by Amelia Grey
“Don’t be a ninny. Of course I did. You did a superb job as always. I’m afraid this chaos was made by the General—I mean, Mrs. Pepperfield.”
“What did you say to her to make her so mad that she did all this?”
Henrietta looked again at the gloves, capes, and gowns strung across the floor from the wardrobe to the bed, and she smiled. “She didn’t do it in anger, Peggy. Constance claims my clothing is not good enough for London Society, and she is going to see to it that I get all new clothes.”
Peggy’s eyes grew wide once again. “You best be careful around her, Miss Henri. It looks to me like this lady has a mean temperament.”
“She’s not mean.” Henrietta laughed. “She’s just firm and thorough. And for now I have no choice but to do as she commands. Now, I’d best have my chocolate while it’s hot and get dressed before she comes looking for me.”
“We sure don’t want that,” Peggy said and started picking up the clothing. “That woman has no respect for a person’s property.”
Henrietta rushed through her breakfast and then dressed in the morning dress Constance had picked out for her. It wasn’t her best dress, and Constance was right, it wasn’t her best color, but Henrietta didn’t think what she wore would matter much today since she was being fitted for a whole new wardrobe.
The vestibule was empty when she reached the bottom of the stairs, and the house was quiet except for the muffled sound of voices coming from a doorway farther down the corridor. Henrietta peeked into the drawing room, but Constance wasn’t there. She looked down the corridor again and realized that the doorway was the entrance to Blakewell’s book room. Not wanting to disturb him, should it not be Constance in conversation with him, she softly tiptoed closer to the open door and listened for a moment.
“I hope that Henrietta will be prompt and I won’t have time for refreshment, Blake,” Constance said, “But thank you for offering. She and I have a lot to accomplish today and a very short time in which to do it. Here is a list of everything I need from you.”
Henrietta heard the rustle of paper.
“I need accounts set up in her name at the shops listed at the bottom of the list. She’ll also need an expensive, yet not too fancy, carriage with four well-schooled bays. The driver and footman should be even-tempered, their livery dashing, and, of course, they should be dedicated only to Miss Tweed.”
Henrietta almost gasped out loud. She took a soft step back, reeling from the things Constance was asking for. A carriage with four horses, plus a driver and a footman?
“All that seems fair enough; I’ll see to it,” the duke replied.
“And it will need to be done today, Blake. You mustn’t tarry about this if you expect her to be at her first party by the end of next week.”
“I understand, and I’ll get it done.”
It shouldn’t have shocked Henrietta to hear that Constance knew Blakewell well enough to know he liked to put off doing things, and with any luck, that might work to her advantage when he was looking for a husband for her.
“I don’t mind telling you that the price will be high to get her properly betrothed before this Season is out. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not at all, spend whatever you need. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m not taking proper care of her.”
“Splendid. I’ll expect you to be at every party we attend.”
Henrietta heard a chair squeak. “Is that really necessary?”
“Absolutely, you should have the first dance with her at whichever party we decide she should make her debut. Her suitors must know that she not only has your protection and guidance, but also your affection. You will need to treat her as if she were your very own daughter. This will show everyone that you won’t tolerate anyone bringing the least bit of scandal to her reputation. You must work with me on this if you want her suitably betrothed by the end of the Season.”
Betrothed by the end of the Season? That was mere weeks away. That sent a shock of reality through Henrietta.
As far as Henrietta was concerned, the only good thing about having a husband was that she would finally have a home of her own. She wouldn’t be uprooted every couple of years and sent to yet another town, another house, another guardian. But being a wife was not something she’d ever had reason to give much consideration. None of her other guardians had ever suggested that she needed to marry.
“Now, are we set on everything?” Constance asked.
“Completely.”
“Good.” She sighed. “You know, Blake, I’ve never been a chaperone to anyone, but since you visited me the other night and gave me some time to think about the idea, I decided I would like to do it. It will give me something to do rather than just attend the Season’s parties looking for a match of my own.”
“You, Constance, looking for a match? I thought you were enjoying your freedom and your pleasure as a young and wealthy widow.”
Henrietta heard a soft, feminine laugh.
“I do. I have. And I will. It does have its advantages, as you know only too well. But sometimes I think it would be nice to have a husband once again to share things with. Though I would want a much younger husband than my last, God rest his soul.”
“Constance, you are beautiful and intelligent. You could marry any man you wanted. I know of several worthy men who would offer for your hand, if you would give them the least sign you are ready to be courted.”
“Perhaps next year.”
Henrietta felt uncomfortable listening to this private conversation. When they were discussing her, she felt justified in listening, but not now. She slowly backed away from the door toward the drawing room.
She studied about what she should do. She could wait in the drawing room until Constance and His Grace finished their dialogue and Constance came looking for her, or she could go back to the book room and let Constance know she was ready to start their day.
Without further thought, Henrietta started down the corridor at a brisk pace and walked to the doorway and knocked. She looked over at the duke, who was sitting behind his desk, and her heart fluttered deliciously. He was so handsome with his light brown hair and brownish-gray eyes, chiseled features, and broad shoulders hidden beneath his crisp white shirt, beautifully tied neckcloth and dark expensive coat, that she almost forgot what she was saying.
