Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

“Sir Greyville.” Francesca leaned closer. “Eat. Put the pen down. Pick up the spoon, or the butter knife, or a sandwich, but eat. You’ll be nodding off over your notes an hour from now if you don’t take sustenance.”

  He did that—fell asleep at his desk.

  “You and my mother would get on famously,” he said, buttering a roll and dipping one corner in the soup. “She is a formidable woman, and I respect her greatly. None can stand before her version of hospitality. At the conclusion of her house parties, guests are rolled out to their coaches in wheelbarrows, felled by an excess of Mama’s hospitality. Have you grown weary of my scintillating company already that you must flee our literary laboratory?”

  Francesca wandered off to toss more peat onto the fire. “Some of us must get up and move occasionally. I’ll take a turn in the garden while the sun is out. I suggest you leave the room as well. Inspect the fountains, visit your horse, lose a game of billiards to yourself. Get out of that chair.”

  Grey considered lifting the bowl of soup to slurp the contents jungle-style—he was that hungry and the soup that good—but he was in the presence of a lady, one spouting daft notions.

  “If I leave my desk, the work, which is going well for once, ceases to progress.”

  “If you fall asleep over your soup,” she retorted, “the work ceases to progress, and your linen is the worse for your lack of moderation. I should be back in an hour or two.”

  “Francesca.” He didn’t want her to leave, which was silly. Perhaps he was a very silly man, after all.

  “Sir Greyville?”

  “Grey will do. Thank you for your company this morning.”

  He’d flustered her. He rose, because a little flustering was good for the soul. Possibly. The hypothesis wanted testing.

  “My father was much like you,” she said, rearranging the peat over the coals. “When he had a pen in his hand, all else ceased to have meaning for him. He wrote books on diplomacy, memoirs, travel guides. He loved to write, to listen to other people’s stories, to document his observations. He had a marvelous wit, which was half the key to his diplomatic success.”

  Had that worthy diplomat ever listened to his own daughter?

  Grey took the wrought-iron poker from Francesca’s hand, set it aside, and wrapped his arms around her. “I will miss you.” He referred to the general case, commencing two weeks hence, but when Francesca said nothing, he retrenched. “I made great progress this morning. If you tarry among your friends, I will pine for your quiet presence. How are the notes coming?”

  She’d begun the reorganization of his notes, from chronological order to grouped by subject. The task was tedious, thankless, and detailed. Grey would have put it off for years, but Francesca was not only plowing through it, she was making cross indexes, so any topic or date could be found easily.

  “My greatest difficulty,” she said, reciprocating his embrace, “is that I start to read what’s on the pages. You have a gift for accurate description, for connecting stray bits into a coherent whole. I’m learning a lot.”

  She was probably learning a lot about the man who’d written the notes, which bothered Grey not at all.

  He held her for a moment, gathering her warmth. Lions sat close to one another while watching the moonrise, and Grey understood a little better why. In Francesca’s embrace, he found peace, and also sadness. They’d part as she’d reminded him.

  Fondly, but they would part.

  “Off to lunch with you,” he said, easing away. “The jungle calls me.”

  She kissed his cheek and was gone on a soft click of the door latch.

  In fact, the jungle no longer called to Grey. He’d been so bloody sick of the place after the first year, he’d known he’d never return. With that conclusion in mind, he’d made his one expedition count, staying until the last possible month. He respected the jungle, appreciated its beauty and its great variety, but he’d not make a career of braving its dangers.

  He’d earned the right to describe himself as “an explorer of the Amazonian jungles,” a coveted credential, but at present, he was more interested in exploring his friendship with Francesca Pomponio.

  They had only the next two weeks for that adventure, after all.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Francesca had spent the morning peeking inside the mind of a man who was part poet, part artist, part logician, and part healthy male animal. Sir Greyville had delighted in exertion of the body as well as of the mind and had covered thousands of miles in the time some of his colleagues could barely cover hundreds.

