A Duchess to Remember

by Christina Brooke

  Rand sat very still as he listened to this speech. He hoped his astonishment did not show on his face.

  “Oh?” he said. “And what causes might they be?”

  She flushed and bit her lip. “How horrid! I sound like one of those ghastly females who is forever prosing on about their own beneficence. Do not regard it. All I meant to say was that I enjoyed applying my mind to the task.”

  “I asked the question because I want to know,” he said gently.

  “Well…” She chewed her lip. “I have always been concerned for the plight of unfortunate women. A large part of the funds are spent in the local parish, as is proper, but some of it goes to assist indigent females in London through various charities.”

  “And how do you select those charities?”

  “That is the difficult part. I drew up a list of criteria and I rate each institution,” she said. A shadow of her ferocious scowl appeared. “I am forced to rely on Montford’s judgment on many of these matters and upon the investigations conducted by his man of business. The boards of such institutions would scarcely answer the interrogation of such a young lady as I am.”

  “And yet, a duchess would command their attention, no matter how young,” Rand said.

  She stared at him. Coolly, she responded, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  All at once, one missing piece of the puzzle that was Lady Cecily Westruther clicked into place.

  “And so this is your particular passion, Cecily. What project occupies you now?”

  Her mouth twisted a little ruefully. “Something different from the usual run of things. I daresay it will sound frivolous or ephemeral, perhaps. At this stage it is only a dream. I have not mentioned it to anyone, not even Montford.”

  And certainly not to Norland, Rand surmised. “Believe me, Cecily, I do not think you frivolous.”

  She picked up her napkin and pleated it. “I have always wished to establish a place for women who are of a creative bent to flourish. It seems to me that the only way most women can survive is to marry, and then all of their time is taken with the household and their babies. There is no time or—or mental space to write or to paint or to compose music. Only wealthy women or the men who gain patronage or earn their living in some other fashion can afford to do those things.”

  “So you wish to support women in those endeavors.” He was fascinated. “How will you go about selecting candidates? How would you know where to find them?”

  “I have made my selection for this particular trial,” said Cecily. “There is already a community like the ones I hope to build in one of the villages on the Harcourt Estate, where I grew up. It was the need I saw in these women that made me decide to help others like them. But you are right. I don’t know how I would go about discovering who most merits my assistance.”

  Rand experienced that gut-clenching sense of excitement that told him a project was worthy of his time and money. Oh, not for any financial return it would yield but because of an intrinsic sense of rightness in the cause.

  His first inclination was to offer suggestions and support.

  But if he did that, would she not suspect an ulterior motive? And besides, he did not wish her to marry him out of gratitude or hope that he would help her achieve her dream. He did not barter his influence and material advantages in return for affection anymore. He’d learned that lesson early in life.

  So he said, “I don’t know either, but I shall watch what you do with great interest.”

  A statement calculated to both dismiss and approve of the conversation in the most unexceptionable manner.

  She looked rather like she’d been slapped in the face. “Thank you. But pray, do forgive me! This endeavor is rather a hobbyhorse of mine. I tend to run on if given the slightest encouragement. So few people are interested, you see.”

  The impulse to draw her into a practical discussion about the whys and wherefores of her project nagged at him. But he reminded himself that his resistance was in a just cause.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “I sincerely wish you the best in your mission. It is a worthy one.”

  Rising, she curtsied, her lips pressed together as if to contain further speech on her favorite subject. “I believe I shall take the opportunity to return to your attics now, Your Grace.”

  She seemed so crestfallen that he again repressed the urge to relent. He wanted nothing more than to delve further into a mind that seemed to burgeon with ideas and originality. But he wanted her to want him for himself. He would help her, but he wouldn’t dangle his assistance like a carrot.

  So he tamped down the fire her inspiration and drive set inside him and regretfully let her go.

  Sipping his ale, he thought of the bundle of letters he had found when he doubled back to the attics last night and let himself in with the spare key.

  Was he missing something? There was nothing in these to warrant Cecily’s desperation, nor her urgency. Just a collection of amusing anecdotes and thumbnail sketches of family, neighbors, and servants.

  Did he mean to hand the bundle over to her? Of course he did. Perhaps she might find them nestled at the bottom of the very last trunk.

  He’d make sure he was there for the discovery. For he very much wanted to know what was missing from this small collection. And what Lady Cecily would do when she discovered the loss.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Five trunks and many hours later, Cecily was disheveled, tired, and famished, not to mention dispirited. It was dull, monotonous work sorting through Jonathon’s papers, without even the prospect of sparring with the duke to keep her entertained.

  Not that she’d wanted him to assist her. Not that she entirely trusted him to do the job properly, either. Men were notoriously bad at looking for things. They so often missed what was right beneath their noses.

  And then, too, there was the danger that if he found that letter she’d written to Jon enclosing her first installment of Sir Ninian’s adventures, he’d read it. That would be the surest way for him to smash her betrothal to smithereens.

  Cecily couldn’t get her earlier conversation with Rand out of her head. He’d seemed so vitally interested in her schemes. The urgency in his voice, the compelling light in those striking eyes of his … He’d elicited far more information from her than she’d ever meant to tell. She’d never known such a connection with anyone, not even with Montford, whose mind always seemed the most attuned to her own.

