by Allison Lane
Again he cursed his inattention. He wouldn’t have noticed her hair if he hadn’t been reeling with disappointment because the duke wasn’t here.
And why she was unwed? She had to be approaching thirty.
He stifled speculation about her purity. If he was to gain anything from this commission, he must remain a model of propriety. Anything less could not only lose this job but tarnish his reputation for years to come.
Miss Harper smiled absently as she headed for the door.
John’s head whirled as the half-smile forced his gaze to her lips. Sumptuous, sensual lips ripe for kissing. He wanted them all over him, hot, moist—
He reined in his runaway thoughts, cursing fashion’s tight pants that revealed inappropriate reactions. Fantasy was fine during the wee hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep. But not while working.
Never confuse fantasy with reality, John. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind. Fate rarely lets men choose their paths. Every position comes with duties that cannot be ignored…
He’d bucked fate by becoming an architect despite his low origins, but this time she was right. A duke’s ward was as far above him as Lord Chester. Even gazing on her with lust was inappropriate. If he indulged in air dreaming, he could too easily slip, destroying his career even as he heaped unforgivable insult onto a lady.
He could not risk it.
So he focused on her gown. It screamed another warning to him. Despite being Westfield’s ward, her clothing would shame a housekeeper. Even her gloves were frayed. More evidence of ducal penury? Why would she wear something that even the poorest merchant’s wife would disdain? Especially to meet a caller. Granted, an architect was little higher than a servant, but he knew of no other lady who would dress so poorly.
The anomaly renewed his fears. Miss Harper was long past the age when girls made their bows to society. Unless she had ruined herself – and oh, how tempting that thought was – the duke’s sponsorship alone should have won her a husband. Many men would do anything to gain approval from a duke, even wed a ward who was a wart-riddled hag or carried another man’s bastard. A beauty like Miss Harper should have had her pick of suitors – unless the duke was drowning in debt.
Instead of agreeing to survey the damage the moment he’d heard the magic word duke, John should have followed his usual practice of studying the family before committing himself. In truth, he knew nothing about Westfield and couldn’t recall seeing his name in the newspapers – a suspicious lack now that he thought about it. Had Westfield fled the country? It might explain why his steward controlled the estate. Perhaps the imminent marriage – about which the papers were also oddly silent – involved an heiress…
He followed Miss Harper into the hall, still fighting to banish lust. A slight limp imparted an alluring sway to her hips that washed him with heat. His fingers itched to rip away that hideous gown and replace it with something more suitable. Even a modicum of effort would turn her into the most arresting female in London – just as Westcourt could be arresting with a little help.
Tearing his mind from where it had no business straying, he concentrated on business. He knew all too well the consequences of forgetting his place. A fellow student had succumbed to temptation with a patron’s flirtatious daughter. When her father caught them kissing, he’d charged Nigel with assault, sending him to Botany Bay for ten years. A lasting lesson to anyone tempted to look too high, for a lord’s word always prevailed in court…
John shook away the memory. Miss Harper would know the duke’s whereabouts and financial state. Once he learned the details, he could decide how to approach this commission – or whether to risk aristocratic wrath by declining it.
But his gaze stubbornly returned to that swaying rump.
* * * *
Faith Harper led Mr. Lascar to the entrance hall, praying for time to catch her breath and restore her composure. Never had she been so startled by a male.
Startled? Talk about understatement!
She knew better than to look at gentlemen with interest. Doing so guaranteed heartache, for none would return her regard. But this time she’d had no time to prepare. The moment she’d met his gaze, hundreds of icy fingers had raced across her skin, followed instantly by blazing heat. Then the trembling had started.
She’d clasped her hands to hide it, but it hadn’t helped, especially after he brushed against her as he pulled the door shut behind them. The quaking from that single touch had nearly knocked her to her knees. Her legs remained limp. She hoped he wasn’t speaking, for buzzing deafened her ears, even to the click of his boots striding across wooden floors.
At twenty-eight, she was firmly on the shelf and ought to be long past girlish idiocy. But the paralyzing shock had tossed her sense out the window. Never had she felt so powerful an attraction, not even for Lord Pomfrey, whose visit had set every female heart in the neighborhood fluttering eight years ago. A baronet’s disowned granddaughter was far too low to have attracted Pomfrey’s notice, of course, even without her other handicaps, but that hadn’t kept her from dreaming for several weeks afterward. He’d had warm brown eyes and long, delicate fingers…
Stop this! She rounded one of the many corners that turned Westcourt into a maze. Concentrate on duty.
Chester’s decision to address Westcourt’s problems was a surprise. He had never cared a whit for the house. Since his announcement, everyone had speculated wildly about what else the future might hold. But they couldn’t ask. His temper was chancy at best. Whatever his real plans, they would learn of them in due course. The one certainty was that life would never be the same.
Especially for her.
Faith inhaled deeply. Inciting Chester’s wrath would see her tossed out with no money and no reference. A terrifying prospect, and not just for her. Without her protection, Westcourt’s staff would suffer badly. Thus she must control her reaction to Mr. Lascar. It ought to be easy. At least he posed no threat.
