A Duchess to Remember

by Christina Brooke

  “It was a Herculean task,” Ashburn said. “Your brother was not terribly orderly in his filing methods.”

  “No,” she agreed with a reminiscent smile. “I recall the housekeeper complaining that if an idea came to him, he’d take out his pencil and scribble it down on the nearest available surface, whether it was a piece of foolscap or a napkin.”

  “Your annual linen bill must have been high,” said Rand. “I found several fascinating tablecloths among his notes as well.”

  And he’d burned them all.

  “Fascinating? You understood them?” She did look at him then, with surprise. But before he could form an answer, she said, “How silly of me! Of course you must, or the college would not have requested you to catalog it all.”

  Did he detect a veiled skepticism in her remarks? Perhaps she hadn’t believed him when he told her the reason he’d purchased those notes from Lady Davenport.

  She would be correct, as far as that went. But the truth was far too fantastical for anyone to guess at.

  They worked on in silence for an hour or more before the frequency of Cecily’s yawns told him it was time to call a halt.

  “That is enough for one night, I think,” he said, closing the lid of the trunk he was working on.

  “I suppose you are right,” she said. “I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

  “Here.” He passed her the key to the attic. “This way, you may come and go as you choose. With guests in the house, it might be difficult for me to slip away as much as I’d like.”

  Her eyes widened. Clearly she had not expected such a gesture. Raising her softened gaze to his, she said, “Thank you. I—I’m obliged to you.”

  The sweetness of her expression took his breath away. It cost him all his resolution not to snatch her up in his arms and kiss her again.

  Instead, he decorously took her hand and assisted her to rise. But he did not let her go immediately.

  “It cannot be just me,” he said, looking down at her. “I might be conceited, but I am not blind. Sweetheart, you feel as much desire for me as I feel for you.”

  Cecily looked him full in the eye and her lips parted, as if to refute his statement. But at the last moment, she looked away.

  “I have every intention of marrying Norland next week.” She swallowed hard. “I ought not to have let you kiss me. I apologize if I—”

  “Good God, don’t apologize.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You are bent on ruining all three of our lives, but Heaven forbid you should feel responsible.”

  She gave a quick shake of her head as if to negate his words, to dislodge them.

  He stared at her, trying to fathom what made her hold so steadfastly to this disastrous course. “Why are you so afraid?”

  He knew she prided herself on her courage and daring, so he was unsurprised when his challenge lit a spark in her. The dark eyes flashed. “I am doing the honorable thing, which is more than I can say for you, my lord duke!”

  “Believe me,” he said harshly, “if it were not for my honor and yours, I’d have seduced you ten times over by now. And you would have loved every minute of it.”

  She flushed at his blunt speaking, but she did not shy away. “That is not honor. That is strategy!” she hit back. “I’m well aware of the game you’re playing, Rand. You are trying to breach my defenses by degrees, by stealth and persuasion. I’m like some fortress you’ve vowed to conquer. Well, I hope you’re well provisioned, my lord duke, because it’s going to be a long, cold siege.”

  * * *

  Cecily woke the next morning feeling cross, the heat of her exchange with Rand still burning in her chest.

  She was tempted to avoid Ashburn’s company altogether for the duration of her stay. That would be the wisest course. Now that he had bestowed the key to the attics upon her, there was no reason she needed to seek him out or to speak with him beyond the common civilities. However, she could well imagine his reaction if she made efforts to avoid him. He would accuse her of cowardice. Sadly, he would be right.

  Just because Rand provoked her did not mean she wasn’t madly attracted to him. Just because she would rather poke her eye with a stick than be tied in marriage to such an autocratic, compelling man did not mean he wouldn’t make a devastating lover.

  But no matter how deeply sympathetic she might feel toward him, no matter how much common ground they might find, she was pledged to Norland, and there was an end to it. She was not going to throw that away for the sake of this dangerous passion.

