The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  The last tension seeped from John’s shoulders. “Shall I invite him to call at eight?”

  “Wonderful idea.” Faith laughed. “Maybe that will discourage him. He’s never risen that early in his life. His mother was so concerned for his health that he never even attended public school.”

  Treburn announced dinner, so John held out his arm. “Ready?”

  He kept conversation light while they ate, avoiding further mention of Reginald or Chester’s plans. Though he hadn’t sought justice for the servants to impress Faith, doing so had lessened her antagonism. He wasn’t about to complain.

  * * * *

  By the time they reached the sweet course, Faith was as relaxed as she’d ever been. John had said nothing about the future, giving her a respite she hadn’t realized she needed. Now he surprised her again, for as she rose to leave him to his port, he shook his head.

  “May I join you? I dislike drinking alone.”

  “Of course.” It was his house.

  “I should have asked earlier,” he said, offering his arm. “Have you a means to occupy your time?”

  She opened her mouth to deny any boredom – he was her host, after all – but she couldn’t face another day with nothing to do. “Not really. How can people do nothing all day?”

  “I should have known. You’ve never had the luxury of leisure.” His face twisted into guilt. “Do you enjoy reading?”

  “Of course. Is there a circulating library nearby? I’ve read everything from ours, but London will surely have books I’ve not seen.”

  “We can check tomorrow – I subscribe to three. In the meantime, my own library is downstairs. I should have introduced you to it earlier.” He headed for the hall.

  Faith eagerly accompanied him. Even if his library contained only books on architecture, she could entertain herself for a time with those.

  She expected him to lead her outside to the door serving his office. Instead, he surprised her by stopping at the foot of the stairs. She’d paid little attention to the entrance hall until now. John had blocked off the back portion when he turned the ground floor into office space. But one door remained. He unlocked it, then motioned her into his private office.

  Faith stopped, her mouth hanging open. Three walls were covered with bookcases, and an open door led to a library crammed with more books that Westcourt boasted. She hadn’t thought so many existed. Yet he still subscribed to three circulating libraries.

  “Amazing!” she breathed, reveling in the smell of well-oiled leather.

  “I’ve always treasured learning. What would you like to read?”

  “Have you anything about other countries?”

  He moved to the library and pointed to a section by the fireplace. Three shelves held books describing nearly every country on earth. She pulled out title after title, awed that every volume had its pages cut. They weren’t here for show, but for study.

  “How about inventions?”

  “What sort?”

  “The newspaper once mentioned a carriage propelled by a steam engine that runs on rails, but it explained the concept so poorly I cannot envision it.”

  “That was probably the Catch-Me-Who-Can. Trevithick set it up in town several years ago. There are better ones now, especially those devised by Stevenson. Already several are being used in mines. One day tracks will replace canals for moving grain and coal about the country. Steam engines can move faster than canal boats and cross hills more easily.”

  She chose a book on Italy and another on Spain. John stacked them on a table, then led her to a section containing volumes on inventions and discoveries.

  “Goodness!” she exclaimed, studying titles. “I had no idea…”

  He added a treatise on railroads to her stack. “Will this be enough for tomorrow?”

  “It should be. And I doubt your library runs to novels.”

  “You wrong me.” He pointed to the shelves beyond the window. “I read everything, and now that I have the means to indulge myself…”

  Another who loved books. Her heart warmed. To control her baser instincts, she focused on the titles. “What’s this? A third canto of Childe Harold? I thought Byron wrote only two.”

  “He published the first two cantos several years ago. This one came out last fall. I’ve heard he plans a fourth.”

  “The lending library near Westcourt has a woefully small collection,” she said sadly, adding Byron’s epic and a new novel by Jane Austen to the pile.

  “Is there anything else you want tonight?”

  “Everything.” Her eyes swept the room. “But this will do for now.”

  “Feel free to come down any time. I’ll leave the private door unlocked.”

  This time when they passed through his office, she looked at the room instead of the books. The space was comfortable yet ruthlessly organized. Desk, table, easel, chairs. Four piles of sketches sat on the desk. A half-finished picture of a country house rested on the easel. An open sketchpad contained rapid drawings, presumably ideas for that gentleman’s club. A closed door in the corner must lead to the rest of the ground floor.

  “I’m surprised you avoided the books on India,” he said as they returned upstairs. “Or do you recall it so clearly you don’t need to read about it?”

  “Neither. I do recall it, of course – I was nearly ten when I left. But I doubt I know much about the country. English children rarely leave the compound, thus the only natives I met were servants.”

  “So I missed nothing.” He sighed. “I’ve sometimes wondered how my life would have differed had Mother and I gone with Da on that last posting.”

  “You might have died as my family did,” she said bluntly. “Fevers carry off far more English than fighting, many of them wives and children. Disease does not distinguish between soldier and civilian. And tropical fevers take great delight in attacking those who do not belong there.”

  “True. Perhaps he did me a good turn by leaving us behind. I wish I’d known him, though. Aunt Frobisher spoke of him often, but rarely with substance. Mother discussed only his bravery and devotion to duty. But I couldn’t help wonder what he was really like. Did he regret leaving us or did he prefer the company of men? What did he think of India?”