  He noticed everything, from insects, to rock formations, to tiny blooms, to wildcats that outweighed most grown men. His sketches included smiling native women—not a stitch of clothing to be seen—and a fearsome fellow who had worn a necklace of enormous teeth and little else.

  Francesca had told her friends that she was delighted to assist Sir Greyville with his work—which she was—and that she’d be equally delighted to depart when the coach was repaired.

  Which she would not be.

  Oddly enough, she suspected her friends might also be reluctant to resume the journey, which made no sense, for they had to be bored. If they’d sought boredom, they would have endured yet another London Season.

  Francesca detoured to her room to fetch a shawl, for even on a sunny day, a turn in the garden had left her slightly chilled.

  The lunch tray sat outside the estate office door, not a morsel of food remaining. She opened the door without knocking, lest she disturb Sir Greyville’s concentration.

  At first, she didn’t see him, but a soft snore alerted her to his presence on the sofa. He didn’t fit, so one knee was bent, and the other foot was on the floor. His arms were crossed, and his neck was at an awkward angle against the armrest. His battered tall boots stood side by side at the end of the sofa, like a pair of grizzled, loyal hounds waiting for the return of their master.

  In sleep, Sir Greyville looked younger, also more tired. His English complexion had been darkened by the sun, and even in repose, he had crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Francesca eased the earpieces of his spectacles free and draped her shawl over him.

  He craned his neck and muttered something, possibly the Latin words for cooked apples.

  Francesca lifted his head, tucked a pillow against the armrest, and left him to his slumbers—despite the temptation to run her fingers through his hair a few more times. She’d been back working at the notes for some time, developing an index of maps and sketches, when the sofa creaked.

  “I am brought low by beef stew,” came from the sofa. “Why doesn’t anybody make a damned sofa sufficiently commodious that a short respite after the midday meal need not occasion a crick in the neck and cramp in the shoulders?”

  “Why doesn’t anybody think to leave the office and use a bed for such a respite?” Francesca replied.

  He sat up abruptly, a crease bisecting his left cheek. “You have finished your luncheon. What time is it?”

  “Going on three. The mail has arrived and is sitting on your desk.”

  He rose, folded the shawl over his arm, picked up his boots, and came to the table to lean over Francesca’s shoulder.

  “I dreamed of you. You were swimming in some damned grotto, attired as nature made you. Shall I come to you tonight, Francesca?”

  In his notes, he’d referred to a jungle cat that killed with a single leap. Francesca felt the opposite, as if she’d been quickened, brought to life, by that one question. Sir Greyville’s breath fanned across her neck, followed by a sensation so tender, so warm and unexpected, she closed her eyes the better to withstand it.

  His fingers pushed aside the fabric of Francesca’s dress, followed by his lips, right at the join of her neck and shoulder. He cradled her jaw against his palm, traced her ear with gentle touches, and in the space of a minute melted every coherent thought from her mind.

  “This will not do,” he said, resting his forehead against her shoulder
. “I grow aroused simply touching you. Tell me to sit at my desk, Francesca, and say it as if you mean it.”

  “Grey.”

  His lips again, so soft, and the barest scrape of his teeth. “Hmm.”

  “Yes. Now go sit at your desk. This instant.”

  He tarried another moment, then straightened and ever-so-cherishingly draped the shawl around her shoulders. Francesca nearly asked him to do it again, so precious was his casual consideration.

  “Yes, I should come to you tonight?”

  “Must I draw you a diagram?” Francesca took up a penknife and pared a finer point onto her goose quill. “You asked a question, and I answered it. Now answer your mail, or grouse about your neck, or put your boots back on. Your spectacles are in your pocket.”

  He sauntered off. “I hope you’re as assertive in bed as you are in the office, for I am not shy when it comes to carnal joys—as best I recall. I like to approach such occasions with an agenda, a list, if you will, of activities and the order in which I’ll undertake them.”

  “The mail, Sir Greyville. Correspondence. Sci-ence.”