  The best course would be to act toward the Duke of Ashburn with indifference. She would resist his overtures—both the physical kind and the far more dangerous emotional ones. She’d never have so willingly embraced him last night if he hadn’t primed her well beforehand with the story of his parents’ courtship and the tragedy of their deaths. His own aching loss.

  Had that been a calculated move on his part? The notion was a corrosive one; it ate away inside her as she washed and dressed for the day. Surely even Ashburn could not be so cold and manipulative as to play upon her sympathies in such a shameless fashion.

  Her temper was not improved by the steady rain that would deter even the keenest horsewoman from her usual morning ride. Nor did her mood lift when she found her host in the breakfast parlor, partaking of a plate of ham and eggs.

  Ashburn seemed disgustingly cheerful, though she didn’t know quite how she gauged his state of mind. His expression remained as impassive as ever. But there was an air of alertness, almost of jauntiness about his movements that she found deeply suspicious.

  And then she realized that they were not alone. The man currently perusing the spread of steaming silver chafing dishes on the sideboard was her betrothed.

  She could not help but compare the two dukes: one so harshly handsome, debonair, and smoothly dangerous; the other so bland and vague and altogether malleable—except when it came to the Promethean Club.

  Ashburn rose to his feet and bowed. “Lady Cecily.”

  She accorded Ashburn a careless nod. “Do sit down, Your Grace.”

  Norland looked up from the sideboard and waved a serving fork in her general direction. “Ah! There you are, Cecily.”

  Cecily managed a brilliant smile. “Yes. And there you are, Norland. I’m so pleased you are here at last.”

  She moved toward him. “How do you do, sir?”

  Lightly, she touched his arm, giving it a small squeeze in a gesture a betrothed lady might reasonably use toward her fiancé. Norland started as violently as if she’d pinched him, so unexpected was this small token of affection.

  Furious with herself, Cecily avoided Ashburn’s eye. She did not need to look at him to register his amused satisfaction at the failure of her small gambit. Why had she tried to show her preference for Norland in this manner? She’d only made herself look like an idiot.

  Without asking her what she would like, Norland took a fresh plate and absently loaded it with an assortment of hot viands from the chafing dishes and handed it back to her.

  “Thank you.” Cecily blanched a little at the sight of the heaped plate, but she made no comment as she joined Norland and Ashburn at the table.

  She saw Ashburn glance at her plate and lift an eyebrow. Irritation buzzed within her like a fly trapped behind glass. Irritation at Ashburn’s swift, accurate assessment; exasperation at Norland’s overt carelessness. In all of their years of acquaintance, had Norland never noticed she took only a buttered bread roll and a cup of hot chocolate at breakfast? Her stomach turned at the thought of fried food at this hour.

  But now that Ashburn had noticed, she’d have to eat it, wouldn’t she?

  Cecily took a determined bite of black pudding, chewed, and swallowed. Then she slapped a pleasant smile on her face as she addressed her betrothed. “And how was your journey, dear sir?”

  “Tolerable,” said Norland without looking up from his plate. “Though if the rain keeps up like this, the roads will soon be a mire.”

&nb
sp; She wanted to ask him about his detour to Cambridge, but she couldn’t do it in front of Ashburn. That would have to wait.

  “I called on Miss Tibbs and her sister while I was in Cambridge,” added Norland unexpectedly. “Just happened past, you know.”

  “Oh, that was well done of you!” said Cecily, a little guilty that she’d not thought to visit her companion herself. But it had been less than a week since Tibby left, after all, and Cecily had other things on her mind.

  “If I’d known, I would have sent a basket with you,” she said. “How did you find Tibby, Norland? Is she well?”

  He set down his plate and pulled at his chin as if the query warranted deep cogitation. “I rather thought her spirits somewhat depressed,” he said finally.

  “Oh, no! I am sorry to hear that.” On a note of explanation, Cecily said to Ashburn, “My companion, Miss Tibbs, was obliged to remove to Cambridge to look after her sister, who is ill. Was that not kind of His Grace to see to her comfort?”

