“I’m sorry.”
Rebecca turned swiftly to find Jemima at her shoulder. “My mother is not entirely comfortable with speaking of our past. We come from a much different place, and others do judge us for it.”
“I understand,” Rebecca said softly so that Mrs. St. Vincent couldn’t hear their conversation. “Our lives have been interesting as well, being commoners and yet spending so much time among the nobility. I apologize for my questions.”
“My mother… she has known loss as well,” Jemima said, her smile faltering for a moment, but she didn’t further elaborate. “Now all she can think of is holding on to what, to her, was a miracle.”
“The dukedom.”
“Yes.” Jemima nodded sagely, her expression indecipherable, as she gazed off into the distance. “It seems she is prepared to continue on. We are not far now.”
Rebecca nodded, seeking out her father once more as they returned. Instead of capturing his attention, however, her gaze arrested on the duke. He made a fine figure on his mount, that was for certain. The sun cast a bronze light on his chiseled jaw, a gust of the wind that marred the otherwise fine day pushing back a sandy lock of hair from his forehead — a lock that Rebecca would very much like to be teasing with her fingers herself.
Ridiculous, she told herself as his eyes caught hers, and one side of his lips curled in recognition of her study of him. Her breath caught, but she mercifully managed a brief nod, hoping that he would suppose she was simply admiring the scenery when he had entered her vision.
Not likely, but one could hope.
She turned quickly and re-entered the carriage, where Rebecca thought it prudent to change the topic of conversation, judging by the way Mrs. St. Vincent was avoiding her gaze, her hands in her lap gripping one another tightly as she stared out the window as though the scenery proved far more interesting.
“Tell me of Stonehall Estate,” Rebecca said imploringly. “Have you been before? What is it like?”
“It’s finished, at least,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, and Rebecca nodded, waiting for more. When the elder St. Vincent woman said nothing, Jemima took up the conversation.
“It is most impressive,” she said, “though it was built some time ago — in the 1500s, I believe. It is built of fine materials and structurally, it is sound.”
Apparently, Jemima was not particularly keen on aesthetics.
“Well, we look forward to touring it — both of us.”
“We can hardly wait for you to see it,” Mrs. St. Vincent said dryly.
When Jemima turned to her with a secret smile, Rebecca knew the two of them would be fast friends.
7
Valentine’s saving grace was that he hadn’t had to spend the entirety of the six-hour ride to Stonehall Estate ensconced in a carriage with Rebecca Lambert.
He would hardly have been able to contain himself.
As it was, he was tempted to rush over and escort her down from the carriage as though he was courting the woman. Thankfully, his mother was sure to provide her arm for him to assist her.
Had he remained simply Valentine St. Vincent and not become the Duke of Wyndham, Rebecca would have made a suitable bride for him. In fact, she likely would have been above him on the social ladder, as it were.
How quickly things could change.
He watched her now as she surveyed the exterior of the estate. His estate. How the man who had hardly a house to call his own was now holding an extravagant mansion in London and a countryside estate that could fit his family ten times over, not to mention the various other holdings he now owned, was still beyond him.
Not just beyond him… but overwhelming him. He was drowning in these estates, which he could barely find his way around much less find his way out the other side of the debt that had latched onto his coattails and was dragging it off of him.
Valentine heard some mutterings coming from behind him, and he turned to see that Mr. Lambert had also dismounted and was speaking to himself as he climbed the front steps. The man had actually proven to be an entertaining companion throughout the ride here. He spoke of various works he had completed in the past and was quite candid in describing many of the families he had worked with and for. Val had learned quite a few lessons in architecture in the short few hours — everything from how to blend styles when adding onto a structure, as he had designed an additional wing at Remingford Hall, to how Mr. Lambert had added a staircase outside of a house leading up to an earl’s bedroom so that his mistresses could easily enter and exit without his wife being aware of their presence.
Now, however, the architect did not seem pleased.
“This is not at all how I remember it,” he was saying, waving his hands in the air as he looked up at Stonehall. “Not at all.”
“Have you been here before, Mr. Lambert?” Val asked, surprised. Surely Mr. Lambert would have mentioned knowing the old duke.
“I think he means how he had pictured it before arriving.” Miss Lambert’s voice from behind him was like a cool, clear river washing over him. Her words were practiced, unhurried, though he sensed some kind of apprehension in her eyes as she lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs.
“I see,” Valentine said, though he didn’t, really. But who was he to argue with the methods and opinions of one of the most highly regarded architects in all of England? “I shall have the housekeeper and butler show you to your rooms,” he said, “then we can begin a tour.”
“Very well,” Rebecca said, smiling politely at him. “We look forward to it.”
He would have looked forward to a moment alone with her, but then, one never received all he wished for.
Just the things he didn’t — like a dukedom.
* * *
Jemima’s description of Stonehall Estate had been practical, measured, and factual.
