When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  As long as the weather had been decent, Wakefield had maintained a sanguine confidence in Matilda’s self-sufficiency, perhaps too sanguine. His testiness now was reassuring, suggesting that he had not, in fact, hidden away his only offspring.

  “Matilda evidenced no desire to be doted upon.” A relief, considering Parker hadn’t the least notion how to dote on anybody save perhaps his horse. One could learn to waltz from a dancing master, but from whom, especially in the army, did one learn to dote on a female?

  He hadn’t regarded this shortcoming as a problem because Matilda was singularly lacking in dote-ableness.

  “The self-possessed ladies,” Wakefield said, “are precisely the ones most in need of cosseting. I speak not as a diplomat, but as a man once happily married. Shall we to the chessboard?”

  Ever the statesman. “I promise, when we find Matilda, I will dote, cosset, and fawn endlessly, if she’ll assure me she’s done with her adventures.”

  Wakefield led the way down a paneled corridor to his study. The town house was a monument to understated good taste. Fine art was on display—a Chinese vase here, a Dutch landscape there—but without ostentatious staging. The domicile was quietly lovely, much like the lady who’d dwelled here.

  “Shall you be black or white?” Wakefield asked, taking down a chess set from shelves behind his desk. “Guest’s choice.”

  “Which would you choose?”

  “Both have their charms.”

  Matilda had learned chess at an early age, presumably from her father, and she was a devoted student of the game. Parker himself had only occasionally won a match against his affianced bride, though her game was by turns measured and erratic.

  That combination of impulse and logic did not bode well for his efforts to locate her, much less before her father found her. Nonetheless, Parker would persist. This was not a battle he could afford to lose, even if that meant drastic measures where his prospective father-in-law was concerned.

  * * *

  The snow began to melt, and Matilda knew the time had come to take her leave of Brightwell. In less than a week, she’d made little progress organizing the shipwreck that was Mr. Wentworth’s estate office, another regret added to the many she already carried.

  The difficulty lay in his journals, which were by turns keenly insightful, jocular, philosophical, and compassionate. He of the brisk pragmatism, resented acres, and half-empty house had created that most tempting of lures, good literature.

  Though Mr. Wentworth’s penmanship truly was atrocious. This, oddly, made him less objectionable in Matilda’s estimation.

  “I intrude only to ensure you haven’t perished beneath a mountain of books or been tripped by the feline demons haunting my realm.”

  Matilda peeled Mr. Wentworth’s spectacles from her nose, for there he stood in the doorway, letting out all the warmth and looking unexpectedly dear. He lacked charm, he wasn’t genial, he had little in the way of witty banter, but he’d shown her more honor and decency in a week than she’d encountered in the previous four months.

  “Please close the door, sir.” Had she been so engrossed in the wonders of Tuscany in summer that she’d not heard him knock?

  He obliged but remained across the room. “That fellow you mentioned from the fairy tale must have dropped by, the one who brings order to chaos in exchange for a squalling infant.”

  Mr. Wentworth had missed supper the past two nights. From what Mrs. Newbury had said—and left unsaid—Matilda gathered that he was required to make up numbers at his neighbors’ gatherings.

  And therein lay one last problem she’d have to resolve before she took her leave of him. “Please have a seat, Mr. Wentworth. We must broach a delicate topic.”

  He took the chair behind the desk, a chilly perch because Matilda kept the draperies open. She needed the warmth and respite his hearth provided, but she needed to see freedom more.

  “I’m not paying you enough,” he said, rearranging pencils in a silver pen tray. “Very well, your wages are increased by half.”

  He shouldn’t be paying her at all, especially in light of how she planned to return his hospitality. “That will not be necessary.”

  “You are giving notice, then, mere days after taking on your task. I cannot blame you. If I can’t read my own handwriting, then there’s little hope—”

  She rose and rearranged her shawls. “I am not giving notice.” Nor would she ever give notice. She’d steal away under tonight’s cold quarter moon when the rest of the household slept. “My concern at present lies elsewhere. You have been socializing with your neighbors.”

