Geek Girls Don't Date Dukes gg-2

by Gina Lamm

  The duke stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out into the darkening night. His silvery hair seemed to glint like the moon he studied so thoroughly. Being careful not to let the expensive china clatter, Leah set the tray down on the table. With the duke’s back turned, she allowed herself a long look at him.

  His fingers were long, pale, perfectly manicured. Leah smiled to herself. Pawpaw had always said you could tell a lot about a man from his hands. Of course, he’d never met anyone like the duke.

  “Ramsey, your timing is impeccable.”

  Leah jumped at the sudden statement.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You have impeccable timing,” the duke repeated, turning toward the room without really looking at her. “If you’d been a moment earlier, that idiot Waterson would have stayed another half hour.”

  “Glad I could help, Your Grace.” Leah bit her lip and sank into a curtsy, wondering if her cheeks were as nuclear red as they felt.

  “Be off with you.”

  She lifted her head in time to see that beautiful smile again. This time, it was accompanied by a mischievous wink. Holy shit, the man was stunning. Age difference? What age difference?

  Quicker than her stunned brain could process, he’d taken his cup of tea and stood by the window again, an enigma of a nobleman looking out into the boundless night.

  Leah left the room, trying like hell to keep her head and to memorize every word he’d said. This was going to turn into an excellent play one day, she just knew it. Or maybe an action-RPG adventure. Or a romantic comedy.

  Shakespeare had nothing on the star-crossedness of Leah and her duke.

  Twelve

  Avery descended the stairs in a fog. Picking up the sack of scraps Cook had left by the door, he slipped out into the now-chilly evening.

  He didn’t bother glancing upward toward the stars as he trudged toward the hounds’ enclosure inside the stables. Even though he’d spent a long time praying for his freedom, he was convinced it would never come.

  And, if he were honest with himself, what man who’d killed his mother deserved a better lot?

  The heavy stable door swung closed behind him. A whinny of greeting sounded from the left side of the room, where the horses were kept, but he didn’t pause there. He continued through the building until he reached a largish pen, filled with about a score of hounds. They jumped up on the fencing, tails wagging in greeting.

  He reached over the gate to pet one of the hounds.

  “Evening, Russell.”

  The sarcastic greeting, slurred from what was likely a bottle of cheap brandy, came from inside the tack room. Avery ignored it and doled out the scraps from the bag to the ravenous greyhounds. The excited yips and barks quieted as the dogs enjoyed their treats.

  Tucking the empty sack into his pocket, Avery turned to leave. With any luck, he’d escape to his training room without further delay. The stable master was hardly one of his allies in the house, and he had no wish to be burdened by a discussion that could have no good effect.

  “Off to the Houndstooth Tourney, I hear.” Lachlan Mackenzie sauntered toward Avery, stumbling ever so slightly.

  With a deep, steadying breath, Avery replied, “As His Grace wishes.”

  Mackenzie spat into the straw at Avery’s feet. Lifting one grizzled eyebrow, the older man smiled mockingly and closed the gap between them. Avery stood his ground, knowing that to back away would be to invite conflict.

  “Well, our lord varlet, how about a demonstration of your talents?”

  The fist flew at Avery’s face without warning. Relying on his years of fighting instincts, Avery ducked, spinning below the drunk man’s blow and throwing his fist upward. His knuckles connected with Mackenzie’s chin with a sharp crack, spittle flying at the force as the stable master stumbled backward and landed on his ass in the straw.

  “You ruddy fool, you’ll pay for that,” Mackenzie slurred. Leaning on the hound pen’s wall, he tried to gain his feet. His legs failed him, buckling beneath him and dumping him at Avery’s feet.

  Avery stared down at the drunken man, keeping his face pointedly blank. “Feel free to try again when you’re not too foxed to walk.” He shook out his hand and turned to walk away.

  “Got your eye on that new maid, don’t you, Russell?”

  Avery whirled at the pointed slur. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

  Mackenzie drew a hand across his mouth, leaving a bright red smear from his split lip. “Saw you walking with her. A pretty piece she is, all golden hair and smiles. She’ll make a good toss. I’ve a mind to show her how ta’ treat a man.” His vulgar laugh echoed against the ceiling beams.