  That feeling had been … extraordinary. Then suddenly, it was as if a candle had snuffed inside Rand. He’d withdrawn again. He’d even made her feel a trifle foolish for chattering on so long.

  Had she imagined his earlier interest? She didn’t think so. What had she said to make him become so guarded?

  Ah, but what was the sense in worrying at that problem like a dog with a bone? Once she found that letter, she would not need to see Rand again.

  The idea ought not to provoke such a feeling of loss inside her. How long had she known the dratted man? Hardly any time at all.

  And she must stop calling him Rand, even if it was only in the privacy of her own mind.

  Resolutely, Cecily forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  She hadn’t discovered any of her correspondence to Jonathon in the trunks, but she had found letters from various other relations, friends, and even lovers. She grimaced. At least, she assumed they were love letters, judging by their lingering scent. The last thing she wanted to do was read one of those.

  A cursory inspection told her that all the other trunks contained correspondence to do with business matters. Jonathon had been organized, after a fashion. He had at least stored personal papers together, separately from his other documents.

  So then why weren’t her letters there with the personal papers? Had someone removed them? Had Jon? Perhaps he’d kept them elsewhere. Perhaps they were still in the house, liable to be discovered by Bertram or Lavinia or one of the servants at any time.

&nb
sp; She had no choice but to keep sifting through the rest of the trunks in the hope that her letters were caught up with other documents.

  First, however, she must show her face downstairs. It was past noon and Lady Arden would wonder where her charge was.

  * * *

  “Might I have a word with you, Ashburn?” Norland bustled into the library, where Rand was engaged with his housekeeper, who had some last-minute questions about the menu for this evening.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Juteney.” Rand dismissed her with a smile and rose. “Why don’t we take a turn in the gallery, Norland? Dismal day, or I’d suggest a walk outside.”

  “What? Eh? Oh, yes, of course.”

  “I’m told you’ve been sequestered in your bedchamber all day,” Ashburn remarked as they paced beneath the enigmatic stares of his forebears’ portraits.

  Norland nodded. “When I heard Grimshaw was attending, there was no time to waste, you know. Must have everything just so when I lay out my plans to him.”

  “I understand,” Rand said. “I trust you have everything you require?”

  “Yes, yes, thank you. Kind of you to send up a sandwich. When I work, I forget everything else.”

  “Including your betrothed,” murmured Rand.

  Norland shot a quick glance at Rand and looked away. He gave an uncomfortable staccato laugh, rather like the bray of a donkey. “As to that, Lady Cecily and I understand one another well enough. She doesn’t wish me to live in her pocket. Indeed, nothing would displease her more, I daresay.”

  “And what do you wish, Norland?” Rand cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you went on quite happily as a bachelor. I confess this betrothal took me by surprise.”

  Norland’s harried expression deepened. “Well. Yes. I mean, I must own I was a little, ahem, surprised myself.”

  “Oh?” What an intriguing confession.

  “Long-standing arrangement between the families, of course,” said Norland. “But after my first wife died, God rest her, I quite thought … Well, that is to say, I did not realize Lady Cecily’s parents still held to the original, er, understanding between the families. I’d been married and fathered two sons since then.”

  “Ah,” said Rand. The implication was clear. Norland had been trapped into honoring an arrangement that no one, least of all the groom himself, thought would ever be enforced. Arranged marriages were not so common now as they once had been. Only the highest sticklers insisted on them in this modern, romantic age.

  “Daresay life will go on the same as it ever did once we’re married.” Norland rubbed his cheek with the back of one finger. “We are quite agreed upon that.”

  Rand clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “Really? It’s been my observation that everything in a man’s life changes when he weds. Though of course, I’ve no personal experience of the matter.” He paused. “Lady Cecily get on all right with your mama, does she?”

  “Ah.” Norland glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid his terrifying parent might pop out from behind a couch at any moment. “Forceful female, my mother. Says she’ll school Lady Cecily to her liking if it kills them both.”

  “Did she just?” Rand wished quite fervently that Cecily were present to hear this. “And do you think she’ll be successful in that endeavor?”

  Norland rubbed his nose. “Can’t see it myself, but there’s no telling with women, is there? My mother has never been brought to a stand yet. She’s a formidable lady.”

  “As is your betrothed.”

  “Ye-es.” There was marked uncertainty in Norland’s tone.

  Cecily might not know it, but to avoid being harnessed to the dowager’s yoke through her son, she must engage in battle with the dowager. She would have to win the war for mastery over Norland if she wanted the freedom to pursue her own interests.

  Rand doubted Cecily would have the patience or the stomach for that particular fight.

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll see much of one another at any rate,” said Norland hopefully. “I’ll set Cecily up in a snug little house in Town. She doesn’t wish to interfere with my mother’s running of the estate and the household, so they’re unlikely to, er, disagree on very much.”

  “I see.”

  Rand did see the attraction of such an arrangement from Cecily’s point of view—at least in theory.