She had left out many of the pieces that made it so intriguing.
Such as the way the gold leaf and pale yellow stone glistened in the afternoon sun. The intricate detailing, the Belvedere turrets, the wide expanse of lush yet slightly overgrown and tangled garden. Rebecca had heard of Stonehall Estate before, of course, but she couldn’t have been prepared for just how beautiful it was to behold.
Then there was its current owner.
“Miss Lambert.”
Of course, the duke would be the only one present in the foyer when she arrived for the beginning of the tour after settling in their rooms. Wasn’t that just the way of it?
“What do you think of Stonehall Estate so far?”
“It’s magnificent,” she said truthfully, and he laughed.
“I was overwhelmed by it when we first visited,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked down at her, his arms straining his jacket. He cut a fine figure in his navy waistcoat, fawn trousers, and starch cravat, but Rebecca had the impression that he was not particularly comfortable in such attire. “The great hall alone is larger than the house I was born in. I needed a map to find my bedchamber.”
“How many estates did you inherit?” she asked.
“Six in all,” he said, looking around him, and Rebecca sensed some desperation on his part. “The others seem to be in much better shape, however, though they are all fairly stripped of their finer decor, as you will soon see here.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rebecca murmured. He was in quite the conundrum, it seemed, but she wasn’t quite sure how to help him. It wasn’t as though she was a wealthy heiress, and they certainly couldn’t work without compensation.
“Valentine, Miss Lambert.” Mrs. St. Vincent practically sailed into the room once more. “My apologies on my tardiness. I had forgotten how exhausting it can be to climb the stairs to the second floor. This is why I typically remain in London.”
“You did not need to accompany us, Mother.”
“Oh, but I did. This drafty ruin needs much work, and I have many ideas that I am quite keen on sharing with Mr. Lambert. Where is Mr. Lambert?”
Rebecca
had been wondering that herself.
“Perhaps I best go check on him.”
“He could be wandering the place himself again,” the duke said, and Rebecca stilled.
“As I found him in the London house,” he explained, and Rebecca nodded slowly. Thank heaven the duke seemed to be under the impression that her father simply had creative tendencies. They must keep this stay as short as possible so that he did not realize anything further. Not only would they lose this project, but if others assumed her father to have gone mad…
“Where is Jemima?” she asked Mrs. St. Vincent, who waved a hand in the air.
“Oh, she has already holed herself up somewhere. She said she would see us for dinner. Really,” she huffed, “I don’t understand the girl, but so be it.”
“We should save this tour for later,” the duke said, but Rebecca was eager to begin working on the plans. The sooner she could finish the work, the sooner they could leave and none would be the wiser of how they managed.
She could also then escape the duke and her inexplicable longings for him. She was usually much more reasonable than this. The duke was terribly striking, that was certain — but she knew better than to let a handsome face turn her head.
It was more than that, however. It was the fact that he didn’t act like a nobleman, that she could sense a vulnerability lurking in the depths of his tough exterior. And that she thought — she hoped — he had some desire for her in return.
“This estate is a beautiful monstrosity.”
They turned in unison as Rebecca’s father strode into the room. She cringed at his forwardness — but then, this was the same man who had become famed through England for his work and was not humble about it. He was just being himself.
“I am not sure what you mean,” Mrs. St. Vincent said with icy politeness.
“The baroque is beautiful, and the south domed front is one of the most captivating I have ever seen,” he explained. “But this building is the work of such a variety of men and styles that it will be difficult to ever meld it into one grand estate. Pieces of it are beautiful, but together…” He shook his head with such melancholy one would have thought a loved one had been declared too ill to continue on. “I am unsure as to whether or not I can work on such a building.”
Rebecca held her breath, waiting to see if the duke would be insulted. Thankfully, he gave a low chuckle instead.
“I understand, Mr. Lambert,” he said. “Why do we not walk around the house, and you can provide any expertise? If you decide it is out of your depth then… so be it.”
They began the long walk around the house, missing most of the bedchambers as there would be no work required of them there, at least at this time. The duke led the tour, though Mrs. St. Vincent had many grand ideas — most, she admitted to having seen in the homes of others within the nobility, and she had no grasp of style or continuity. Rebecca chose not to comment. Though her father had just as many suggestions as Mrs. St. Vincent, all of those Rebecca recognized as elements he had included in his previous work.
“The estate is beautiful, to be sure,” Rebecca commented. “The gardens, the courtyard, the impressive staircase. But it is so… empty.”
“Yes,” the duke agreed. “Many of the paintings and sculptures were sold by the previous duke. Some remain — the family portraits, of course — but it is quite unfortunate.”
“We will purchase them back,” Mrs. St. Vincent said determinately, though Rebecca didn’t miss the pained expression on the duke’s face and she could tell that Mrs. St. Vincent would not appreciate Rebecca’s questions.