  Avery wasn’t sure how it had happened, but suddenly he had Mackenzie pinned up against the tack room door by the throat. The man’s pale brown eyes bugged out and he gagged, looking for all the world like a desperate toad. Which, Avery reasoned, was not far from the truth.

  “Mark my words, Lachlan Mackenzie: that maid is none of your concern, nor mine. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head about her, or I’ll give you a sound thrashing that you won’t forget for many a fortnight to come. Understand?”

  Mackenzie nodded, feet drumming against the stable door uselessly.

  “Good.”

  Avery let the stable master drop to the ground. Without another word, he left the horses, dogs, and drunkard behind for the relative privacy of his training room.

  He tried like hell to empty his mind of all thoughts of Miss Ramsey as he removed his shirt for his exercise. With the soft light of the lantern, and the thin slivers of moonlight that shone through the high window, he could make out the pile of sand that his attackers had made of his last bag. Removing the mostly-empty sack, he replaced it with another and began the tedious job of scooping the sand into the fabric chute.

  The repetitive motions did nothing to keep thoughts of Miss Ramsey at bay. He must think of something else, anything else.

  His Aunt. Millie. She’d looked especially poor today.

  Avery tightened his jaw as he watched the sand fall into the bag. Half full now.

  The disease had been progressing faster these last few months. Surely the squalid conditions of her surroundings were of no assistance, but what could he do? With his wages from service and his winnings from the tourneys, it was all he could manage to keep her fed and in medicine.

  The medicine.

  He winced as he dropped the scoop back into its pail. The medicine that helped her also made her ill when she took it. But Leah had tried to help, and failing that, Leah had reached for his hand.

  Damn and blast!

  He swung at the bag and smiled inwardly at the stinging satisfaction of his knuckles. Miss Ramsey, not Leah. And she was none of his affair. None at all.

  The bag creaked against the ropes as he pummeled it again.

  His work this night would be most satisfying. He’d exorcise the demons in his head by punishing his body.

  And wasn’t that just what he’d been doing his whole life?

  * * *

  The next day dawned bright and sunny, the perfect weather for a proper British party, Leah thought.

  Well, maybe not the typical British weather, but beautiful anyway.

  Leah tried to keep from yawning as she helped Cook load a basket full of her best scones. Apparently Mrs. Dearborn, the Granville House cook, was better at scone making than the Tunstall Place’s own kitchen mistress. And the dowager demanded the best for her events, as Leah had been reminded, oh, about a billion times since she’d descended the stairs in the pre-dawn hour.

  “Ramsey, tuck that cloth around the scones, and then the footmen can take this basket. Do be careful, girl.”

  Leah wasn’t exactly sure how she could screw this up, but she tucked the cloth carefully anyway. The kitchen around her was a maddening mix of rushing maids and steaming pots, the noise and mayhem almost like opening night of a musical. It was like everyone expected the queen her
self to show up at this rout.

  Leah frowned as she shut the basket. She knew there was a prince regent about now, but was there a queen? She wasn’t sure. Renaissance history she was much clearer on, but nineteenth century? Not so much. She couldn’t remember one being mentioned in any of her favorite books placed during this time. She’d have to ask Avery later.

  “Don’t dawdle, Ramsey, you must hurry. The carriages are leaving in a moment. Take that hamper.” Mrs. Harper’s hands fluttered like deranged hummingbirds as she shooed Leah toward the door.

  Toting the basket, Leah hummed under her breath as she reached the fresh air and sunlight outside. The chaos she’d just left seemed far away, and she took a grateful, cleansing breath. Man, she’d needed that.

  “Good morning, Ramsey.”

  A deep voice behind her made her jump. She turned to find out who’d spoken.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling politely to the stranger. “Do I know you?”

  “No’ yet,” he said in the lightest trace of a brogue. “But I’d like to remedy that. I’m Lachlan Mackenzie, the stable master. May I take your hamper to the carriage?”