  “He probably enjoyed it. I know you would,” she admitted. “What I remember most, apart from the heat, are the pungent smells and brilliant colors. That vase reminds me of it.” She nodded toward the mantel as they entered the drawing room.

  “I bought that in Italy. The Mediterranean countries also use striking colors. Perhaps it is characteristic of warm climates.” He traced the curve of the vase – much as he’d traced her face in the Westcourt library.

  Heat flared. To hide it, she sat, her hands gripping the book on Italy. “You’ve traveled, then?”

  “Some. I won a scholarship from the Royal Academy to study in Italy for two years. The glass artisans there seem almost magical.”

  “I thought Italy was closed to the English after Naples fell.”

  “True, but I arrived during the Peace of Amiens. The peace collapsed after my first year, but by then I spoke Italian well enough to pass as one, so I stayed to finish my training.”

  She shook her head, for surely he was far taller than any Italian. And his eyes were blue rather than black. “That was either incredibly foolish or daringly brave.”

  “A little of both, but the architect I was studying with had no love for the French. His friends felt the same, and since I rarely ventured out…” He shrugged. “I was never in danger. It is not something I would counsel anyone else to try, but it worked. And winning one of Italy’s more prestigious awards gave me an advantage when I returned. Without it, I would not have established my office so quickly.”

  She had no business chastising him for decisions he had made as a young man. But the thought of what the French would have done had they caught him tumbled chills down her spine. If he had died – or even been incarcerated, as Lord Elgin had been – Chester w
ould have sold her to Bitstaff without interference.

  It was time to change the subject. She put down the book and poured coffee. “So how did the son of a soldier win a scholarship from the Royal Academy?”

  “I have my mother to thank for that.” Grief flared briefly in his eyes. “After Da died, we moved in with Aunt Frobisher – she was also my godmother, so she welcomed us. Mother’s income as a dressmaker’s assistant kept us comfortable, but she was determined that I do better than Da, so she also took in piecework, setting aside those funds to buy me an apprenticeship.”

  “She loved you dearly.”

  “I know, and I’m grateful, though I wish there had been another way. In the end, that second job killed her.”

  Faith paused with her cup halfway to her lips. “How?”

  “She was returning late one night with a basket of piecework. Tired, as she too often was. Her knees had grown stiff that last year, making it difficult to move quickly. I’ll never know exactly what happened, whether it was stiffness or weariness or something else”—he inhaled deeply—“but as she crossed the street, a carriage struck her. Aunt Frobisher had died barely a month earlier.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. Architects rarely accept students younger than fifteen. I might have landed in the workhouse if I hadn’t taken a chance and approached Soane – he is the best.”

  “He accepted you?”

  “After I proved that I already had some skill at drawing and had mastered basic structural and design concepts. Mother’s one indulgence was subscriptions to several lending libraries, which gave me a broader education than most boys. I stayed with Soane for five years, then won that scholarship from the Royal Academy. The Italian prize helped me win the commission to design Portsmouth’s records hall, which brought further contracts. I’d been frugal with Mother’s savings, so was able to set up my own office. Not here,” he added when she glanced around. “I started with two rooms near Lincoln’s Inn.”

  “You’ve done well,” she concluded. “Your mother would have been proud. Let’s pray that Chester will be too busy to ruin it for you.”

  “He’ll forget me in a week.”

  She started to protest, but he turned the conversation to the lands he’d seen in his travels. She countered with memories of her voyage from India, particularly the odd creatures she’d seen when her ship had paused at Cape Town. By the time she finished her coffee, she was again relaxed.

  “Go to bed, Faith,” he suggested at last, helping her rise. “If I know Alex, he will have a report for us by tomorrow. And we’re expecting Simmons at eight.”

  Again he prevented any response, this time by kissing her. Softly. It should have had less impact than his earlier kisses, yet it was more potent than ever, tingling clear to her toes as every nerve jumped to the alert. How could he make her want him with but a touch?

  A dangerous man, and one who would not accept her refusal without a fight. Though his lips barely brushed her own, their mere touch evoked memories of his taste, of hot thrusts, of shattering pleasure.

  Deliberately.

  This wasn’t the kiss of a man taking advantage of a female’s presence. This was a man bent on seduction. He still believed that honor required marriage.

  But she couldn’t. His mother had sacrificed everything to give him a better future. He had worked hard in turn, rising to a position of prominence in his profession. She could not damage his credit by saddling him with a wife others would disdain. Nor could she allow Chester to ruin him.

  Pulling out of his arms, she bade him goodnight and forced her feet upstairs. Staying another minute would let desire overwhelm her good sense.

  He still didn’t understand his danger. Charging Chester with embezzlement handed him a new grievance. A far more powerful grievance. Chester would strike out harder than ever. John would soon realize just how far Chester would go. Rumors must already be sweeping society. By tomorrow they would reach the merchant classes.

  They had to find the duke. Only he could counter the attack.

