Birchwood dragged a wizened hand through his lush pelt of white hair.
“It could not hurt to have her here,” Sinclair pressed, gesturing to Nora. “She can assist with the duchess and see what, if any, relief she might offer. At the very least the duchess would enjoy having another lovely reading voice on hand. Her eyes aren’t what they used to be and she’s quite fond of her books.”
She tried not to flinch at that. She was not here to read books out loud.
The duke nodded slowly. “I suppose it could do no harm to have a gentlewoman with her particular skill in . . . what did you call it? Pain . . .”
“Mitigation,” Nora supplied.
“Yes. Very good.” The duke nodded once and moved in, offering his arm to Nora. “Shall we take a stroll in the garden before luncheon? It shall prepare our constitution. Cook enjoys his rich sauces. Trained in France under the best. He does make a marvelous meringue. We shall have him prepare one while you are here.”
She released a breath and accepted his arm, sliding an uncertain glance to Sinclair. She was not sure what to make of him. The last thing she had expected was for him to vouch for her.
Thanks to him she would be staying here.
As she departed the drawing room on the duke’s arm, she could not resist looking over her shoulder for a glimpse of him.
He followed at a sedate pace, his dark eyes trained on her face as though he knew she would look back at him again.
He knew she would and he was ready with a look of his own.
He arched an eyebrow over his dark eyes and conveyed an expression full of warning that said: You’ve got your chance. Now prove yourself.
Chapter 10
“I think you should wear the peach silk this evening,” Bea pronounced. “You were caught unprepared at luncheon yesterday with your dusty travel clothes, but we shall not repeat that faux pas.” She tsked and shook her head as though greatly regretting said faux pas. “Not on my watch. This evening you shall look every inch the lady, and an enticing one at that.” The maid hung the peach gown on the outside of the wardrobe, smoothing a hand over the skirts that she had already so valiantly worked free of wrinkles.
“I don’t think anyone minded,” Nora reassured her.
“Oh, it was noted. Trust me. I’ve spent enough time in the last day downstairs with the rest of the staff, and I can assure you that your state of dress was a point of discussion among those vultures.”
Nora fought back a flinch. She did not care what strangers thought of her. If the opinions of strangers mattered to her, she would have fallen in line like a proper soldier and already married. Heavens, she’d likely have a child or two clinging to her skirts.
Bea continued, “Never have I met such a group of hoity-toity servants.” She started digging around through the wardrobe, muttering to herself as she examined the slippers she had packed with a frown. “I should have packed more choices. If I had known we were coming to a place like this . . .” Her mutter faded away and she swept her gaze around the bedchamber with an air of accusation.
This chamber had no cherubs, but there were peacocks everywhere. On the vases and paintings. Even the brass table lamps: peacocks, peacocks, peacocks.
“My apologies,” Nora said, although she was not certain what she was apologizing for. She could not have known the Duke of Birchwood would live quite so differently from the Duke of Warrington.
Sinclair appeared in her mind. This was all his. This place. This life. For however mismatched Sinclair and this world seemed in her mind, they went together.
She had never seen Sinclair in uniform, but she better imagined him mud splattered in his colors, striding rigidly across an army field. That seemed more fitting an occupation for him than dukeing it about London.
Bea gave a small grunt and lifted a pair of slippers out from the floor of the armoire, attempting to straighten the tiny bows secured at each of the toes. “This will have to do. Don’t know what the staff has to be so priggish about. Told them I came from a duke’s household, too. Apparently Warrington is not as grand and venerable as Birchwood.” She gestured widely around them with an exaggerated air of disgust. “Apparently there is an order even among dukes and our duke is at the bottom of the stack.”
That was quite possibly true, but she did not think Warrington cared. In fact, she was certain that he preferred it that way.
“I don’t think the Duke or Duchess of Birchwood minded my wardrobe,” Nora offered.
