“Dexter? Oh yes, he came through here not long ago.”
“Jem?” He tried not to sigh in exasperation, but he only needed a moment of her time.
“Right. Ummm, he had some people with him. I think they went into the parlor. So did Mother.”
She waved her hand toward the end of the room, where the parlor was located.
“People? Oh, right — the architect.” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “I completely forgot.”
“And you call me absentminded.”
When she finally looked up at him, her eyes widened and she snorted.
“You certainly cannot greet them looking like that.”
“Why not?”
“You look as though someone just gave you a sound pummeling.”
“I actually came out the victor, thank you very much.”
He looked down at himself and saw that his sister had a point.
She was shaking her head now.
“I really don’t understand why you continue to go back to Jackson’s.”
He walked over to the table and tweaked her nose as though she was still a girl and not a woman over twenty.
“And I don’t understand why you enjoy mixing your liquids in here all day, but I leave you be, don’t I?”
“Fair point.”
“Very well. I best wash up and then I’ll meet with the architect. Though I wish Mother hadn’t pressured me into hiring one. We have no money to pay for him.”
“That’s why you’re supposed to marry someone wealthy,” Jemima said absently, returning to her work, apparently dismissing him.
Val sighed as he found the stairs and began to trudge up to his room. Truth be told, the only joy he could find in his current life was through some physical activity and boxing served the dual purpose of keeping up his strength as well as releasing the tension that seemed to build as he sat at his damned desk all day working in the ledgers the old duke had left. Val had fired his man of business who had supposedly handled everything but truly bungled it all. Val was determined to figure this out on his own before he trusted another to look after things for him.
He entered the large ducal suite, aware that it was too depressing, too dismal. It made him feel as though he was living in some remote Scottish castle. He’d have the architect take a look at this room, see if there was anything to be done.
Although his sister had said that architects had arrived — he only recalled asking one to come to consult with him. He certainly couldn’t afford two. Hopefully the man had simply brought an assistant.
He stripped off his bloody shirt and threw it on the bed, realizing as he did so that he had forgotten to call for the valet, and Dexter wouldn’t know to tell Archie he had returned. Well, soon enough, word would get round that he was home and Archie would be through the bedroom door and ready to offer him his assistance as well as his commentary.
He was not the most conventional of servants, but he was one of the few not constantly awaiting his every command, which was beginning to unnerve him.
Well, until Archie arrived, he supposed he could select his own clothes.
He opened the door to his dressing room, reaching out a hand as he did — and touched something very soft, very silky, and very smooth.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, opening the door wider to allow more light in.
There stood a woman, her greenish-brown eyes wide as they stared at him over a pert nose. Her jet black hair was pulled back from her head, seemingly long and straight as pieces tumbled down from the pins over her back. What he couldn’t tear his eyes away from? Those cherry-red lips, just begging to be kissed. They parted now, as though she was about to say something, but just then he heard a sound from the corridor.
“Your grace?”
Not Archie. Dexter.
For a moment, Val forgot that he was a duke, that he had no one to answer to but himself. He went back to being a young man, who was frightened of his father discovering any transgression. Before he could even think of what he was doing, he stepped into the dressing room, nearly pressing himself against the woman, and shut the door behind him.
* * *
Rebecca stood so still in shock that she had no idea what she was supposed to do next. She was an intelligent woman. She should have a witty response on the tip of her tongue.
But inspiration had never come quickly to her. Rather, she had to stew on something, turn it over in her mind until just the right thought entered and answered her current problem.
“Ah… you must be the Duke of Wyndham,” she finally managed before sensing movement. “Did you just nod?”
“I did,” he said, his voice deeper, rougher than she had expected. “My apologies. Rather idiotic of me. Yes, I am the Duke of Wyndham.”
“Well, I cannot say this is how I thought I would make your acquaintance.”
“Rather silly for us to be hiding in here,” he said with the slightest of chuckles. “I, ah, saw a beautiful woman, heard a voice in the hall, and acted on instinct.”
“To hide with a woman?” she asked, pleased that he couldn’t see the flush in her cheeks at being called beautiful.
“Err…”
“You don’t need to answer that,” she said quickly. What had gotten into her?
But then he laughed. His laugh was a low rumble that began deep in his chest before resounding throughout the dressing chamber. It was one of those laughs that was so contagious, one had no choice but to join in.
And so she did. It was freeing, chasing away both the awkwardness for a moment and the need for either of them to say anything within this strange encounter.
“I think he’s gone now,” the duke said after their laughter subsided, and sure enough, the sounds of his butler calling out “Your grace?” was no longer. “Poor Dexter. He will be most distressed. At least he likely found my shirt to take to the valet for laundering. That should keep him busy for a time.”
“Your shirt?”
“Yes, it had some… stains.”
“I see.”
Rebecca was quite confused by this entire encounter, but who was she to question a duke?