Almost.
She hadn’t seen him since the night he had caught her sitting at his desk.
She smiled confidently at them, though she’d never met two more intimidating people in her entire life. “I thought I heard voices in here. Good morning, Your Grace. Good morning once again, Constance. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
The duke rose immediately and said, “Good morning, Miss Tweed. Have you been enjoying your stay?”
“Very much, thank you.”
Constance stood up, too. “Henrietta, I’m glad it didn’t take you long to dress and come down.” She turned to Blakewell. “I trust you will take care of the things I requested earlier without delay.”
“It will all be arranged within the hour, Constance.”
She gave a satisfied sigh. “Good. We’ll be off then. Come along, Henrietta.”
“Ah, one moment, Constance,” the duke said. “I’d like a word alone with Miss Tweed before you go, if you don’t mind.”
Surprised, Henrietta looked from the duke to Constance. It was clear by the tight expression on her face that Constance had not expected Blakewell to want to speak to Henrietta alone, either.
“Certainly, Your Grace, I’ll get my cape and gloves and be putting on my bonnet. I’ll wait for her by the front door.”
Constance left without further words or glances at Henrietta or the duke.
Blakewell moved from behind his desk and stood very close to Henrietta. He had a commanding presence that she had never sensed in any other man. Despite her efforts to stay calm, her breaths grew shallow, her heartbeat raced, and a fluttering filled her stomach. No other man had ever
made her feel this way and she was baffled, yet intrigued, by all these new feelings.
He looked down into her eyes and, with a slight smile, asked, “Were you really sorry for interrupting us?”
“Of course, I—”
Suddenly the tips of his fingers landed on her lips. Henrietta froze. An unexpected thrill of desire flared through her, heating her cheeks and radiating through her entire body. The gentleness of his caress was soothing when it should have been egregiously shocking.
“Remember, we discovered that you are not very good at denying the truth, didn’t we?”
His fingertips slowly, gently, outlined her lips as he talked, and his gaze stayed on her face. Unable to speak for the feel of his skin on hers, Henrietta nodded.
Of course she remembered telling him that she hadn’t been tempted to read his letter when, indeed, she had been extremely tempted.
“You were very quiet, but I knew you were there.”
His fingers left her lips and he cupped her chin, tilting her face toward his. She smelled the scent of shaving soap on his warm hand. She looked into his calming eyes, her labored breathing eased, and her shoulders relaxed. There was something strangely comforting about being this close to him.
“How did you know I was there?”
He let his thumb rake across her lips again before removing his hand and taking a reluctant step away from her. “I wouldn’t be a good master of this house if I didn’t know what goes on inside it, now would I?”
She shook her head and let out a deep breath. “I should have known you would know I was there, no matter how quiet I was.”
“I wanted to thank you for reorganizing my desk and arranging my correspondence.”
“Does that mean you’re no longer angry with me for my presumption?”
He chuckled as his gaze took a sweeping glance down her face before racing back up to settle on her eyes. “No, I’m not angry. In fact, I’ve found it quite easy to sit down at my desk over the past couple of days and do the work I’ve needed to get done for quite some time.”
Relief washed through her and she smiled. “I’m glad I was of help. It truly is difficult to know where to begin when there is such a jumble of papers. Order puts things in perspective, don’t you think?”
He laughed. “Ah, that sounds too much like a quote from Lord Chesterfield to me, and I would never agree with that man.”
“Surely you jest. He was a gentleman’s model gentleman.”
“All the more reason not to rely on anything he said. I would much rather be a lady’s model gentleman.”
“But he was a master on how to be the perfect man, was he not?”
“What lady would enjoy a perfect man?”
Henrietta smiled. Was she flirting with the duke? “You are a clever man, Your Grace. Perhaps you should write your own book about men,” she answered honestly.
Blake laughed softly. “You know, Miss Tweed, sometimes you seem so innocent and at other times you seem so…”
“Old?”
“No, not old. Wise. Perhaps, I should try to find my way out of this conversation by simply saying that you seem well read.”
“That is true.”
“Now, you better go. I don’t want to keep Constance waiting for you too long. She might think of more for me to do, and her list is already so long that I’ll need the rest of the morning to accomplish all that she wants done.”
“Your Grace, may I be at liberty to come to your book room again for another book? I’ve been reluctant to enter after our last encounter.”
“Of course, come and borrow whatever you like.”
“Thank you.”
The duke turned his attention back to his desk. Henrietta looked at him for a moment longer before quietly walking out of the room, trying to understand all those strange and wonderful feelings brought on by Blakewell’s touch.
Six
My Dearest Grandson Lucien,
Some of Lord Chesterfield’s wisest words were the following: “One of the most important points of life is decency; which is to do what is proper and where it is proper; for many things are proper at one time, and in one place, that are extremely improper in another.”