  Mr. Wentworth made a face like a boy served a plate of cold turnips when he’d expected pudding.

  “According to some law held sacrosanct by rural hostesses,” he said, “males and females must be matched, like bookends or Dutch trotters. We’re to parade from the parlor to the dining room in pairs, converse in the same fashion at table, and waste our evenings in twosomes. God forbid the carpet should be rolled back for dancing after supper, and some unfortunate is forced to sit out a reel for lack of a partner. I suppose this explains why a gentleman always turns pages for a lady and, conversely, so the Commandment of Two remains unbroken.”

  He wasn’t even peevish. He offered a bored aside, his chin braced on his hand, index finger extended along his cheek.

  “What have you told the neighbors about me?”

  “Do you know, Miss Maddie, that when I enter a room, you immediately position yourself between me and the door, or at least as close to the door as I am?”

  A man who’d observed everything from the forced smiles of Parisian coquettes to the Roman bridges still in use in Vienna would notice that.

  Matilda returned to her seat. “I sit for long periods poring over your essays. I pace to stave off restlessness. Your staff looks in on me from time to time, and they will doubtless mention in the market and to their families that you have a female guest. How will you explain me?”

  Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose—a nice nose. Neither too large nor retiring, but assertive enough for a man of his intellect. His chin and jawline were similarly just right—defined without shading into boldness. Gainsborough or Lawrence wouldn’t have done him justice—they created portraits of fashion on human mannequins—but a Bernini sculpture would have been a fine medium for Mr. Wentworth’s likeness.

  Provided the sculpture was one of the artist’s works portrayed with clothing.

  “How will I explain you.” Mr. Wentworth rose and went to the hearth, putting Matilda in mind of a scholar getting to his feet to demonstrate his rhetorical skills. “I am required to explain another human being? Is it not burden enough making sense of my own situation? You decline to explain yourself, therefore, the question vexes me. You appeared in my woods at a time when an ally was much needed, and I repay my debts. Is that sufficient explanation?”

  Something was vexing him, though he hadn’t raised his voice. He used the coal scoop to add fuel to the fire, and then rearranged coals on the grate to allow air to circulate.

  “In the village,” Matilda said, “somebody will mention that a lady has come to bide at Brightwell. The poachers, wherever they are, will grumble about a woman waving a gun at them on the Wentworth property. Sooner or later, over a glass of port or in the churchyard, somebody will inquire of you regarding your guest. What will you say?”

  She needed to know this before she left Brightwell: What tale would he concoct about the woman he’d found in his woods, if he’d say anything at all?

  He replaced the fire screen flush against the bricks and tapped the end of the poker against the hearthstones, shedding minute portions of ash and coal dust onto the stones. Next, he swept the leavings into the ash scoop, and dumped the lot into the dustbin.

  How could such a tidy man have left his journals in such chaos?

  “I don’t know what to say about you; ergo, I’ll say nothing.” He dusted his hands and perched a hip against the desk.
“I had supper last night with Squire Peabody, who is the magistrate for our district, and your situation did not arise at any point in our conversation. Nonetheless, you should know that I won’t lie, Miss Maddie. Not on behalf of a woman who could well bring the constabulary down on my household for high crimes or infamous deeds.”

  Was any virtue rarer or more irksome than honesty? “The constables are not pursuing me. Does your penchant for telling the truth stem from your training for the church?”

  One boot swung impatiently. “I prefer honesty because lies are a damned lot of bother and seldom solve more problems than they create. I will tell the rubbishing neighbors that you are a connection fallen on hard times, and I am indebted to you for past generosities. You have agreed to assist me in restoring Brightwell to its former glory, and as I am without a hostess, your presence is most appreciated.”

  Why must he have such a gift for euphemism? “Don’t add that part,” Matilda said, “about the hostess. Such a comment begs the question of when you’ll be entertaining.”