“I, ah, best be going now,” she said, slowly inching around him, doing all she could to not slide her body over his as she sought the door. Relief swept over her when she found the handle, and she turned the knob open, allowing light to enter once more though she didn’t look back. “I shall see you in the parlor,” she managed, before slipping out the door and nearly running out of the bedroom, along the corridor, and down the stairs.
* * *
Valentine stood there in shock, staring after the beauty. One look at her and he had turned into a blithering fool.
It was this entire new situation, he told himself. He was having a difficult time learning how he was supposed to interact with his peers, his servants, and… whoever this woman was. As she had escaped his room so quickly that he nearly wondered if she had seen a mouse, he realized that he had no idea who she was or what she was doing in his bedchamber. Apparently not a gift, he realized with a rueful laugh.
He was right in that his soiled shirt had been taken away, but he knew it would take him a great deal longer to dress himself than with the help of his valet. With company about he was expected, as a duke, to always be fully dressed in a waistcoat and cravat, as uncomfortable as they were. He walked to the door, throwing it open.
“Archie!” he bellowed, but instead of seeing his valet approach, a tall, distinguished gentleman he had never seen before was wandering down his corridor. What in the…
“Hello, sir,” the man said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ah… I’m not entirely sure,” Val said, scratching his hair, which had been cut fairly short upon his arrival in London. He missed his usual longer locks. “Just who are you?”
“Why, I am Albert Lambert, of course.”
“Lambert — the architect. Right,” Val said, frowning. What kind of architect had he hired? “I thought you wer
e awaiting me in the parlor.”
“The parlor? We finished the parlor weeks ago!” Lambert said, further confusing Val. “We must now continue with the ballroom.”
“That will be the last of it,” Val said. “We must make sure we build my sister a proper laboratory first.”
“Laboratory?” the man repeated back to him, a frown marring his face. “I wasn’t told of a laboratory.”
“Yes, well, I will explain everything when we discuss the project further,” Val said, relieved when he saw Archie approaching down the hall. “I will be down to meet with you shortly, Mr. Lambert. My apologies for my tardiness.”
He stepped back into the room, Archie following him with a questioning look, as Mr. Lambert nodded and strode away in the other direction.
My, but this was a strange day.
3
Rebecca tapped her foot as the duke finally entered the room and took a seat next to his mother. The four of them now — finally — sat around the small table in the middle of the room, the duke and his mother in mismatched chairs, Rebecca and her father on a worn sofa across from them.
She looked up, catching the duke’s eye, and he quirked an eyebrow at her, causing a bit of heat to rise in her cheeks.
Her quick glimpse of him before he had entered the dressing room and shut the door behind him, encasing them in darkness, had primarily been directed at his chest, which had lain bare before her eyes.
To be fair, Rebecca hadn’t seen many men without clothing on. But she knew much of architectural planes and lines, of exquisite sculptures and works of art.
Which this man was.
From his chiseled shoulders down his bulging biceps, back to his chest which seemed as though it had been etched in granite, he was a vision. She had no idea what he did to achieve such physique, but had she been asked, she would have suggested he continue it.
Now she had a much better view of his face. He was blond, like his sister, though his hair was a darker shade than hers. His dark-blue eyes were deep set, his nose prominent, but unnaturally so. Rebecca guessed that it had been broken a time or two. She assumed some might say it detracted from his looks, but she had always been attracted to the unconventional — the anomalies in stone, the façade that didn’t quite fit the rest of the neighborhood, the ability to bring the natural world indoors, with all of its unique qualities.
His lips, which reminded her of a man who smiled often, quirked once more, reminding her of the secret they shared.
“Valentine, how lovely of you to join us,” his mother said, her smile wide as she placed a hand on his arm when he took a chair next to her. “I know how busy you are with all of your ducal responsibilities.”
“That was no excuse to keep Mr. Lambert waiting. And… I am not sure I caught your name,” he said, meeting Rebecca’s eye. She pursed her lips to keep from smiling once again at his nonchalance.
“I am Rebecca Lambert,” she introduced herself. “I assist my father with secretarial duties. Taking notes and that type of thing.”
She lifted her notebook and pencil to show him.
“Very good,” he said with a nod. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Lambert. I apologize for our fleeting meeting upstairs.”
Rebecca’s heart stopped. The duke had encountered her father? She looked back and forth between them for a sign that anything was amiss. He and Dexter had finally reconvened with her in the parlor and the butler had seemed rather flustered. She wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, though her father had looked around the room with some confusion.
“I thought we had finished this already,” he had murmured before she had looked him in the eye and quietly reminded him of why they were there. Recognition had quickly returned, and she had smiled at him encouragingly, though she remained somewhat concerned.
“All is well,” her father said simply, and Rebecca sighed in relief, though her shoulders remained tight and she hoped they could finish the meeting quickly, in case her father’s memory fled once more.
Rebecca opened the sketch pad so that it would seem that there was a reason as to why she was the one asking questions.
“Now, your grace, what can we do for you?”
