When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  “What have you there?” he asked, rising.

  “The journey from Venice to Vienna, where Lord Stephen learned from the wagon master how to curse in German.”

  “It’s more accurate to say Lord Stephen taught the wagon master to curse in English. I took some editorial license for the benefit of my English audience.”

  He truly did see these journals as one day being published, but apparently hadn’t done anything to achieve that objective, which was a loss for the reading public.

  “When I’m through with the south of France, I’ll start your Italian essays.” If I’m still here.

  Mr. Wentworth peered over Matilda’s shoulder. He was tall enough to do that, which should have made her nervous, though it did exactly the opposite. Matilda was less nervous when he was on hand and accomplished more on the days when he didn’t ride out. Her food settled more easily when she took her meals with him, and she’d learned to distinguish his footfalls on the carpets and stairs from everybody else’s.

  “I’ll put Vienna up here,” he said, taking the treatise and reaching above her head. “The German capitals being of less interest than the Italian. Italy is cheaper, and to most traveling abroad, that matters.”

  “How goes the war with the ledger books?” she asked.

  Matilda could sidle along the bookshelves and put distance between herself and Mr. Wentworth, and a week ago she might have. Now, she wanted to re-tie his cravat, for either he or his manservant had left the knot off center.

  “Stephen has a head for figures,” Mr. Wentworth said, gathering his shawl. “I am competent with numbers, but I don’t enjoy them. More to the point, I know exactly what the finances will reveal. In the usual fashion, my steward has over-procured everything from fence posts to harness leather. Mr. Trostle sells the excess for cash to the smallholders, who know they’re getting a better price than the sawmill or tanner will give them.

  “The steward then claims the inventory has been used on the Brightwell estate,” he went on, “which assertion is impossible to contradict. My dairyman sells a dozen weanlings and records only eighty percent of the revenue realized, and so on and so forth.”

  Schemes such as these were so prevalent as to be regarded by some as a perquisite of senior employment in a large English household. The lines of integrity were blurred by custom: Housekeepers were often entitled to the unburnt ends of wax candles, butlers to the empty wine bottles. Housekeepers were thus tempted to change candles more frequently than necessary, while butlers opened more bottles of wine than were needed to accommodate a meal. The excess was consumed belowstairs rather than allowed to go to waste, and life went on.

  If the land steward was that obvious about his graft, though, then Mr. Wentworth needed to put a petty king in check.

  “Make an example,” Matilda said. “Drop by the lumberyard where the fence posts were purchased, ask the merchant for his version of the transaction. Do the same with the tanner, and then confront your steward before witnesses—Lord Stephen and a pair of footmen will do nicely. Your dairyman will give notice within a fortnight.”

  Matilda’s hands were in motion before she’d given them leave, and they reached for Mr. Wentworth’s cravat. He stilled, like a wild creature focusing on approaching footsteps. And yet, he tolerated her re-tying his neckcloth, even to the moment when she centered the plain gold pin anchoring the whole.

  A man with eyes that blue should have a sapphire pin, even for everyday.

  “You have no husband at present,” Mr. Wentworth said, shifting to regard himself in the glass-fronted bookcase near the sideboard. “But you had a father or brother whom you regarded with some affection, or perhaps a husband gone to his reward. Nicely done.”

  “I like order.” Matilda craved order, now especially. “I apologize for presuming, but you were off center.”

  He swirled her shawl from his shoulders and settled it over hers. The gesture was as graceful as a dancer’s and much more alluring.

  “That I am,” he said, “off center. The condition is of long standing. You needn’t trouble yourself over it.”

  He remained before her, his hands holding the hems of her shawl. If he tugged, she’d step closer, and she’d do so willingly.

  “Onward to Vienna,” he said, moving toward the door. “I’m thinking of hiring an under-steward.”

  “A trainee, before you sack the crook you have now. Shrewd. An assistant dairyman hired at the same time would attract less notice.”

  “Though paying double wages will take a toll.” He paused by the door to look around the office, which was an altogether lighter, tidier place than it had been when Matilda had arrived. She’d also prevailed on the staff to equip the room with lavender sachets to discourage bugs, and had the carpets beaten halfway to…Dorset.