  * * * *

  The moment Faith’s door closed, John stalked to his study. She was the most stubborn woman he’d ever encountered. Also the most honest.

  Faith had never learned to mask her thoughts, so they paraded across her face. Thus he knew that one kiss had aroused her to the point of pain. She’d nearly melted against him. It had taken all his will to keep his touch light and not crush her closer. But he’d done it. Until she accepted him, he had no right to enjoy her favors. A man didn’t treat a potential wife like a courtesan.

  If only he could crack her stubbornness. But so far he’d made no progress. She had enjoyed their discourse and displayed interest in his childhood, but nothing else had changed. She was still determined to avoid marriage. Somehow he had to prove that it was her only option.

  Was she carrying his child?

  He hoped so, though he knew it would complicate matters. Coercion would put her back up even more. If she came to hate him, she would never accept his love.

  At least she still responded to his touch. Knowing that her passion flared whenever he was near would sustain him until he could win her cooperation.

  Excitement surged as he considered how he could use that passion. Sooner or later, reality would make her will falter, prodding her to consider his suit. Only then would he seduce her. Yesterday’s lovemaking had been better than he’d dreamed. Their next encounter must surpass it. She would never resist him again…

  Chapter Fourteen

  How can I continue, my love? I fear your plans will fail, for I lack your courage and am nothing without you at my side. And with Goodman here… Yet somehow I must try.

  Duchess of Westfield, July 2, 1787

  After an early breakfast, John established Faith in the library, then settled behind his desk. Unfortunately, he couldn’t concentrate.

  Simmons was the most useless man John had ever met, a judgment intensified by yesterday’s meeting. Despite having reached the age of thirty-five, his behavior was more suited to an adolescent. How would a spoiled boy react when thwarted? If he joined forces with Chester, surviving Chester’s rumors would be harder.

  As expected, Simmons was late. It was nearly half past eight before Fogel showed him in. John in turn ushered him into the library, then returned to his office, leaving the door open.

  “Are you all right?” Simmons demanded, grabbing Faith’s hand.

  “Of course!”

  John grinned at her obvious irritation.

  Faith glared at Reginald. She hadn’t thought it necessary for John to stay nearby, but now she was glad he’d insisted. Reginald had clearly lost touch with reality since she’d left Westcourt. He gripped her hand as if it were the holy grail.

  She fought free, then snapped, “Sit down, Reginald. I can’t imagine anything more annoying than to have you looming over me like some dreary gargoyle.”

  He gasped, perching on the arm of her chair.

  “Not here. For heaven’s sake, behave yourself. Your idiotic accusations are bad enough. I won’t tolerate gauche manners.”

  “You accuse me of gauche manners?” But he moved to the nearest chair. “Who was it who ran off without a word?”

  “I had no choice. Chester ordered me out and set Combes to watch while I packed. Not that it matters. What was there to say, after all?”

  “Imbecile. You should not have let him bluff you into leaving. He often says things in a pique that he doesn’t mean. And he has no authority in any case.”

  Faith shook her head at this further evidence that he lived in a fantasy world. Chester never made a threat he didn’t mean. Nor did he change his mind after issuing an order. “Forget it. I was planning to leave anyway. It is past time to make a life for myself. Chester will soon have the title. I will not tolerate him as my guardian.”

  “Which is why we must wed immediately. That will cut—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know wha
t you’re saying.” He slid his chair close enough to grab her hand. “It’s the only way, Faith. You know that.”

  “Absolutely not. You have rocks in your head to even consider it.”

  As usual, he ignored her protest. “I know you wanted to wait until I sell my epic, but that is no longer a problem. I’m seeing the publisher today. I’ll be rich by tonight.”

  “Reginald!” She jerked her hand clear, then put the library table between them. “Even you cannot be that stupid. The chances of selling your epic are negligible, and the chances that your proceeds will cover even your own living expenses are nil. Not that it matters. I will not wed you. Even if you had a fortune, I would not wed you. I am washing my hands of your entire family.”

  “You can’t! How can I write without you?”

  “Easily. You don’t need me. What you need is a job where you can meet people and learn more about the world. It will give you fodder for your poetry.”

  “I didn’t believe it when Chester told us the damned tradesman forced himself on you. I’ll kill the bastard before I’ll let you sacrifice our happiness because you think yourself ruined.”

  She laughed, surprising him so much his mouth hung open. “You truly are stupid, aren’t you? Haven’t you figured out that Chester lied? He needed an excuse to toss me out.”

  “Don’t try to hide it. You’ve been standing up to Chester for years. You would never have left unless the fellow forced you.”

  “Your imagination grows wilder every day.” She shook her head, then raised a hand as he started toward her. Never again would she abase herself to stay in the family’s good graces. Her glare sent him back a pace. “Go away, Reginald. Now that I’m free, I want nothing to do with any of you. I’ll finish my business with the trustees, then move on. If you have any sense, you will look for a post. And warn Catherine and the others to rally their friends. They will need all the help they can get when the dukedom is settled. If you think Chester will let any you stay, then you are mad.”