The Duke Effect EPB

by Jordan, Sophie

  Who knew what a third day of Nora invading her kitchen would bring? Fortunately, Nora would not have to find out Cook’s reaction. She had reached her decision. Her things were packed and ready to go.

  As soon as she delivered this tea to the duchess and visited for a spell, she would be on her way to the train station with Bea, and that much sooner to forgetting all about Constantine Sinclair and how she had briefly shared his world and did things with him—to him. Intimate and wondrous things that she did not imagine happening again. Not with any other man. She would not feel the same craving for another man. It could not be duplicated. This much she knew.

  She winced. It was all terribly complicated, compounded by his proposal. As lacking as she had found that proposal . . . there was a part of her that wished it had been real—that it had been different.

  A footman held open the door for her and she entered the spacious bedchamber. The drapes were pulled back and the morning sunlight poured into the room.

  The lady of the house was not alone. She had visitors.

  Too late to turn back, Nora pressed on despite the room’s additional occupants. Her gaze skimmed over the duke and Constantine and then looked away as she carried the tray to the bedside table and gently set it down. Even with her gaze averted, she felt Constantine’s stare, sharp as a knife on her.

  She did not glance to the gentlemen again as she addressed the duchess. “I’m happy to see you looking so well today, Your Grace.”

  “It just had to run its course.” She nodded and looked pointedly in the direction of her husband. “That’s what I keep telling him. I detest the bloodletting. I feel terrible afterward.”

  Nora followed her gaze to the duke, finally facing the sight of him. He looked at her with a hint of something in his eyes. Sheepishness, perhaps? He had, after all, spoken to her so horribly in his wife’s bedchamber yesterday, prompting Sinclair to come to her defense. Birchwood had to feel a little awkward given the duchess had sent a maid to fetch her first thing this morning.

  Nora tracked Constantine with her gaze. He stood near the window, bathed in the morning light. He looked no worse for wear from last night’s events. At least there was that. He was well. No irreparable harm done.

  He caught her looking at him and she snapped her attention back to the tea, pouring a cup for the duchess, mentally chiding herself when her hand unaccountably trembled.

  “Here you go, Your Grace.” Nora lifted the teacup up for the duchess with both hands, forcing them steady.

  The lady accepted the cup and took a sip, wincing as she did so. “’Tis the most foul concoction, but it is effective at easing my muscles and aches and taking the edge off one’s pain.”

  “Are you still suffering, Your Grace?” Nora asked, frowning.

  The duchess slid a wary glance to her husband before answering, which informed Nora that there was indeed still some remaining discomfort, but she had no wish to openly divulge this truth. “No. Not really.”

  “Maude, m’dear.” The duke tsked. “If you are still hurting you cannot think to entertain tomorrow evening.”

  “Oh, I have a few minor aches in my shoulders and my hips, which I live with most of the time,” she snapped. “Rare is the day I do not suffer aches to some degree. I will not stop living my life and I most assuredly will not confine myself to a bed before I must do so.”

  Silence followed her outburst. The lady’s hand shook ever so slightly as she lifted her cup and took a few more sips of the tea Nora had prepared for her. With a contented sigh, she handed the cup back to Nora.

  “I’ll leave your maid the recipe for the tea,” Nora said, accepting the cup. “With instructions. As with any remedy, you could take too much. Don’t exceed the recommended dosage.” Papa had taught her to be moderate in the use of willow bark. Too much could be dangerous. As with anything . . . any tonic, the elements must be carefully balanced.

  Heat crept up her face and she couldn’t resist sneaking another look, only to find Constantine staring intently back at her. Of course. He was thinking of last night and how he had been affected from the dose he had taken.

  “Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” the duchess interjected, “but you won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

  Nora’s gaze shot back to the lady reclining on the bed. “I was planning to leave today, Your Grace.”

  “Nonsense!” The duchess waved a hand in rejection of that notion. “You cannot leave today. Not when I’ve planned a dinner party tomorrow night with you in mind.”

  She blinked. “Me?”

  “Why, yes, you. I’ve invited my dearest and oldest friend, Mrs. Prentiss, to dine with us. We’ve been friends ever since we came out together. She’s a widow now, but she has the most charming son. Dotes on her, he does. Such a devoted lad.” Her eyes grew misty and Nora suspected she was thinking of her own three sons, all lost to her. The moment passed, however, and she gave her head a slight shake as though clearing it. “You remember him, do you not, Constantine?” she asked in a voice that rang a fraction overly bright.

  Nora followed her gaze to Constantine. He remained near the window, as upright and rigid as ever. “I believe so, yes. Always with his nose in a book.”

  “Ah, yes, that was true then and remains so today. My godson, Vernon, is quite the scholar.” She preened, nodding as though that was the greatest endorsement she could offer to impress Nora.

  “How . . . nice.” Nora was not sure how to respond. “Literacy is always a good . . . thing.” What else could she say?

  “So no more talk of you leaving today. You must stay a little while longer.” The duchess clapped her hands once and held them together as though that settled the matter. She waited then, watching Nora expectantly.