  “In our case,” he said, settling into the chair, “my agenda will be succinct.” He pulled on both boots and sat back. “Make Francesca scream with pleasure. Best to stick to simple imperatives when a situation is likely to become fraught, don’t you agree?”

  “Heartily. Shut your naughty mouth, or I will revise my agenda for the evening.”

  He donned his glasses and shut his naughty mouth, and Francesca did not revise her agenda.

  She hoped he wouldn’t either.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  As the afternoon wore on, the weather continued unabatingly English, which was to say, cold, wet, windy, and disobliging for two minutes, then achingly lovely for five. If Grey had been able to take a turn in the garden with Francesca, he might have abandoned his increasingly discommodious chair. If he’d been able to go for a hack and put her up on a guest horse beside him, he might have even left the estate grounds.

  Perhaps tomorrow, after they’d become lovers in fact.

  He set aside a page full of detailed observations and never-before-published theories to take a moment to behold Francesca Pomponio. Surely the mating urge was affecting his brain, for the picture she made tempted him toward maudlin phrases and impossible hopes.

  Firelight gilded her hair.

  The curve of her jaw begged to be cradled against his palm.

  That sort of maudlin tripe.

  Grey consoled himself with the knowledge that maudlin tripe contributed substantially to perpetuation of the species. He’d simply never been afflicted with such a bad case of the mating urge before, and that had to be a consequence of prolonged deprivation.

  A good scientist put his faith in the simplest hypothesis that explained all the data.

  He did not “tear his gaze” from the sight of Francesca brushing the quill feather across her lips, but rather, resumed reading his correspondence.

  Scientists did their part to keep the royal mail in business, and Grey was no exception. He debated theories and experimental design with dozens of colleagues, congratulated them on their triumphs, and commiserated with their frustrations.

  The third letter had him out of his chair. “May the Fiend seize that rabid, two-faced weaseling disgrace of a poseur and inflict on him a lifelong case of the quartan ague.”

  Francesca put down her pen. “I beg your pardon?”

  Grey waved the letter at her. “Harford, the ruddy bastard. He stole my idea.”

  “How can one steal an idea?”

  “He assured me at great length that he was done with fieldwork, had had enough of its savagery and deprivations. He vowed he was ready for a professor’s chair, pipe, and slippers. Too many damned biologists, he said, as if the botanists aren’t overrunning the jungles at a great rate. I maundered on about the vanilla orchid and the insect that must be responsible for its pollination.”

  Francesca rose and took the letter from him, scanning its contents. “He’s off to search for this moth or bee or whatever, and thanks you heartily for encouraging him to pursue the idea.”

  “I never encouraged him, not in the least, and I should have known he was inviting me to unburden myself of a lucrative theory. Harford is by no means a pure scientist, but then, neither am I.”

  She folded the letter and set it aside. To Grey, the correspondence should have come banded in black, so bitter was his sense of betrayal. He’d liked Harford, had enjoyed arguing plant morphology with him, and had considered collaborating with him on some future expedition.

  “What is a pure scientist?” Francesca asked, leaning back against the desk. “You make it sound as if there’s some sort of chastity at stake.”

  “Not chastity, but nobility of purpose.” She’d moved enough stacks of Grey’s notes that he had room to sit on the desk, so he perched beside her. “One can pursue new knowledge for its own sake, because knowledge in itself has virtue, or one can take a more applied approach.”

  She took off her shawl and folded it over her arm. “You refer to money, though you resort to typical English roundaboutation to do it. A pure scientist has a rich papa or wife. The fellow who takes a more applied approach might turn his discoveries into coin.”

  Grey would forever associate the scent of jasmine with the soothing balm of honest, common sense.

  “More or less, but even among the more pragmatic men of science, we don’t steal each other’s ideas.”