The Duchess of Birchwood had joined them at luncheon yesterday, refreshed from her nap. She was perfectly pleasant and delighted that Nora would be staying with them. She had not blinked an eye over Nora’s vocation. She even seemed quite eager to try a few of Nora’s remedies. Women were always more accepting and open-minded of Nora’s efforts.
She had beamed at Nora as she said, “I’m feeling quite improved today, but a week rarely passes without one of my spells. Unfortunately, it won’t be long until I take another turn.” Her smile diminished a bit at that. “Then we will see what happens and you shall have your hands full with me.”
“I am at your disposal,” Nora pledged.
“I’m almost looking forward to that.” The duchess turned her attention to Sinclair to praise him. “So good of you to send for her, Constantine. At the very least she will be a pleasant diversion.”
Nora did not know how she felt about being described as a diversion. It conjured an image of herself sitting in a chair reading beside the ailing lady as she reclined in bed. It felt somehow minimizing. Nora was more than that. She was a healer.
“I only seek your comfort, Your Grace,” Sinclair had replied in that subdued manner of his that somehow grated upon Nora’s nerves. Could he not display a little emotion? It was . . . unnatural. And did he want to be that? A purveyor of diversions?
He was more than this, too.
At his response, the duchess lowered her spoon back into her bowl with a dissatisfied clink. “Now, now, Constantine. What have I said? We are beyond such formality. You are the Birchwood heir.” She said the words with a smile, but there was something in her voice, a certain quaver, a drop in the tone of her voice that betrayed her, that revealed she was not completely unaffected at the significance of Sinclair being the Birchwood heir. The significance being that her offspring were all gone—dead, wiped from the earth by the cruel vagaries of life. “You must call me Maude.”
He nodded once, as stiff and austere as ever (he already had this duke thing down), but he did not respond with the vocalization of her Christian name, and Nora somehow doubted he ever would. She rather thought he was incapable of doing that. Such familiarity was beyond the man.
“And what of Mr. Sinclair?” Bea asked, pulling Nora from her reverie.
Nora blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Sinclair?” she prompted, as though she knew of Nora’s preoccupation with the man. “The heir? Is he not the reason we came here?”
“No!” she cried in outrage. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“We hared half across the country. I assumed it was for a man. And as far as men go, he is a fine specimen. What other reason could there be?”
Nora sniffed. “My actions are not motivated by the male species—fine specimen, or no.”
Bea stared at her with a decidedly unimpressed expression. “It’s my experience that all actions of people are motivated by desire.”
“That’s a little rudimentary. You make us all sound like we live in caves and only care about procreating and our next meal.”
Bea arched an eyebrow and lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. “A bit primitive. We’re not cavemen precisely, but that’s about the right of it. Simple biology, yes? Isn’t this your area of expertise?”
Nora shook her head, disliking the notion that they all operated on the same level as instinct-driven cavemen. “We are civilized. With brains in our heads.”
“It’s not far from the truth. It’s fairly simple.”
/> “I agree that it is simple. We’re here to help the duchess. I am here to help her. This has nothing to do with Mr. Sinclair.”
Bea shrugged and then went back to correcting the bows on Nora’s slippers. “If you say so.”
“I do,” she snapped.
Bea gave an apologetic shrug. “A natural misunderstanding on my part. He is young—”
“Is he?” She wrinkled his nose. “He must be at least a decade older than me.”
“Still young,” she insisted. “I would say about thirty. If you think him old, then that makes you . . . a child. A woman would think him quite young and virile. He is most certainly up to the task.”
Nora stiffened in affront. She had a fairly good notion to what task Bea referred.
Bea smirked and continued, “As I said, young. And handsome and eminently eligible. He’s set to inherit a dukedom. He should very much be the reason you take pains to look your best this evening and every evening you are here. He might be courting this Lady Elise but there have been no official announcements yet. As far as I’m concerned that means he’s fair—”
“What did you say?”