  “I . . . um . . .” Her gaze drifted to the duke. After their exchange last night, she did not feel welcome here. He had made it clear he thought her inferior. She had been a harmless diversion in the duke’s household until she went against him. She knew that now.

  He stared back at her in silence, his lips pressed into an unforgiving line. He read her discomfort and he, of course, understood the reason for it. One word of encouragement from him would go a long way in appeasing her and making her feel welcome here again, and yet he held silent, locked in his aristocratic privilege. The man had likely never issued anything remotely resembling an apology in his life. He would not start now. She knew better than to expect that.

  “I agree with the duchess. You must stay. I insist,” Constantine spoke up, interrupting the staring spell between Nora and the Duke of Birchwood. “Her Grace has planned this dinner in your honor. You cannot disappoint her.”

  Nora considered him carefully, wondering if he was agreeing for himself or for the sake of the Duchess of Birchwood. Did he want her to remain for Her Grace? Or perhaps he wanted her to stay at Birchwood House, in small part, for himself?

  It felt like a dangerous thought and something she should not even be wondering. There was no purpose in it. There was no hope or possibility of anything romantic between them. Last night had simply been a consequence of a difficult situation. The tonic was the reason behind their tryst and she needed to keep that at the front of her mind.

  The duke frowned, the heavy lines of his face deepening. This time, however, his ire seemed focused on Sinclair. He did not even glance at Nora. It was as though she was invisible.

  Sinclair looked back at the older man, his expression mild, unaffected.

  “Indeed, Nora.” The duchess nodded cheerfully and pressed the point. “You cannot disappoint me.”

  “Come now,” Constantine coaxed. “You should have already left if you wished to catch the morning train.”

  A fair point. She had lingered in the duchess’s chamber longer than she intended.

  Constantine’s lips twisted wryly and she wondered what he truly thought of her staying here longer. After she rejected his most insulting proposal last night—if one could even call it a proposal—she had assumed h
e was ready to see the last of her. No doubt even eager for it. Then he could get back to his life and courtship of the lovely Lady Elise.

  Nora looked back and forth between them with a rueful smile. “How am I to deny such expert cajolers?”

  “Brilliant.” The duchess motioned to the tea that had undoubtedly gone cold on her bedside table. “We have much to do today in preparation.”

  “You should rest today so that you are in good form for tomorrow,” the duke interjected.

  “Hm,” his wife replied noncommittally with a vague wave of her hand. “Where is Mrs. Blankenship? If I am to stay in this infernal bed, then I must see her to go over all the arrangements.”

  “Would you like me to locate her for you?” Nora offered.

  “Oh, would you? Thank you, my dear.”

  Nora was only too happy to leave the chamber. Perhaps on her own, alone, away from them all, away from Sinclair, she could comprehend why she had agreed to stay here longer in this place where she did not belong.

  Chapter 23

  Constantine waited a moment after Nora departed the room and then gave a mental curse. Excusing himself, he followed her as though an invisible string connected him to her.

  “Nora,” he called, attempting to catch up with her in the corridor.

  She visibly stiffened, but continued walking as though she had not heard him. In fact, her strides seemed to quicken.

  She intends to ignore me now?

  Was this because of what they did in his bedchamber . . . or because of his colossal fumbling muddle of a marriage proposal? Perhaps it was both things. All the things. That seemed likely.

  He had mismanaged every bloody bit of it.

  His offer of marriage had felt the honorable thing to do at the time—but then he had not been thinking rationally. Not been feeling himself at all. He had been lost to the euphoric aftermath of his release.

  Never had he experienced such a climax. It had to be the tonic. Certainly his reaction was not particular to Nora. Any female could have brought forth such a reaction. Certainly what he felt for Nora wasn’t . . . unique.

  She had simply relieved his . . . affliction. Because that was what she did as a healer. She cured people.

  It just so happened to be that his affliction was a raging erection.

  He had been hasty with his words.

  Nora was still a maid. No one knew of her time in his bedchamber last night. Her reputation was intact.

  He should never have offered for her. He’d been out of his head. Of course she did not want him for a husband. He had not known her for very long, but he knew already that Nora Langley was an unorthodox female. She was not after marriage. It was not something to which she aspired.

  He lengthened his strides and called her name again.

  Finally, she stopped. He stared at the back of her, noting the rigid set to her shoulders. Slowly, she turned, her reluctance evident.

  She settled an icy cool gaze on him. “Yes?”

  He exhaled. “Thank you. Thank you for staying. I know you wanted to leave today.”

  Her cheeks pinkened. “I did not do this for you. Let us be clear on that.”

  “Of course. You’re doing it for the duchess.”

  She nodded slightly and some of the tension seemed to dissipate from her at his acknowledgment of this. “Her Grace has gone to the trouble of planning this dinner for me. I will attend.”

  “Of course.” He nodded, not caring her reason for staying, only stupidly, unreasonably glad that she was.

  She looked him over carefully. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Did she ask because she feared he was still afflicted with overwhelming lust and would pounce on her?

  “I am fine.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Better than well.