  He rose from the desk. “Excellent point. No mention of needing a hostess, then, though if I did let on that you are here as the lady of the house, then the invitations might cease.” He turned his regard on the ceiling—a plain expanse of plaster—as if importuning the Almighty to deliver him from such tribulations.

  “If you don’t want to socialize, then simply refuse the invitations.”

  He paced away from the desk, his prowling making the room feel smaller. As estate offices went, the dimensions were commodious, particularly with many of the books shelved and the papers organized into boxes stored in the cabinets. Mr. Wentworth circling the desk made Matilda want to stand closer to the door.

  “But how does one refuse an invitation without arousing exactly the sort of questions you allude to, Miss Maddie? If I decline a dinner party, then at the Sunday service, I’ll be asked if I’m under the weather. If I send regrets to my neighbor’s musicale, some squire or other will ask if the plaguy books have fallen behind, which they have, by a decade or two.”

  “You dislike accounting?”

  He tossed himself into the chair behind the desk. “I have a proper respect for accounting. What’s wanted with Brightwell’s finances is something on the order of legerdemain. Even my cousin, the brilliant man of means, hasn’t found the time to bring this place to heel, suggesting that unless I learn to traffic in the dark arts, the task is impossible.”

  Matilda rose, poured him a brandy at the sideboard, and brought it to him. She’d done the same for Papa and the colonel more times than she could count. So far, she’d refrained from helping herself to Brightwell’s spirits.

  “My thanks,” Mr. Wentworth said. “Feel free to join me, if you’re inclined to ward off the chill. I have female cousins who can ward off chills at the pace of Scottish coachmen.”

  Matilda ought not. Ladies did not partake of strong spirits, though the aroma of apples and sweet spices, autumn sunshine in Acquitaine, and memories treasured by winter fires called to her. Who knew if she’d ever enjoy such a luxury again, much less in such good company?

  “Come,” Mr. Wentworth said, rising to put his full glass in her hand. “‘He who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’”

  “Samuel Johnson,” Matilda replied, loving the familiar feel of the glass against her palm. “Dr. Johnson made no provision for what girls, women, or heroines should imbibe.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t feel qualified to expound on the subject, or perhaps”—Mr. Wentworth could pour brandy and aim a curious gaze in Matilda’s direction—“he knew that women can be heroines without the fortification of spirits.”

  He saluted with his glass and took a sip, so Matilda tasted hers as well.

  The nose was exquisite: dignified, complex, and alluring. On the tongue, the brandy blossomed to keep the promises of sunshine on old wood, spices, and a hint of crème brûlée. She swallowed, and the fire in her belly started quietly, then gained strength until another sip became imperative.

  “The drink meets with your approval,” Mr. Wentworth said, “while my rejoinder, should I be asked about my houseguest, did not meet with your approval. Consider this, Miss Maddie: The Wentworths are an eccentric family.

  “The current owner of Brightwell was born in direst poverty,” he went on. “My cousin considered himself fortunate to wear footman’s livery, and then had to abandon even that occupation. He is now titled, wealthy, and well matched, and he holds his title because of his fortune, not the other way around. If I say that you are a connection from former days fallen on hard times, then who is to gainsay me?”

  She could believe Mr. Wentworth possessed aristocratic blood when he posited his question with such assurance, though a title, wealth, and eccentricity nearby on his family tree was bad news for Matilda indeed.

  “Your family situation compounds the problem,” she said. “A sudden rise in fortunes is a natural source of curiosity and begs further questions. Why can’t I simply be a competent amanuensis whom a fellow traveler recommended to help you organize your journals?”

  Stay as close to the truth as possible, in other words.

  Mr. Wentworth stared at his drink. In his lack of expression, in the absence of a rejoinder to Matilda’s suggestion, she grasped that his travel journals were not something others knew of.

  “You cannot be ashamed of having kept a diary of your journeys?” she said. “Your talent with a pen is far above the scribblings of the average peripatetic Englishman.” She planned to leave him and his brandy, his warm fires, and soft shawls in a matter of hours. The least she could do was offer him a few honest compliments before she departed.