  “You mentioned that Lord Stephen is friendly,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I have instructed him that utmost discretion is necessary regarding your presence at Brightwell.”

  “Thank you.” Matilda hadn’t known how to raise that topic.

  Mr. Wentworth’s expression shifted, becoming even more severe than usual. “If Lord Stephen’s friendliness ever approaches the point where you feel burdened or threatened, you will apply to me immediately.”

  Lord Stephen was a flirt, but as Mr. Wentworth had pointed out, his lordship was a flirt who could not give physical chase. He could reveal a woman’s secrets in the churchyard, though, a thought that had kept Matilda awake at night.

  “If his lordship should overstep, what would you do?”

  “Break his arms, then put him in a coach for London with instructions never to return upon pain of death.” Arms plural, and Mr. Wentworth was in earnest.

  Matilda crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That is the most charming expression of gentlemanly regard I have ever received.”

  He slipped out the door before she could make an even greater fool of herself.

  * * *

  The snow was melting, which Duncan took for a false dawn before winter blossomed into full nuisance-hood. Mud for Stephen was more than a nuisance, though his lordship loved to be on horseback.

  “The sunshine feels good,” Stephen said. “That doesn’t change whether we’re in Sardinia, Copenhagen, or godforsaken Berkshire.”

  The morning was winter-bright and winter-cold, but, as Stephen had said, the sunshine was a benevolence on Duncan’s exposed cheeks and brow. Like the kiss of a woman who did not bestow affection casually.

  “Why don’t you have your own sawmill?” Stephen asked. “You’ve trees enough.”

  “I suspect Brightwell still has its hedges, groves, and forests because stealing lumber cannot be done subtly. Had my steward taken down a hedgerow of elms, the theft would have been obvious to all, and the proceeds hard to disburse when lumber must season before being sold.”

  As a consequence, the home wood was large and overgrown, the hedgerows wide and equally unkempt, and the game abundant. No wonder poachers had been attracted to the property.

  “You like that your manor house hides within a forest primeval,” Stephen said. “If I visit again next year, I’ll find vines choking the drive and ivy enshrouding your windows. I do wonder if I’ll find Miss Maddie tucked away with you here as well.”

  “Ask her and I will toss you from one of those windows. She is not to be pestered by your curiosity or by your wandering hands, Stephen.”

  Though Maddie’s hands on Duncan had felt…he searched for words, rummaging around in French and German before resorting to English: delightful, soothing, upsetting, presuming, good.

  She had fussed with him as women tidy their menfolk, part admonition, part affection, like the tap of the sword on a knight’s shoulder in the accolade ceremony. For those moments, holding still so she could straighten his cravat, Duncan’s mind had been empty of thoughts. He’d been a purring tomcat, purely enjoying physical closeness to a comely female.

  Enjoying being cared about personally, however mundane t
he expression of that caring.

  “They will ask about your Miss Maddie,” Stephen said. “The sisters, Quinn, and Jane. Even Bitty likes to know what’s afoot with Cousin Duncan.”

  Bitty—Elizabeth—was Jane and Quinn’s eldest, a busy little sprite of five. Duncan adored her, despite her tendency to climb on his person, investigate his pockets, and demand stories by the dozen.

  “Stephen, you will respect my confidences where Miss Maddie is concerned or you will no longer be welcome in my house. Whether I am employing a female amanuensis, a French under-gardener, or three running footmen from darkest Peru is nobody’s concern but my own.”

  Stephen’s horse came to a halt and lifted its tail. “So she’s a damsel in distress.” Stephen rose in his stirrups and leaned forward while equine flatulence joined the morning breezes. “Duncan’s damsel in distress. How can I possibly keep that miracle to myself?”

  The horse resumed its plodding.

  “You taught yourself to walk,” Duncan said, “when every physician in London claimed the cause was hopeless. Surely you can manage to maintain silence on one very dull topic.”