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  He had fallen into a dead sleep after she left him last night, his body sated, happy and replete from her . . . assistance.

  Even now, the taste of her lingered on his lips. He flexed his hands, his palms tingling as he recalled the shape of her hips in his hands.

  It was a complicated thing. He was conflicted with wishing he had done more with her, to her, and regretting that they had shared any intimacy at all. It was all vastly inappropriate and vastly unfair to her. He knew that.

  Without that tonic, without her invading his bedchamber when he was in such an unbridled state, he would never have touched her. He knew that, too.

  Constantine would have continued to resist the allure of her because he was all about reserve and restraint and duty. And doing his duty by her meant keeping his hands, and most importantly, his cock, to himself.

  He was courting another woman, on the verge of proposing to a female chosen for him by his family—the family to whom he owed everything.

  He may be plagued with this troubling lust for Nora Langley, but he would not succumb to it. Not again.

  The tonic may have broken down his will last night, but now he was in full possession of himself.

  Today he owned himself entirely. There would be no further missteps. No more moments of weakness.

  “I am glad to hear that. That is a relief.” She nodded with a distracted air, her gaze averting his as though she could not tolerate the sight of him, and that stung. He did not want her uncomfortable or repelled by him . . . and yet that might be inevitable.

  Footsteps sounded and they both turned to watch as a footman advanced down the corridor, his arms overflowing with fresh linens. He walked stiffly, eyeing them both.

  Constantine took her elbow and pulled her to the side of the hall with him so that the man could pass.

  The footman paused and nodded deferentially to Constantine. “Mr. Sinclair.” The man then looked at Nora and his eyes visibly cooled as they rested on her. He inclined his head only a fraction, a scarce nod for her. It was apparently all the respect the servant could muster.

  Anger stirred within him. He did not know why Birchwood’s staff treated her so shabbily. It was not blatant. He could not call anyone out directly for disrespect. They did and said all the right and proper things, but it was there, a subtle rebuffing. It must stem from the duke.

  The servants were always present. At least one of them, if not more, in every room at nearly all times. They had witnessed the duke’s cold treatment of her and they took their cues from him.

  The servant continued on his way.

  Nora pulled her arm from his grasp. Her fingers went where he had held her, rubbing the exposed skin as though she wished to rid herself of his lingering touch.

  That stung. Did his mere touch repulse her now?

  Her gaze followed the retreating servant. “You need not hover about me so much,” she said tightly. “Servants gossip. People talk.”

  He snorted. “I do not typically concern myself with what the servants think.” Right now, he felt particular irritation for Birchwood’s household staff.

  “You should care,” she snapped. “The servants hold a direct line to their masters. What the staff witnesses, what they know, what they think, does not stay private. Ultimately, it holds great weight.”

  He stared at her intently, assessing. She appeared truly concerned, her gaze fixed seriously on him.

  “You don’t strike me as someone who cares what others think,” he murmured.

  “I don’t.” She paused to inhale. “But you should.”

  “Me? Why should I care?”

  She gave a brief laugh and took a careful step away from him as though needing the distance. “You are going to be the next Duke of Birchwood. Appearances matter for you. That is your fate.”

  He wanted to deny that, but he could not. She was correct.

  He would become a duke, and with that he would have all the responsibilities thereof, including the very stated expectation that he would take his cousin’s betrothed to wife.

  In that moment, he felt trapped, cornered. Was that the effect of dukedom? To make h
im feel like a caged animal?

  Nora backed up several more steps. “We should keep our distance from each other for the remainder of my stay here.”

  He opened his mouth, wanting to deny that, to argue with that, but it made perfect sense. Of course. He should give her a wide berth. Given what had happened last night he should not even look at her, much less speak to her—and he should certainly never touch her, never be seen alone with her. That all seemed the most sensible course of action. It was not an unreasonable request.

  He nodded to her as she retreated. “Very well.”

  She held his gaze for one lingering moment and then turned away.

  He watched her go until she was out of sight.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” the duchess proclaimed the following morning, clapping her hands together as she admired Nora in her gown.

  “You really did not have to do this.” Nora grasped the luxurious fabric of her skirts.

  “After how kind and attentive you’ve been to me? A new dress is the least I can do for you, darling.”

  Bea, crouched at Nora’s feet, pinned the hem where it needed to be shortened. She nodded. “You look like a princess.”

  “Indeed,” the duchess seconded, her eyes bright and lively. “You can wear this tonight. I am sure dear Vernon will be quite besotted at the sight of you. You look a vision.”

  Nora had lost count of how many mentions of Vernon had occurred this morning. Clearly, the duchess was matchmaking. Nora fixed a placid smile on her lips, her fingers continuing to work in the luxurious folds of her skirts.

  “We need a ball gown for you, too, as I suspect there will be a magnificent ball in our future very soon.”

  The duchess waited, looking at Nora as though for great effect, to build anticipation. The lady glanced left and right, clearly fearing being overheard. Nora was not certain who she thought might eavesdrop as it was only Nora and Bea in the room.

  The duchess dropped her voice to a whisper. “You could wear it to Constantine’s betrothal ball.”