“As you can see,” he said, waving a hand around the room, “this house is…”
“A travesty!” Rebecca’s father said, a finger in the air.
Rebecca tried to inconspicuously bring his hand down.
“Ah, yes,” the duke said with a short bark of laughter. “It is, in a way.”
“But we would like you to return it to all of its glory!” Mrs. St. Vincent exclaimed, as prone to pronouncements as Rebecca’s father seemingly was.
“Er, yes,” the duke said with a quirk of his lips as Dexter re-entered the room and passed him a roll of papers. “We have the plans from the original architect—”
“Not needed!” Rebecca’s father said, shaking his hand in front of him. “I do not work from the plans of another.”
“But, perhaps, it would be helpful, Father, for you to have the originals,” Rebecca said softly. “Then you can see what was done in the past.”
She placed a hand on his knee and looked at him intently.
“Very well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
Rebecca’s father had long had a flair for the dramatic. It was part of what made him the renowned genius he was, but in the past, his bit of theatrics had lost him more than one commission.
The duke laid out the plans on the table before them.
“Everything is here,” he said. “The previous duke, well, he was quite ill. Before that, I believe he lost most of his fortune.”
“Valentine!” Mrs. St. Vincent admonished him, obviously not pleased he had shared such information with commoners.
“Well, it is true,” he said with a shrug. “Mr. Lambert should know what will be ahead of him here.”
“Do you, your grace, have the funds to pay for my services?” Rebecca’s father asked. Rebecca stilled for a moment. Her father was sometimes too direct, although she understood his question. If the duke couldn’t afford to pay them, there was no reason for them to be there. They no longer primarily worked for fame or for renown. They worked to stay financially afloat.
“I do,” the duke said, though Rebecca caught his hesitation. “For a time, anyway.”
“Valentine will be married soon!” Mrs. St. Vincent said, clapping her hands together in glee. “His new wife will bring with her a dowry that will pay for the rest of your work while the duke puts all of his holdings in order. Isn’t that right, Valentine?”
Rebecca’s eyes flew to the duke. She should have known a man like him — a good-looking young duke — would not be a single man for long. Why it mattered, she had no idea. Yes, she was attracted to him, but that meant nothing. Likely every woman who became acquainted with him was attracted to him. He was a duke and a young, handsome one at that. She was the daughter of an architect and, besides, she had much more important issues to currently be concerned with.
Like that which was before her.
“Congratulations, your grace,” she murmured, but he was already shaking his head.
“Nothing has been decided and I do not currently have a betrothed,” he said with a pointed look at his mother. “My mother is a bit… excited.”
Mrs. St. Vincent looked slightly admonished, but she shrugged.
“You will very soon, I am sure.”
“So you would like us to finish the details of the mansion?" Rebecca asked.
“Yes,” he said before his mother cut in.
“In addition to the furnishings. And then there is the country estate.”
“Ah, Mother, I’m not sure…”
“It needs significant refurbishment,” she said, which the duke shrugged at as though he agreed, despite the somewhat pained expression that crossed his face.
“What I would like are some modernizations,” he said, and Rebecca felt her father stiffen beside her now.
“Modernizations?
” her father asked. “Would that not ruin the character of the house?”
“Nothing extravagant,” the duke said, leaning forward. “I would be interested in perhaps a water closet with drainage.”
“There is the potential,” Rebecca said, forgetting herself for a moment as she tapped her pencil upon her lips. “Though it can be tricky within an existing building.”
“You must work quite closely with your father,” the duke said, eyeing her intently, and Rebecca placed her pencil back on the paper, attempting nonchalance.
“I do. Forgive me, Father, I became ahead of myself.”
“Why not this?” the duke suggested. “Perhaps we do a tour of the house — together this time — and I will review everything that we need. You can provide me with an idea of what the cost will be, and I will tell you what I am able to spend. We will do so here and then continue on to the country estate. But first, I need to know, are you interested? Will you take on the work?”
“You come very highly recommended, Mr. Lambert,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, folding her hands in her lap. “Lady Alberta told me of all you did for their family’s home, and I just knew that you would be the best one to help us.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca’s father said. Modesty was one quality he most certainly was not known for. “Rebecca and I greatly enjoyed our time with their family. We stayed at their estate to oversee the work.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware that you did so.”
“Some do not,” he said, turning to her, his regality rivaling hers. “I, however, must ensure that everything I design is completed exactly as I imagine it. Isn’t that right, Rebecca?”
“Yes, Father,” she murmured.
“Well, we will ensure you have all you need,” Mrs. St. Vincent said. “Won’t we, Valentine?”
“Of course, Mother,” he said, though he hadn’t removed his gaze from Rebecca, which was causing tingles to run through her entire body. Oh, this wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all.
“We should be going,” she said, jumping up quickly, despite the stares from the others in the room. Suddenly, however, she could hardly breathe with the duke’s proximity and she sensed the need to be out of this room and away from his as quickly as possible.
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 2