“He’s fair game as far as—”
“No, before that.”
“Oh. He’s courting a Lady Elise, who happens to be the daughter of the late Earl of Drafford. She was the earl’s only child and is a great heiress. Lovely, too, from all accounts. Accomplished. Kind in temperament from all reports and she was betrothed to the Duke of Birchwood’s eldest son. It seems she is determined to be the next Duchess of Birchwood, for she has been quite amenable to Sinclair’s suit since he returned to England.”
Nora shook her head in wonder. “How do you know all of this? We have been here one day only.”
“I said the servants were hoity-toity. I did not say they didn’t gossip. They’ve loose tongues aplenty. They are more than willing to share all the tittle-tattle and a day was plenty of time to do that.”
“Evidently.”
“Now. Let’s ready you for dinner.”
“It’s over an hour from now.”
“We need every moment if I’m to do what I have in mind with your hair.”
Nora released a much-beleaguered sigh and allowed herself to be guided to the dressing table.
She’d already enjoyed a bath and was wrapped cozily in a dressing gown. She’d spent most of the day in the company of the duchess. They’d had breakfast and luncheon together, just the two of them. They’d played cards and strolled the gardens. Fortunately for the duchess she was pain-free and quite looking forward to the small dinner party she was hosting that evening.
Nora could do without dinner parties. She would rather get to the matter of healing the duchess, but as the lady exhibited no outward symptoms, she could do nothing more than wait for the next spell.
She had not seen the duke or Sinclair since yesterday. She had resisted prying into the whereabouts of either gentleman when she was with the duchess—a definite test of her will as she was one to usually speak whatever came to her mind. She definitely had to channel her sisters’ calm temperaments to hold her tongue. She had no idea what kept the gentlemen away. Doubtlessly, the duke had much to teach Sinclair about his legacy.
Most heirs spent a lifetime training for the role. With three sons, clearly no one had expected Sinclair to inherit. Who had ever been afflicted with such a run of bad luck?
He had been living his own life as a colonel a world away from England. Now he was here, thrust into this new position. She wondered what his feelings were on the matter. He hardly appeared gleeful over his new fate. She suspected he was not enamored with the change of his circumstance, however, he was not one to reveal his emotions.
She sank down on the bench before the dressing table and allowed Bea to work on her hair, telling herself she did not care one way or another with the end result. She was not here to win people over with her appearance, and she was certainly not here to charm Mr. Sinclair. This paragon Lady Elise was welcome to him. He could court and marry whomever he chose. It had naught to do with Nora.
The day had been interminable.
Constantine had spent most of it with Birchwood and his man of affairs, Somerton, poring over ledgers and listening to the two older gentlemen reminisce about the days of their youth when both their lives had been bright and shiny, full of possibility. Days when all three of the duke’s sons had been alive, spirited boys frolicking through the halls, cheeks flushed and full of life. The specter of death had been nowhere in sight.
Constantine tried not to reveal how awkward he felt in those moments, knowing his very presence was a reminder to the Birchwoods of all they had lost. He would forever represent that to them—loss.
Constantine was a symbol of their grief. It was a heavy burden to bear, and yet he would bear it. He would do his best to honor his lost cousins and the duke and duchess. It was the least he owed to them.
Birchwood glanced at the clock ticking the seconds above the mantel. “Ah! How time has flown. We’d best adjourn for the day. My dear Maude will not be happy if we are not dressed and ready for dinner on time, Constantine.”
He nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Birchwood’s man of affairs gathered up his books and ledgers and took his leave then with a crisp bow to each of them. Before Constantine could follow him from the room, Birchwood stalled him with a hand on his arm. “A word, please.”
Constantine nodded, waiting for the door to click shut behind Somerton. He looked expectantly to the duke.
The man’s hand on Con’s arm gave an encouraging squeeze. “Lady Elise, as you know, will be in attendance this evening.”