  A tap on the door had Matilda nearly spilling her drink, while Mr. Wentworth made swift progress across the room.

  “Beggin’ your pardons, sir, ma’am.” The chatty maid—Danvers—stood in the corridor, curtsying repeatedly. “Cook said as I ought to find you and let you know that Mrs. Newbury is fallen sick. Cook thinks we might need a doctor, and the nearest quack is five miles off, and with all this snow…”

  “Mrs. Newbury is ill?” Mr. Wentworth asked.

  “She’s took to bed, sir, and Mrs. Newbury never takes to her bed.”

  “What are her symptoms?” Matilda asked, casually setting her drink on the desk. Heaven forbid the help should find her taking spirits with the master.

  “Missus has the flu, Cook thinks. Fever and chills, sore throat, and aches. Doesn’t want nothing to eat and won’t let nobody near her.”

  “This will not do,” Mr. Wentworth said. “The housekeeper is the household repository for medical knowledge. What has Mrs. Newbury asked for in the way of tisanes and plasters?”

  The maid glanced down the corridor, then past Matilda’s shoulder. “I’m sure Mrs. Newbury knows the tisanes and whatnot where she hails from, sir, but she isn’t from around here. We ask at the vicarage if the apothecary can’t help, or we make do.”

  Mr. Wentworth’s gaze went to the shelves crammed with books and monographs. “Perhaps we have an herbal somewhere on the premises, a treatise that might shed light on what’s to be done for her.”

  “I have yet to come across such a book,” Matilda replied, “and I’ve handled every learned tome, treatise, and pamphlet in this room.” She’d also seen influenza become lung fever and carry off healthy adults in less than a fortnight.

  Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose, the picture of a man preparing to shoulder one more burden he hadn’t asked for. Danvers stood in the doorway looking pale and worried.

  Mr. Wentworth would not ask Matilda for aid, or perhaps he could not, while the quarter moon would rise for the next several nights.

  “Influenza calls for honey,” Matilda said, “and lemons and whisky if you have them. Mint compresses, white willow bark tea by the gallon, and salted beef tea kept hot at all times.”

  She followed the maid through the door and left Mr. Wentworth alone in the warmth of the estate office.
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br />   Chapter Four

  Duncan had stayed away from the estate office for two and a half days, even subjecting himself to the company of his neighbors lest he be tempted to assess the progress Miss Maddie was making.

  Or to assess her.

  She looked marginally better. Rested, tidier. Still haunted but not as gaunt. Still cautious, though her hands didn’t shake.

  The transformation in the office left Duncan shaken. Where books, papers, and other estate flotsam had covered every level surface before, she’d freed the furniture of detritus, organized the books, and done God knew what with the papers. The silver pen tray, wax jack, and standish gleamed; the air no longer bore the musty scent of unbeaten carpets; the sconce chimneys were free of soot.

  A man could manage his estate from amid such order. Would a woman make such an effort in an office she intended to abandon?

  Another tap sounded at the door. “Come in.”

  A footman entered bearing a tray laden with a tea service, suggesting the kitchen wanted to impress Miss Maddie, for Duncan certainly hadn’t ordered any tea.

  “Miss Maddie is looking in on Mrs. Newbury,” Duncan said, and thank God for that, because medicine was one field of study Duncan had left Stephen to pursue on his own.

  “And we’re that glad she is,” the man replied. More of a boy, but then redheads tended to look youthful, especially skinny, freckled redheads. “Mrs. Newbury is a good soul, and influenza is a perilous misery. Where would you like the tea, sir?”

  The servants at Brightwell were unnervingly friendly. In London, as Lord Stephen Wentworth’s tutor and relation, Duncan had made a place for himself between staff and family. The result had been adequate stores of both privacy and deference.

  “The tray can go on the desk. Has Miss Maddie had the maids dusting in here?”

  The scent of jasmine wafted up from the teapot. Duncan hadn’t known his larders included any jasmine-scented brew.