  But in practice? What a God-awful mess! He’d seen what came of this kind of marriage before. Separation was never as cut-and-dried as Cecily might like it to be. She might believe herself autonomous, but by sheer virtue of being the wife of a man who was ruled by his mama, she’d find her freedom curtailed at every turn.

  Rand clapped Norland on the back in sympathy. “You will lead a dog’s life, my friend.”

  Norland puffed out his jowls. “Really, Ashburn! Why do you say that?”

  “Two strong personalities—your mama wanting one thing, Lady Cecily wanting the opposite. And you, my dear fellow, you caught in the middle. Good Lord, you’ll never get any peace.”

  Rand went on to paint a dismal portrait of life married to Lady Cecily Westruther, giving Norland example after example of instances where Cecily and the dowager would be bound to lock horns.

  “Where will you find time for your work with all of that going on?” said Rand mournfully. “Genius such as yours requires tranquillity, freedom from such trivialities. Your wife ought to be a helpmeet, not an unwelcome distraction.”

  Noting that his companion had fallen into troubled silence, Rand let him contemplate the bleakness of his future.

  Rand was considering his next tactic when he heard the crunch of carriage wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves on the drive.

  He crossed to the window. “Ah! It looks like more guests are here. Will you excuse me? I must go down to greet them.”

  His companion’s frown lifted magically, as if with Rand’s exit, Norland’s troubles would depart also.

  Rand suspected that despite the groundwork he’d laid during their conversation, he had a lot more to do in order to shore up his position. Norland was only too ready to bury his head in the sand and trust that everything would work out for the best. He would not be allowed to do so, however. Not while under Rand’s roof, at any rate.

  Rand paused to add, “I expect the rest of my guests to arrive this afternoon. Dinner will be at seven.”

  “Eh?” Norland started, as if he’d already forgotten Rand was there. Vaguely, he said, “Oh, I shan’t dine tonight. There’s too much to do before tomorrow.”

  “You will dine with us, Norland,” corrected Rand pleasantly. “Lady Cecily is in a strange house with people she doesn’t know. You will pay her the compliment of attending and seeing to her comfort.”

  A certain amount of absentmindedness ought to be tolerated in someone of Norland’s genius, but that did not excuse bad manners. Cecily would not be humiliated by her fiancé in this house, in front of Rand’s family and friends. Not if Rand had anything to say in the matter.

  Norland huffed with impatience. “But if I’m to be prepared for tomorrow, I must—”

  “I insist, Norland,” Rand said in a gentle tone that brooked no argument.

  With a nod and a slight smile to his guest, he left the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Within five minutes of entering the drawing room for tea, Cecily had taken the measure of the other houseguests.

  Freddy was nervous—no surprises there. He kept attempting to buttonhole Rand, but his cousin slipped away like an elegant and particularly elusive eel. Cecily was sorry to observe the downcast look on Freddy’s face. Clearly, the younger man was not forgiven his transgression with that rampant female in Ashburn’s library.

  Freddy’s mama, Lady Matthew Kendall, was a harridan of the first order. Cecily had seen women like her before and was not fooled by her effusive protestations of affection for her nephew.

  From Rand’s lack of warmth in return, Cecily deduced that he was not fooled, either. Indeed, his jaw hardened whenever
she addressed him, as if it was an effort for him to respond with civility.

  Mr. Garvey, Rand’s friend, was relaxed and witty and agreeable. Cecily found Miss Garvey to be equally good company, though the young lady was clearly smitten with Rand.

  Miss Garvey did not do anything so vulgar as to make sheep’s eyes at her host; she merely blushed whenever he addressed a remark to her.

  Cecily could hardly blame Miss Garvey for that. Rand appeared more handsome than usual that afternoon. She only hoped she herself did not betray the thrill that shot through her every time his brilliant gaze rested on her.

  It rested on her frequently. She found herself wondering whether he felt, as she did, that it had been a long time since last they spoke.

  They did not have an opportunity to exchange more than a few words until dinner, when Cecily was seated at Rand’s right.

  It was a small party, and generally a congenial one, since their host had placed his aunt at the other end of the table from himself. That served to pay her the charming compliment of nominating her as hostess while ensuring that she was too far away for her nephew to be obliged to converse with the woman.

  Excellent strategy, thought Cecily. She could not have done better herself. Although she was sorry to see Rand had also placed poor Freddy out of range of easy conversation, too. Why that should bother her, she didn’t know. It was none of her business, was it? Still, she ought to see what she could do for the young man. She thought Rand’s continued coldness overly harsh.

  Everyone appeared charmed by their company, save one exception: Cecily’s betrothed looked as if a thundercloud hovered immediately above his head.

  “What did you do to get Norland down here?” Cecily asked Rand under cover of the general conversation. “He looks as sulky as a bear.”

  He lifted his brows. “I? Nothing. I merely requested his presence, that is all.”

  Cecily rolled her eyes. “A request from you is tantamount to a royal decree. To him, at least.”

  His lips relaxed and those tiger eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that. Nor will I apologize for reminding your betrothed of his manners. He shows a distressing lack of courtesy toward you. It … irks me.”