  As usual, Ashburn’s expression was unreadable. “Very kind,” he agreed. “But perhaps Miss Tibbs might like to join us here for a day or two if her sister can spare her. Cambridge is not far and a little relaxation and amusement here might be just the thing to set her up again.”

  “By Jove, that is good of you, Ashburn,” said Norland, looking much struck by the offer. Then he shook his head. “But I fear it would not do. The sister is too ill to be left alone, I believe. I snatched only a few moments’ conversation with Miss Tibbs before she was obliged to return to the sickroom.”

  “I shall call on them tomorrow,” said Cecily. That would have the twofold advantage of allowing her to see her dear old governess and getting her away from Ashburn’s provocative behavior for a full day.

  “You will?” Norland’s brow cleared a little. “I shall escort you.”

  Ashburn said, “Ah. As to that, Norland, tomorrow might not be such a good time. I have arranged a meeting for you with Soames Grimshaw for the afternoon. But perhaps you would like to cancel it—”

  “Grimshaw!” Norland straightened in his chair, his mouth dropping slightly in astonished surprise. “Ashburn, that is awfully good of you. Why—how did you manage it? But then you are so well connected, I shouldn’t be surprised—”

  Norland set down his knife and fork with a clatter. “Well, I must lose no time in preparation. Ha! Oh, I wish you’d informed me sooner, Ashburn. Then I could have … But no time to waste. How fortunate I brought my papers with me! I’ll just—”

  Before Norland lost himself entirely in a tangle of half sentences and exclamations, Cecily demanded, “But who is this Soames Grimshaw?”

  “Who is—?” Norland looked thunderstruck, then burst into hearty chuckles, as if she’d asked who the Duke of Wellington was, or the Prince Regent. “Why my dear girl, he is the man who can make all my dreams come true!”

  Her brow furrowed, Cecily looked at Ashburn.

  “An investor,” he explained. “Norland needs money to fund a rather expensive experiment. The results, if we can replicate them, will be not only a scientific breakthrough, but a very lucrative one as well. For a percentage of future profits, I believe Grimshaw is willing to invest capital.”

  Norland threw down his napkin on the table, his breakfast forgotten. “It is too good of you, Ashburn. No, really, I say—”

  Ashburn waved away his gratitude. “Perhaps I might suggest you ought to gather together the necessary documents to offer Grimshaw a complete proposal on the morrow. He is a man of business and he will be more impressed if you approach him in a businesslike manner.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Of course, of course.” But Norland hardly seemed to listen. He was out of his chair before Ashburn had finished speaking. Without even excusing himself from Cecily, he charged from the room.

  Ordinarily amused by Norland’s total disregard for anything but science, Cecily felt a flush of humiliation rise to her cheeks. How utterly petty and stupid of her. She’d never cared a jot for Norland’s lack of regard for her. She’d welcomed it, in fact. Why should his careless behavior embarrass her now?

  The reason was Ashburn, of course. She didn’t wish to appear scorned and pathetic in his eyes.

  Ashburn settled back in his chair, circling the rim of his tankard with one fingertip. The air of smugness that mantled him seemed to deepen as he watched her. The faintest smile played around the edges of those firmly cut lips.

  Images and remembered sensations from that kiss last night flashed over her like lightning.

  She didn’t need to see Rand’s expression to deduce he’d rid them of Norland on purpose. Now, her betrothed would be so caught up in his schemes, he would be of little use in her battle to hold Ashburn at bay.

  She was beginning to think she’d need all the help she could get.

  * * *

  “Would you care for some chocolate, Lady Cecily?” Ashburn reached for the elegant silver chocolate pot and lifted it in offering.

  He kept his voice deliberately bland, but from the flare of those big, dark eyes of hers, he knew she recalled his words on the night they first kissed as well as he did.

  Cherries and cream and chocolate …

  She choked. “A little coffee, perhaps.”

  “Craven,” he murmured, reaching for the coffeepot. He poured a cup and passed it to her.

  She set it down on the table with a snap.