  “You don’t steal other people’s ideas, Sir Greyville. Of that, I am convinced. Moreover, your close associates well know where this theory originated, because they know you. If this Harford person goes off on his bee quest, your colleagues will all know where he got his inspiration. I cannot but think that a profession dedicated to accurate observation and clear understanding will ostracize such a charlatan.”

  Grey took off his glasses, folded them into a pocket, and kissed Francesca’s cheek. “Thank you. I would have taken two weeks to talk myself around to such wisdom. You’re right, of course, and my colleagues will all be very circumspect in their discourse with Harford henceforth. The problem is, this was one of my ideas most likely to attract a wealthy sponsor. Vanilla is valuable, but hard to propagate outside its native environment. The issue is pollination, which refers to that process by which, from season to season, the plant propagates—”

  “Copulation, you mean, for the vanilla plant.”

  “It’s an orchid, technically. I do seem fixated on certain activities, don’t I?”

  She leaned into him and slipped an arm about his waist. “You’re a biologist. Of course you’re fascinated with propagation. You’d be reduced to studying rocks, otherwise. Rocks needn’t propagate, poor darlings.”

  They remained for a moment in that half-embrace, for Grey’s arm had found its way about Francesca’s shoulders.

  “When I was nine,” he said, “my older brother decided he preferred my pony to his. He’d got a pony a year before I had, being the elder and the heir, and thus my pony was a particular joy to me. I’d trained the little beast in all manner of tricks and told him all my sorrows. His name was Tiger. I was informed by my father that one pony was as good as another, and I was to surrender my mount out of filial loyalty. My brother was taller than me and thus deserved the larger equine.”

  “I hope Tiger tossed your brother into the ditch on his spoiled little head.”

  “Tiger was a perfect gentleman, and so was I, but I’ve taken a dim view of thievery and dishonesty ever since—a dimmer view. My brother was not taller than me. I’d already gained nearly an inch on him, though my father had failed to notice. I take infantile delight in the fact that I’m two inches taller than his lordship now.”

  “Good. Did your brother ever apologize? Stealing a horse is a grave offense under English law.”

  A capital crime, as a matter of fact. The realization gave Grey’s childhood memory of betrayal a better sens
e of proportion.

  “I’m not sure he knows an apology is necessary. I yielded what was mine and pretended I’d rather enjoy the countryside on foot anyway. Thus was a biologist born, at least in part.”

  Francesca shifted so she stood between Grey’s knees, her arms about his waist. “I pretended I didn’t mind my husband’s endless procession of mistresses. I yielded what was mine too.”

  * * *

  A small boy’s pony was of great importance to that boy, whether he was English, Italian, or Persian. Francesca stood in the circle of Grey’s embrace and admitted that at least Pietro had not set his sons against each other intentionally.

  Just the opposite. With the children of his first marriage, he’d been generous, but fair and even-handed. He’d also been a model duke—and a disappointing spouse.

  “If your husband was variously unfaithful, he was an ass,” Grey said. “I hope you told him as much. Men are not beasts, entirely at the mercy of their procreative urges.”

  Was a duke more or less of a beast than other men? “The wealthy, well-born Italian male is a privileged creature from the moment of his birth, rather like your brother. Pietro was simply an exponent of his upbringing.”

  Grey rested his cheek against the slope of her breast. “I don’t believe that, else my brother should have turned out to be a tyrannical, selfish, philandering terror. Sebastian is actually a decent fellow. Your husband made choices, and one of them was to wed you and recite public vows of fidelity. I gather he was somewhat older than you?”

  To hold on to Grey, and to be held, fortified Francesca. She did not normally dwell on her marriage, but Grey saw the situation with a logical mind and, apparently, no particular loyalty to his gender.

  Refreshing, that.

  “I was eighteen, he was thirty-six and so very dashing. He flattered, he flirted, he charmed as only an Italian man at the height of his powers can charm. My father encouraged the match for diplomatic reasons, and I was desperate for a household of my own. The wedding night was sweet, magical, enchanting, and I convinced myself I’d found a fairy-tale prince.”