  Leah smiled. What a gentleman. Her head tilted in the beginning of a grateful nod when the basket was lifted from her hands.

  “I’ll take it. Get into the carriage.”

  Leah wheeled on Avery, who now held the basket. Around the handle, his scarred knuckles were white with tension.

  “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. Is there a problem?” She glared at him, digging her toe into the gravel.

  He leaned close to her as the Scotsman gave a mocking smile. Avery hissed the words into her ear. “Get into the carriage, and do not argue with me.”

  Mrs. Harper opened the door to the area, stifling Leah’s retort. Ooooh, Avery was so going to freaking get it later. Glowering at him, Leah turned on her heel and half stomped to the plain black carriage that stood waiting outside the area.

  What was Avery’s deal, anyway? The stable master had been nice to her. He definitely hadn’t been as macho-chest-beaty as Avery had. Avery was almost acting possessive of her.

  That thought nearly made her trip on a cobblestone. Avery didn’t feel that way about her, did he? In a fog, she climbed into the carriage and reluctantly took the empty seat beside Henrietta. A knot started in her stomach, tension and nausea combined. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given any indication he was interested in pursuing her. And on that somewhat awkward subject, what was she feeling for him?

  She looked down at her gloved hands. She was here for the duke, wasn’t she?

  “Sara,” Henrietta said loudly. Leah tossed a hard glance sideways at the little devil maid, her bullshit-alarm throwing off some huge signals.

  “Yes, Henrietta?”

  “Did you know that the dowager especially likes it when servants speak with her in a familiar manner?” Henrietta smoothed her skirt nonchalantly. “I am told that she and her scullery maid have a nice little tête–à–tête every evening.”

  Sara’s jaw dropped in clearly overdramatic shock. Leah rolled her eyes.

  “Oh yes,” Sara nodded, her words wooden. She’d clearly practiced this hundreds of times. “The dowager does indeed like it when servants call her by her Christian name, Hyacinth.”

  “Yes. And she is also quite fond of…” Henrietta trailed off as Avery and another footman entered the carriage. Once they were seated and the door closed, the carriage creaked to a start and jounced along the road toward Tunstall Place.

  Well, at least Henrietta and Sara stopped giving me advice that’ll get me skewered by the dowager, Leah thought. Avery sat across from her, looking out the window. She took advantage of the silence to examine him and gauge her reactions. It was almost like a science experiment.

  His hands folded in his lap, his jacket pressed and straight, his hair pulled neatly back into what he called a queue, his face solemn. His hazel eyes, clear and bright as they looked out on the slowly passing streets. His nose was crooked, and she caught herself wondering what had happened to disrupt the straightness. Her skin warmed as she took him in, and something in her chest loosened pleasantly.

  They jounced over a rut, and she realized with a start that she’d been staring at him like he was a half-dressed Chippendale dancer. Heat climbed her cheeks and she looked out the window herself.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  DUKE. She was here for the DUKE. Not for his manservant. Mrs. Knightsbridge had been clear. Well, sort of clear. And Avery had sworn that he was the last person on earth who could be meant for her. So she’d best get her brain in the game and start playing to win.

  The carriage jounced along the busy and crowded streets, the air inside thick with tension.

  Leah picked at the threads on her cloak. This was as awkward as a group blind date.

  The footman beside Avery was checking out Sara, who was staring at the ceiling as if it was printed with the winning lotto numbers. Henrietta glared at Avery as if she could make him disappear for ruining her set-up of Leah’s failure. And Avery stared out the window, a crease marring his forehead.

  Dump them in a big house with some video cameras, and there was reality TV gold right there.

  Fortunately, the carriage ride only lasted about fifteen minutes. They rolled to a stop beside a beautiful manor that looked a lot like Granville House, only not quite as fancy. Avery offered his hand to assist her from the carriage, but Leah ignored it and hopped down to the gravel alone. Sure, it was a childish move, but damn it, he’d acted like a caveman with Lachlan earlier.

  Mrs. Harper, who’d ridden in the first carriage, clapped her hands.

  “Henrietta, Sara, Ramsey, attend me.”