But no matter how she tried, she could not ignore him. Her fingers wanted to touch, to find out if his hair was as silky as it appeared, to discover whether his muscles were real or produced by judicious padding. Again, she clasped her hands to prevent any mischief.
Part of the problem was Mr. Lascar’s youth. He didn’t look much past thirty. That couldn’t be right, of course, for he had a well-established practice. Since few architects finished their training before their mid-twenties and took even longer to build a reputation, he had to be at least forty – not that her body believed it.
Yet even youth could not explain why he left her breathless and tingling. Reginald never affected her that way, and he was about the same age. Not that Reginald could make anyone tingle…
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
She couldn’t. Mr. Lascar was handsome as sin, radiating a more intense masculinity than any of Chester’s rakish friends. And tall! He must stand over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to brush the sides of a doorway. His sable hair waved deliciously, the errant lock that dangled over his forehead begging her to comb it back.
Then there were his eyes. Their brilliant blue pierced clear to her core, making it impossible to look away. It was the clearest blue she had ever seen, clearer even than a summer sky. But more than color froze her breath. Emotion swirled in those eyes. And heat. And something that sent excitement rippling along her skin until the mere touch of her gown was too much to bear.
Her hand actually moved to rip it off before she recovered her senses.
The rest of his face was equally entrancing, with rugged planes that made his beauty wholly masculine. No one would ever consider him pretty or weak. When added to impossibly sensuous lips, a squared chin with an intriguing cleft, brows that hooked up slightly at the ends, adding an exotic look…
Stop this at once!
She clenched her teeth. One glance could not possibly have pierced her heart. There had to be another explanation.
Familiarity niggled at her mind, as if she’d seen hi
m before, though it seemed impossible. He was not a man anyone would forget. Besides, the only men who called at Westcourt were Chester and his dissolute friends, and since Chester preferred the pleasures of town, even they were rare visitors. But she could swear she’d seen Mr. Lascar. Perhaps…
“Did you design the renovations at Coulter Manor?” she asked as they reached the entrance hall.
His eyes blinked, then brightened as he smiled. “Yes. Are you familiar with the work?”
“No. I’ve not met the man, but I heard that he’d hired a London architect.” Relief left her weak. She had seen him, though not consciously. Coulter Manor lay just beyond the market town of Great Marlow. She’d likely passed him on the street. One would think she would recall so dashing a figure, but she tried to avoid notice when she was out, rarely looking directly at anyone lest she be caught staring.
“Mr. Denning mentioned Coulter Manor when he first approached me,” he continued, clasping his hands behind his back as he pivoted to study the cornice. He nodded twice, then produced a small book and made a note.
Professional to the bone.
At least he’d not sensed her silliness. Ignoring how his voice brushed her skin like a caress, she adopted a businesslike tone and set out to acquaint him with Westcourt, its problems, and Chester’s renovation plans. Whatever her own feelings, her assignment was clear. Chester never forgave an insult, so she could not afford to irritate him.
“As Lord Chester mentioned, aside from the ducal apartments, which were redone by the eighth duchess, the house has seen no changes since the seventh duke assumed the title in 1766. The only change to be made in here is to add a ducal crest opposite the door where it will be noted by all who enter. He wants it carved from mahogany, at least eight feet across. We’ve seen no leaks.”
“Then you haven’t looked. There is water damage above the door.” He pointed.
She squinted upward and sighed. He was right. The painting disguised it from all but the sharpest eyes, but the plaster was blistered and the paneling slightly buckled. Not badly, but it boded ill. This wing had seemed intact.
“Will he insist on a carved crest?” Mr. Lascar continued, making another note.
“I hope not. He has abominable taste.”
“Then perhaps I can suggest something more elegant. Wood has been passé for a century, and while plaster remains acceptable, Coade stone is even better. I would also change the walls. Plain wood is disdained in every household with even faint pretensions to fashion. A duke’s seat deserves marble. If finances don’t allow marble, then the paneling must be painted. And this must be the only ducal seat in England that greets callers with a wooden floor. Marble would be best there, too, or at least carpet.”
“Good luck. He is quite set in his ways.” Sighing, she led him toward the drawing room. The afternoon promised to be long. Westcourt contained a hundred rooms. Even at two minutes each, they would be late for dinner. Mr. Lascar had just spent four in the hall after standing there for ten on arrival.
Would her hip hold up? She rarely managed to stand an hour before the pain started – not that Chester cared.
Chapter Two
Westcourt is a maze. I can scarce find my rooms and will likely disappear without a trace ’ere the week is out. One day some future duchess will find my moldering bones and swoon.
From the diary of Eleanor, Duchess of Westfield, upon her marriage, May 1784
John cursed his libido as Miss Harper entered yet another bedchamber – Westcourt contained far too many of them. Every time she stopped beside a bed, his lust grew. There was no logical explanation for his inability to control it. All he could do was pray she didn’t notice. Even were she willing – unlikely for a lady – he would not risk his career for a moment of pleasure, no matter how intense his need. The duke would see him transported – or worse. No one would dispute a charge of grand theft and a fast hanging.
