfortunately they were not specific enough for me to be sure what the papers might be about."
"Was this threat in a letter then?"
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
"That's not possible."
"Why?"
"I burned it."
"You... Why did you burn it?"
"It is one thing for a duke to be blackmailed. It is quite another for it to be known that a duke is being blackmailed."
"Well, what did it say?"
The duke stared at her again for a bit. Finally he said, "It simply said 'It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. I will give you a fortnight to gather them.'"
"What did he threaten?"
"I would rather not discuss it."
"How am I supposed to help you if you won't share the details with me? Did you tell Robert all the details?"
"I did share the full text with Robert. He has a bit more of a reputation with this sort of issue than you do."
"You have no idea about my reputation."
He raised one golden brow. "Since you don't balk at eating alone with a man in his quarters I can only imagine."
"Not with just any man. With a duke."
"I see. So at least you have standards."
She sniffed. "I was far more impressed with your fighting skill than your title, if you must know."
"Your skill was impressive as well."
"Thank you very much. I will admit to being confused that you do not appear to be practicing. Certainly you don't go more than a few days in order to maintain your proficiency."
He smiled. "Sometimes more than a few days. But yes, I do practice often."
"As do I. Perhaps, as I said before, we could practice together."
"Perhaps."
Perhaps was better than no. Sabre realized that with the wine, food, and company that she was finally recovering from her confrontation with Robert. What would the duke do, she wondered, if she told him about her morning? Would he remain as placid as he typically seemed to be? Would he demand that she leave because there was obviously more afoot with her brother? She had yet to fully deduce what motivated the d
uke. He did not appear to fit the mold of anyone she had known before.
His voice called her back from her distraction. "Shall we snuff some of the candles and save the duchy's coffers for another extravagance?"
Thinking that it was a gently placed ducal command, Sabre rose to do his bidding. However, the duke rose as well.
"I could ring for a servant, your grace," Sabre said.
"No need." The duke shook his head. "It becomes tiresome having someone hover over you."
Once they had both located snuffers they began dousing the lights in the room
"How long has it been since you received that letter, your grace?"
"Almost a fortnight."
"Oh!" Sabre said, pausing in her work. "You could receive the second letter any day."
"I already have."
"What does it say?"
Now the duke paused. "I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I haven't read it."
Sabre was fairly sure she stood there with her mouth open for a full minute. "How could you not have read it?"
"How will reading it help me? I don't have the papers. I have no clue as to what the papers are or where they would be."
"But... if you don't read it then you have no additional clues whatsoever!"
The look the duke directed at her was nothing short of obstinate. Well, she knew how to deal with that. She walked over and put a hand on his arm, schooled her mouth into a sympathetic moue, and said in her most compassionate tone, "I'm only concerned that you be able to navigate this, your grace."
Rather than look mollified he seemed intrigued. The last time she had seen such a keen eye turned on a subject was the summer George had become enamored of bugs. The entire hot, disgusting summer every time they came across a fallen log her friend had turned it over and dug around, investigating every crawling, rolling, flying insect she could find. It had been disturbing. But far more disturbing was the intense silence as the duke stared at her.