  Stephen changed the subject to the various trees flourishing on Brightwell’s acres, until Duncan drew his horse up in the sawmill’s main yard. The place reeked of mud and the pungent tang of cut lumber. The morning air was punctuated with male voices singing to the rhythm of the saws about a frog marrying a mouse.

  “Why did we travel all over the Continent,” Stephen murmured, “when we could have instead enjoyed the many wonders of nearby Berkshire?”

  They’d traveled for different reasons. To prove that Stephen’s disability was an inconvenience, not a death sentence. To broaden their minds. To escape the increasing respectability of Quinn and Jane’s household, and all the domesticating that went with it.

  Also to put distance between Duncan and the past.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” a large, blond fellow said. “Tobias Pepper, at your service.”

  Duncan touched his hat and remained in the saddle. “Duncan Wentworth, late of Brightwell, and my cousin, Lord Stephen Wentworth.”

  “Plymouth!” Mr. Pepper shouted. “Take the horses for the fine gentlemen.”

  If somebody took the horses, then Stephen would have to dismount. He rode with his canes affixed to the saddle by means of a leather scabbard such as soldiers used for a rifle or sword. Even with a pair of canes, heavy muck was slow, uncertain going.

  Stephen kicked his feet from the stirrups and slid down the horse’s side, meaning Duncan was to do likewise.

  “Always a pleasure to meet a new neighbor,” Pepper said. “Heard you was come to Brightwell. Fine old property like that needs tending.”

  Pepper’s observation held more curiosity than reproach. Would Pepper and Brightwell’s steward transact more business? Would Brightwell open its own sawpit? What exactly prompted members of the ducal family to call upon the mill owner in person?

  “You have a fine property too,” Stephen said, doing his impression of the Eager Young Lord. “Have you considered installing a circular saw?”

  If an invention had been patented, Stephen knew of it. If the military was designing a new weapon, Stephen often sent them critiques of the proposed features. Circular saws powered by steam were popular among the Dutch, and the Americans were using them too. The navy had a few, though such modern machinery had yet to find its way into the countryside.

  “The circular saws make a damned lot of noise, your lordship,” Pepper replied. “Pardon my language. My men are hard workers and we turn out good lumber.”

  “Your men can turn out a dozen boards a day, assuming they’re working elm or ash,” Stephen replied. “The circular saws can turn out two hundred boards a day, even working oak.”

  Duncan was about to send Stephen the “stop showing off” look, except Stephen wasn’t merely displaying his head for facts and figures. He was putting Pepper on the defensive, a possible prerequisite to obtaining honest answers.

  “If your worship is considering opening a sawpit and getting one of them fancy saws, isn’t that a discussion to be had with Mr. Trostle?”

  “My steward is otherwise occupied this morning,” Duncan said. “If you can spare us a few minutes in your office, I’d like to put some matters to you directly.”

  The singing stopped—a cat had devoured both the frog and the mouse, though first the couple had spoken their vows—and only the rhythmic whine of a saw continued.

  “My office is around to the side,” Pepper replied with the air of a boy who knows exactly how a trip to the woodshed will end.

  The conversation confirmed what Duncan had suspected: Trostle was a thief, and not a very bright one. Pepper knew what had become of the fence posts he’d sold to Trostle at a fair price, because the yeomen who’d bought them from Trostle had bragged in the village pub of their bargain. Those same neighbors didn’t dare alert Duncan to the scheme, or they’d be buying their lumber at Pepper’s higher prices.

  “And what you hear in the pub,” Stephen said, climbing onto his horse twenty minutes later, “is bound to be more reliable than anything you hear in the churchyard.”

  “Or from the pulpit,” Duncan muttered. “Trostle is also selling our honey, cheese, flowers, and kitchen produce.” Mrs. Newbury had passed that much along in innuendos and asides. “The London distributors give him two receipts. One for my books, one for his own. She’s seen them transacting business on market days.”

  Stephen sheathed his cane in its scabbard, and if anybody thought it peculiar that Stephen used the lady’s mounting block, they knew better than to say so.