  Why do I get called by my last name? It was a stupid thing to let bother her, but it did. Just another way to keep her separated. She followed the other maids and stood behind them as Mrs. Harper doled out duties for the day.

  The preparations took forever, but they passed by in such a whirl of activity that it was hard to really gauge the passing of time. There were tablecloths to be ironed, flowers to be arranged, china to clean, silver to polish, and enough other things to keep a platoon of Mr. Cleans busy for a good month. But with the army of maids and footmen from both Tunstall Place and Granville House, all of it got done in time for the party.

  “Now,” Mrs. Harper said in an excitedly hushed voice, “we must be ready when the guests arrive. Henrietta, Sara, you remain in the entry hall to assist with hats and coats and the like. Teresa, you can assist with the trays when they’re rung for. Henry, George, do go and help Cook.” She turned to address the butler.

  “Um, Mrs. Harper?” Leah hated to speak, but she was tired of being ignored. She’d been standing there for twenty minutes waiting for her assignment. “Where do you want me?”

  “Oh, anywhere, girl, do find something.” Mrs. Harper dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

  Stung, Leah turned toward the large drawing room that would see the most action. Maybe there was a tablecloth to straighten or a settee to dust or a chamber pot to empty.

  She shuddered. Approaching footsteps made her turn.

  “Miss Ramsey, I have but a moment, but do let me apologize for my behavior toward you this morning.” Avery’s voice was nearly a whisper.

  “What is your problem?” Leah hissed back to him, picking up a vase of flowers and straightening the cloth beneath it. “You act like you don’t give two shits about me and then you treat me like I’m some kind of helpless female who needs you. Which is it?”

  His jaw worked silently for a moment.

  “Russell, you’re needed in the drive. His Grace has arrived,” the Tunstall Place butler called.

  Without another word, Avery gave her a quick look and strode away.

  “Stupid man,” Leah mumbled beneath her breath. She plucked a wilted leaf from a daisy. “What am I saying? They’re all stupid.”

  The guests started to arrive. Backing into a half-hidden c
orner, she pretended to dust some figurines while she soaked in her first glimpse of true London gentility.

  It was like being a guest at William and Kate’s wedding, only without all the tabloid reporters.

  There were beautiful women, wearing insanely decorated hats and beautiful, ornate gowns. The footmen took turns showing the ladies in, one by one. Their escorts, gentlemen dressed in tight breeches and colorful waistcoats, followed, straightening their jackets and laughing with one another.

  Leah sighed with happiness as she pressed up against the half-wall that shielded her. God, this was beautiful. The gowns, the clothes, it was straight out of a dream she’d had in college—the one that almost made her go into theatrical costume design. It was only her inability to survive as the permanent houseguest on someone’s futon that prevented her from chasing that dream all the way to Broadway.

  But here, seeing such opulence firsthand? It brought back the feelings full force, and she happily swam in them.

  Polite chitchat and laughter swirled around Leah as the guests made their way into the sitting room. The other maids and footmen scurried around in the background, but Leah didn’t really pay them any attention. The real show was the lords and ladies, and she intended to enjoy it as much as possible.

  She did until Henrietta, buried under several ladies’ cloaks, shot Leah an evil glance as she passed. Startled, Leah dusted furiously. Whoops. She’d almost forgotten her charade. She’d have to be more careful when the dowager appeared. Speaking of which, where was the esteemed old dragon?

  As if her thoughts had conjured the lady up from the underworld, the woman herself descended the staircase.

  “Wymond, my dear sweet boy,” she crooned in a deep voice that made Leah jump. Holy shit, it was an eighty-year-old Bea Arthur with a British accent. Leah smothered her surprised laugh with a half-choked cough. The dowager was tall, with a long face, pursed lips, and jowls, just like the Golden Girl—down to the mostly-salt-and-barely-pepper hair and everything. But who was Wymond?

  “Mother,” a soft male voice responded.

  When Leah turned to see who had spoken, she dropped the Dresden shepherdess she’d been pretending to dust. The resulting clatter brought everyone’s eyes to her, but she was still staring at the man who stood at the bottom of the staircase.