Your loving Grandmother, Lady Elder
TRUE TO HIS WORD, WITHIN THE HOUR BLAKE HAD sent Ashby out to accomplish the numerous and time-consuming errands ordained by Constance for Miss Tweed. Blake was seated in his carriage, loaded with account books on either side of him, and on his way to deliver them to his solicitor, all thanks to the organized and efficient Miss Tweed. After he finished with his solicitor, he would find Gibby and see what the old man was up to, as he’d promised his cousins a couple of days ago.
Blake propped a booted foot on the opposite seat and laid his head against the cushion as the carriage rolled along the cobbled streets. He had hoped to clear his mind and enjoy the quietness of the ten-minute ride into the heart of the city, but troubled thoughts of Miss Tweed intruded.
He was attracted to her the way a man was fascinated by a woman he wanted to bed. She didn’t flutter her eyelashes at him, hide her smiles behind a fan, or talk in a breathy voice like most of the ladies who tried to gain his attention. What kind of madness was this attraction he had to her? Was he more attracted to her simply because he shouldn’t be?
Blake had carefully read Mr. Milton’s letter and believed Miss Tweed was, indeed, his ward. Because of that, he couldn’t have romantic feelings for her. His only role would be to protect her until she married.
It would be so much easier if she were merely a poor relation. If that were the case, he’d be quite content to bestow a few pounds on her, help her find suitable employment as a governess or a companion, and send her on her way. But Miss Tweed was no mere waif. Not only was she beautiful, she was quite wealthy, too. According to Mr. Milton’s account, her father had been a shipping merchant who had a lucrative trade in the Eastern spice market. He had married late in life and settled in Dover. Henrietta was his only child.
Her father had chosen her guardians well. None of them had pilfered her inheritance and, quite possibly, some of them had increased it. She would be an excellent match for any man—any worthy man.
What twist of fate had brought him to this unexpected turn in his life that he must think about finding a husband for a young lady?
Blake laughed at the irony of it.
The thanks he’d given Miss Tweed earlier were genuine, though. He couldn’t explain it, but seeing his desk in order had given him the incentive to settle down and do the work he’d put off for weeks. Over the past two days he’d read and answered every correspondence on his desk as well as checked the ledgers.
Miss Tweed had only been in his house for two days, and already she had changed his life for the better—and the worse. Yes, his desk was clean of paperwork, but he was also buying horses, carriages, and clothing for a woman who would never be his mistress.
Blake would do what was expected of him and take the position of her guardian seriously. That didn’t mean it would be easy.
His thoughts drifted back to the tempting feel of her lips that morning. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together and remembered the touch of her lips on his skin. He had no idea what in the devil had made him do that, other than the fact he’d simply wanted to. After all, he had never needed further cause than that before.
When Henrietta had walked into his office with the self-confidence of an aging dowager, he’d been mesmerized by her. It wasn’t so much her beauty that attracted him, though she was certainly lovely; it was the way she carried and conducted herself, the way she looked at him, the way she challenged him and tried to bend him to her will. He even found it appealing that she worried about his being in danger from a curse.
Still, he shouldn’t have touched her—and certainly not her lips. They were soft and yielding beneath his touch. They were full, dusky pink, and beautifully shaped. He’d wanted to kiss her, just as he’d wanted to kiss her when he’d found her sitting a
t his desk sorting his mail. Thankfully, he’d come to his senses before he’d acted on his desire. He had needed all his willpower to put distance between them.
Blake opened his eyes as the carriage rolled to a stop. He needed to find Miss Tweed a fiancé fast. He wanted to get her off his mind and out of his house because the places his thoughts were taking him were dangerous for her reputation and his freedom.
A few hours later, Blake walked into Harbor Lights, the small, private gentlemen’s club where he and his cousins had been members for years. White’s was the most popular club in town, but some titled men belonged to smaller, more elite clubs, where they could go when they wanted more privacy and attention than the larger club afforded.
That wasn’t the reason Blake was walking into the little-known Harbor Lights Club after having spent the better part of the afternoon with his solicitor. He was looking for Sir Randolph Gibson. Blake knew Gibby often came to Harbor Lights for an early supper before making his appearance at the evenings’ parties. The old man loved the Season.
Long ago, Gibby had told the cousins that their grandmother, Lady Elder, was the only woman he had ever loved enough to want to marry. She had turned him down because she wanted to marry a viscount or an earl, and later in life she had. Gibby had remained her friend for the rest of her life, and a bachelor all of his.
Blake couldn’t remember a time Gibby wasn’t in his life. And it wasn’t that Gib didn’t have good and trusted friends other than the three grandsons of Lady Elder. He was extremely well liked among the ton, especially with the widows. They could always count on him for a dance at the balls, afternoon rides in Hyde Park, or much-coveted invitations to sit with him in his opera box.
After a quick look in the billiards, game, and book rooms, Blake found Gibby in the taproom, sitting by a window on the far side, with an empty plate and a glass of port on the table in front of him. A slice of sunlight streaked across his round face and robust shoulders. His full head of silver hair glinted in the late afternoon light, giving him the appearance of a much younger man. As usual, his dress was impeccable and dashing for a man well past his glory days.