  “I expect my other guests will arrive today,” said Rand. He waved a hand. “One or two close friends I’d like you to meet. My cousin Freddy, whom you’ve already, er, encountered, my friend Mr. Garvey, his sister and my aunt, Lady Marsham.”

  “How delightful,” Cecily said. Her words sounded sincere, although she must wish the rest of the party at Jericho.

  She hesitated. “Your Grace—”

  He lifted a hand. “We agreed you were to call me Rand when we are in private.”

  “This is not private!” she hissed, darting a glance around the parlor. “Someone might come in at any moment.”

  “Not unless I ring for them,” he said tranquilly. “Lady Arden ordered a breakfast tray to be brought to her room and will not be down before noon. And sad to say, I doubt your betrothed will recall your existence for another day or two.”

  With dignity, Cecily replied, “I should not wish His Grace to neglect such an opportunity out of misplaced consideration for me.” She hesitated, then added, “I am a little confused, however. Why should Norland require investment in any of his schemes? He is one of the richest men in England, is he not?”

  Rand regarded her for a moment, then said, “Can it be that you don’t know?”

  “Know what, pray?” She tried to sound unconcerned, but she didn’t fool him.

  Rand shrugged. “Norland might hold the title, but his mama holds the purse strings. He wouldn’t dare spend his inheritance on something of which the dowager disapproves.”

  “And she does not approve of his scientific interests,” Cecily said.

  Rand inclined his head.

  Cecily was quick enough to see immediately how the dowager’s interference would affect her position, also. Her fortune would become Norland’s upon their marriage. In practice, that would mean her fortune was at the dowager’s disposal.

  In a more generous spirit, Rand added, “To be fair to Norland, it is far better business practice for him to attract investors to his work than to fund it himself. That way, if the experiment fails, it is not his money he has gambled.”

  Cecily looked discomfited. “It is better to gamble with someone else’s? I should not like to be responsible for another man losing his shirt.”

  Rand shrugged. “A man like Grimshaw does not invest what he cannot afford to lose. He calculates the risks and demands a high return. Believe me, your sympathy is wasted on someone like him. In my experience, those with any kind of talent ought to be left to get on with their passion and leave the financial side of things to someone like me.”

  She looked inqui
ring. “Is that your passion, then? Finance?”

  He watched her steadily. “What do you think?”

  She narrowed her eyes as she considered him. “No. I believe it goes deeper than that. I believe … You enjoy your role as fairy godmother.” She gave a gurgle of laughter at the inappropriate metaphor. “You like to bestow your riches on deserving people.”

  The notion disconcerted him as much as it disgusted him. “I don’t do anything without profiting by it myself.”

  “If you say so.” A small smile played about her mouth.

  He relented. “It is not about the money; you’re right. But it is a far more selfish motive than you give me credit for. I enjoy seeing brilliant minds in action. They come up with a hypothesis or an idea, but it takes money—often a great deal of it—to turn those ideas into something tangible. Often it takes influence, too. So that is where I step in.”

  “You invest your own money, then?” she asked.

  He spread his hands. “That depends. Often, I am the conduit through which finance is arranged.”

  “You cannot be seen to dirty your hands in trade, I suppose.”

  Was there a touch of scorn in her voice?

  He shrugged. “Land ownership is a business like any other, could our peers be brought to recognize it.”

  The animation this remark brought to her face made his heart give a sharp pound.

  “Yes!” She slapped a small hand on the table, making the cutlery jump. It was the first time she had ever made a gesture that wasn’t entirely elegant and controlled and polite.

  “I was brought up with the notion that talking about business is vulgar,” said Cecily, her dark eyes sparkling. “And yet it’s a topic that interests me exceedingly. Not making money for its own sake, but so that I might do some good with it. Montford allowed me to participate in running the estate that forms the main part of my inheritance, you know. I helped him introduce a number of economies which increased profit without increasing rents. In return, he allowed me to dedicate a percentage of the income to my causes.”