  “How can you even consider allowing Trostle to remain in your employ?” Stephen asked. “He’s relying on Mrs. Newbury to keep his secrets, implicating her by silence, and doubtless threatening her position with a few casual remarks. I hate Trostle and I’ve not even met him.”

  The singing from the sawpit resumed, this time a tale about walking hand in hand out past the lea rig, where, according to the lyrics, activities other than ploughing or herding were on the couple’s agenda.

  “Trostle is likeable,” Duncan said. “The best villains usually are.”

  “And you don’t want to sack him? I’ll sack him. Turn Miss Maddie loose on him and he’ll be gone before noon.”

  Her again. She nestled in Duncan’s thoughts like a friendly kitten, always finding the warmest, softest places to bide.

  “Stephen, if you think to pry from me the secrets of her past, the exercise is pointless. I don’t know her secrets and I don’t wish to know them. She is under my protection, as any member of my household is, but that doesn’t entitle me to invade her privacy.”

  Or her bedroom, though she’d invaded Duncan’s dreams. In the deep quiet of the night, he felt her kiss on his cheek, softer than the winter sunshine, warmer and more welcome. Why had she done that? Why had she given him—a man she barely knew—such an unmistakable sign of approval and affection?

  “Yours is the minority view among Wentworths,” Stephen said. “To a Wentworth, privacy is like the pretty paper hiding a gift, there to be torn aside. Though if in five years of sharing coaches, inns, meals, and scenic views with you, I haven’t found the key to tearing aside your infernal silence, then I can’t expect to make much progress with Miss Maddie, can I?”

  “Don’t try, Stephen. A confidence should be offered, never compelled.”

  And that was what her kiss had been—a confidence. Duncan’s mind should have been eased to have put the right term to the gesture, but like Stephen confronted with a prettily wrapped gift, Duncan’s curiosity was only enflamed.

  “Sometimes, a confidence is offered without the confider knowing it,” Stephen replied. “We’re in for more snow.”

  “And with Yuletide mere weeks away. What a shocking departure from the norm.”

  “We’re in for more snow by this time tomorrow. Might I build a lift at Brightwell? The back stairs will have smaller landings if we im
plement the design I have in mind, but large landings don’t serve much purpose. I can install some dumb waiters, too, the kind that bring items up from the kitchen by using a lift in a cupboard. You could do with some laundry chutes as well.”

  No, Duncan did not need laundry chutes, but anything that resulted in less use of stairways was of interest to Stephen.

  “I suppose your modernizations will make the place easier to sell,” Duncan groused. “Do your worst, but keep accurate records. Quinn will likely have Mrs. Hatfield go over my books before he admits I haven’t made this place profitable.”

  “I’d sooner meet Wellington over pistols than have Mrs. Hatfield nosing about my ledgers. I know the bank needs a competent auditor, but that woman takes a missing penny as proof of felony motives.”

  Duncan liked Mrs. Hatfield, though he wondered where she’d come by her accounting skills. “I would rather miss a few pence than deny you the joy of your little projects. You are quarrelsome when bored, and I treasure my peace.”

  Stephen’s little projects always became major, noisy, messy undertakings—also expensive—but they made him happy and made his life easier. If turning Stephen loose redesigning the back stairs made Quinn’s challenge harder to meet, well, Duncan hadn’t expected to succeed, and this morning’s outing only made the prospect more daunting.

  “You should sack Trostle,” Stephen said, as the horses slogged through a particularly long set of mud puddles. “Sack him now.”

  Stephen was right, of course. “You offered that opinion previously.”

  “Think of it this way: If you allow him to continue his pilfering and petty tyranny over the staff, you are worse than he is, leaving a thief to run your estate and encourage more larceny. A competent fellow of spotless moral character is on hand to do the job, and he will attract others of similar integrity.”

  “Do you refer to yourself?”

  Stephen turned his face to the sky, where clouds were trying to crowd out the sun to the west. “You aren’t even jesting. I refer to you, Cousin Dunderpate. You don’t lie, you don’t pry, you don’t engage in fisticuffs when you know you could lay the other fellow out flat with one punch. You probably don’t even want to know that Miss Maddie’s last name is Wakefield.”