“Yes.” He nodded, wariness instantly creeping over him. “I’m aware.” The duke’s gaze grew heavy in the pause to follow. “I look forward to seeing her.”
“Very good. Very good. You’ve been spending a great deal of time in her company of late, much to our delight.”
“Yes,” he echoed, feeling like a parrot.
Of course he spent a great deal of time with Lady Elise. He had no choice. Every time he turned around, the duchess was inviting her to dinner, or to their theater box, or for tea or a ride through the park. He could not escape the lass.
It was clear that the Birchwoods wanted him to spend time with her much as their son had done.
The duke leaned forward and tugged Con closer simultaneously, almost bringing their heads into contact. Con was not certain the reason for the closeness. No one else was in the room to overhear them.
“She’s a lovely chit. Easy to like.” The duke’s eyes gleamed. “To say nothing of her pedigree. The Drafford title goes back as far as the Conqueror.”
Con nodded slowly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Really, what else could he say?
“A feast for the eyes, too,” Birchwood added. “Such beauty.”
Con eased back a step, no longer able to endure the duke’s less than fragrant breath in such close proximity. The man had a penchant for cigars and pickled pollock for breakfast. “Indeed.”
The duke frowned at him. “You’re not a very demonstrative fellow. Been that way ever since you were a lad. Such a stoic little lad when you were dropped off with us.”
Days after his parents’ deaths? Yes. Stoic could apply.
“I thought you would have grown out of that,” the duke continued. “Reticence is not an admirable trait when courting a lady. A lady likes grand gestures.” Birchwood fluttered a hand in the air. “They like to be wooed . . . for a beau to make grand proclamations.” His fluttering hand curled into a fist as though he were seizing hold of something. “You have to be bold. Adventurous.”
Of course, he could not help but consider the irony in this. He wondered if this was the same advice Birchwood had given his youngest son, Malcolm, who died from a broken neck when he fell from the trellis he was scaling to reach the bedchamber of his latest paramour, the very beautiful—very married—Lady Feckingham.
He refrai
ned from asking, knowing Birchwood would not appreciate the reminder. The only thing more painful than the loss of his sons was the completely pointless way in which they had died. A splinter, a broken neck and choking. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be laughable.
Birchwood continued, “A man in love is a man of action.”
Constantine resisted pointing out that he was not a man in love.
His cousin Winston had been in love. Specifically, he had been in love with the Lady Elise. At least, by all accounts. Everyone had been telling him that since almost the moment he had arrived in London. Winston had doted on his bride-to-be. It might have been a match arranged by their families, but his cousin had heartily been in favor of it.
It seemed since he was to fill his cousin’s shoes, everyone thought he, too, should take on his cousin’s betrothed . . . and display all the necessary infatuation with a woman he found agreeable and yet for whom he felt nothing. Only polite apathy.
He supposed it was a sound solution, as long as the girl was agreeable. He could do no better than Lady Elise. He had no misapprehensions when it came to that. She was far better than he. His superior in every way. Which was why he already knew what he would do. If the lass would have him, he would take her to wife.
It was the honorable thing to do. Lady Elise had planned on marrying the next Duke of Birchwood, after all, and he was now that man.
Old Birchwood’s gaze looked off in the distance. “What month is . . .” His voice faded away as the answer came to him on his own. “Ah. Yes. They would have married by now. Dear Winston and Lady Elise.”
A whimsical smile brushed the duke’s lips as he nodded. “Perhaps I would have been looking forward to the arrival of my first grandchild by now, hm?”
An awkward silence fell.
The duke shook off his musings and his gaze sharpened, fixing on Constantine again. “You need to cease your dawdling. Life is short. No one knows that better than I do. Get married and get your heir secured.” His lips twisted. “And then work on the next one. There is no such thing as security, no guarantees, but you can shore up your resources. The more offspring the better.”
The Duke Effect EPB Page 8