His eyes traced the soft curve of her neck, where an auburn lock caressed alabaster skin. It would be smooth, silky, warm—
Pay attention!
“This is the duchess’s suite.” Her prosaic tone proved how ridiculous his fantasies were. To her, he was merely a servant, to be instructed, then forgotten. “No one has occupied these rooms since the eighth duchess died twenty-five years ago.”
“Which is why no one noted the leaks.” He sighed. It was an exchange they had repeated a dozen times already, and he’d seen barely a quarter of the house. Why didn’t the staff air rooms regularly? Keeping them closed courted mold. Beyond his professional fury burned a growing agony over the waste. Westcourt had once been elegant – and would be again, he vowed. With the duke poised to wed, this wing would be needed.
Miss Harper bit her lip. “The current residents use only the west wing.” She sounded apologetic, though it was hardly her fault. “A maid airs the others once a month, but the staff is so burdened that they often miss signs of trouble.” Her eyes blazed in unexpected fury.
It likely mirrored his own. He’d not yet asked the questions burning in his gut, but here was more evidence that the duke never visited Westcourt. He must spend all his time pursuing vice and idleness in town. Aristocratic selfishness was no surprise, but that the steward did nothing to alleviate the consequences was. Lord Chester should have kept the house in order despite the owner’s absence.
Yet he hadn’t, and John had seen evidence that the staff was wholly inadequate for a house of this size. Where were the footmen the bell system was supposed to replace? Where were the maids who should have noted the dampness? He’d spotted only two servants since arriving – the ancient butler and an elderly maid.
He needed details about the duke’s finances. Yet he couldn’t force out the words to a female so far above his station. So he turned his attention to the walls. The water damage in here was the worst yet, for the duchess’s bedchamber adjoined the tower directly beneath an obvious roof problem.
The suite had once been comfortable, he admitted as he made notes. And oddly peaceful. Also the happiest room he’d seen, though he didn’t try to define that strange thought. Its cut-velvet walls and decorated ceiling were elegant yet avoided the excessive ornament he’d found in the state apartments. Of course, the state rooms hadn’t been touched in more than a century, while this suite had obviously been decorated by Adam.
“What’s in the tower?” He gestured to the door beyond the bed.
“How do you know that’s the tower?” She raised her brows. “Westcourt is such a warren that everyone gets lost.”
“Not architects.” He held up the book where he’d sketched floor plans as they traversed each wing.
“Of course.” She laughed.
Her sudden dimple riveted his attention, reviving his libido. Would it deepen in the throes of passion? Could he—
Cursing, he fled to the tower room, then cursed again, for she was slow to follow. She must have noted his overlong stare. It was a mistake he could not afford to repeat. If she complained of excessive familiarity…
He must work harder to remember his place.
“Dear Lord,” she groaned, halting behind him in the doorway. “I had no idea it was this bad.” The tower had once contained an elegant sitting room. Now it held a marsh. Algae stained the walls. Water pooled on the floor and soaked the Holland covers. The furniture would be a dead loss.
“Why should you?” He raised his brows.
“I help the housekeeper when she is overburdened.” She shrugged. “We should have checked for new leaks after last week’s rain.”
“There was nothing you could do.” He lifted a cover to expose a ruined inlaid table. “This has been wet longer than a week, and not from the roof. See?” He pointed to a stain that started midway up one wall. “That needs immediate repair. If water freezes in that crack, the wall could go.”
“But how could there be a hole in the wall no one noticed? This overlooks the entrance.”
“Mortar probably crumbled. It eventually happen
s to all masonry walls. The tower likely needs repointing – circular walls require wider mortar joints and thus fail faster than straight ones.”
She sighed. “Add it to your list.”
* * * *
By the time they reached the attic, Faith’s hip throbbed, and her leg threatened to buckle with each new step.
There was no way they could complete the tour today. Dinner was in an hour, but they had yet to finish the four wings surrounding the main courtyard. Two older wings extended beyond it, leading to a jumble of offices and outbuildings. Even discounting the tumbledown Tudor wing, they were barely half done. It would take most of tomorrow merely to finish his preliminary survey.
Chester had said nothing beyond that Mr. Lascar would fix the leaks and refurbish the public rooms, but she couldn’t let this opportunity pass. Perhaps he could convince Chester that ignoring maintenance would ultimately destroy the house.
But first they must finish the tour. In her nineteen years at Westcourt, she had explored every room, but never all at once. And never in the company of a man whose presence stole her breath and made even dank chambers more enticing than spring gardens or summer woods – not that she could blame him for her inappropriate response. Was she so pathetic a spinster that she would form a tendre for the first personable stranger she met?
Don’t answer that, warned the voice in her head. Unmarriageable females can’t afford impossible dreams. Even thinking about him is absurd.
Yet she couldn’t help it. Mr. Lascar was different from other men. And not just because she couldn’t breathe when he looked at her. When they’d found Ruby cleaning the library fireplace, he’d actually apologized for interrupting her – an apology no different from the one he’d offered Reginald upon entering his study. That he would treat a maid with the same courtesy he offered a duke’s cousin was shocking – and highly alluring.