“What is needed,” Rebecca’s father finally said, “is an addition. Something which will allow you to leave a legacy and tie in the remainder of the styles throughout the house.”
“An addition?” the duke’s lips strained and his brow furrowed. “That would be costly, would it not?”
“Nothing is too costly,” his mother said, sweeping her hand about. “For now that you are duke, my dear, we will soon have everything set to rights, will we not?”
The duke didn’t reply, though his expression said he clearly didn’t completely agree with his mother.
“Why do we not reconvene this evening at dinner?” the duke asked as they returned to the foyer. “We can discuss much more then.”
“Very well,” Mrs. St. Vincent said with a sigh. “I, for one, am exhausted.”
Fanning herself, she swooped away, while Rebecca’s father had already left, muttering to himself about Elizabethan and baroque, of degrading it and dispensing with beauty.
“Would it be possible for my father and I to use a library or another room for a study of sorts while we are here?” she asked the duke now, somewhat awkward to find herself alone in his presence once more.
“Of course,” he agreed, standing and holding his arm out. “Perhaps the long gallery, I believe it has been called. I’ll have the butler fetch you all that you might need.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him in return, wishing that she had the quick wit and social breeding to know how to make pleasant conversation with him, but alas, all that currently came to her mind was assessing this estate that had become his so very recently.
“Your grace…” she began, unsure exactly of how to put her thoughts into words without insulting him.
“Yes?”
“It seems to me that the dukedom is... well, it's impoverished.”
"You would be correct," he said with a crooked smile.
“I question, then, why hire my father? Why take up these renovations at this time?"
He nodded, but instead of answering her, he asked another question instead. “Why would you question me so, when this will be a significant commission for your father?”
It was a good question, and one that Rebecca asked herself. She supposed she simply didn’t have it within her to bring another to ruin in order to further their own finances. But as he chose not to answer her question, she evaded his as well.
“This is a beautiful estate,” she said, holding her hand up as she circled the grand hall they were now walking through. “It could use some restoration, but perhaps nothing too extravagant, though I do agree that your London home must be seen through to completion. You could, however, simply live in this for now, until the time comes when you find yourself more… able to continue forward.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said with a shrug. “But a legacy must be made, Miss Lambert."
He said the words so sarcastically, she knew it was not him who desired such a thing.
"I understand this is important to your mother," she said slowly. "But you are the duke, are you not?”
"I am,” he agreed but then hesitated. “My mother and father... they never expected me to amount to much. Then my brother died, and suddenly it was up to me to look after the family, although it has not been easy. I have been nothing but a disappointment.” A wistful sigh slipped out, though Rebecca wondered if he was even aware of it. “I must change that.”
“Very well," she said as they came to the door of the gallery. She longed to ask him more questions, to better understand his story and who he was, but she sensed that if she pushed, she would lose any of his trust and would never learn more again. “I should begin my notes for my father, then."
“I’ll call the butler.”
Yet despite their words, they both stood there staring at one another for a moment, neither seeming to want to leave.
Finally the duke nodded, turned, and walked away.
8
Valentine’s head pounded something fierce as he stared at the ledgers in front of him.
It was difficult to concentrate with all of his swirling thoughts. Rebecca and her father were entrenched in the long gallery just down the corridor. He had heard their murmured voices when he walked by not long before. How nice it must be to have an assistant, someone to work with and lean on.
Rebecca’s melodic voice had wafted down the hall and into his head
. Once it filled him, it was hard to forget it. He could picture as she had looked this afternoon, when he had found it difficult to keep from touching her as often as he could. She had been encased in a crimson dress that was quite becoming on her, suiting her dark features and accentuating her bold hazel eyes with the dark lashes that dipped so low when she looked to the ground, as she often seemed to do around him.
He had the impression that, for some reason, she wanted to be out of his presence, though why, he had no idea. Unless... unless she was fighting the same attraction as he? The idea both excited and terrified him.
Valentine pushed the thought aside and returned to the ledgers. He had never been particularly proficient in mathematics, nor many of the subjects he took in school as a young boy. Eventually, he and his father had decided to stop fighting about it all and he had left school and chased other pursuits which were not only lucrative but that he actually enjoyed — until they became a detriment to them all.
Matthew had been the one to follow in his father’s footsteps, studying to become a physician. It was Matthew who’d been going to help the world, look after their family, and be the son his parents had longed for. Then Matthew had been killed, and it was entirely Valentine’s fault.
Val ran a hand over his face. Thank goodness he had Jemima. Although his sister, with her own brilliance, was often a reminder of all that he lacked.
He thought of Rebecca and her father entrenched in the long gallery. That was what he needed — help. Someone who understood all of this much better than he.
“Howard!” he called to his butler, who appeared in moments. The man seemed to lurk the halls, awaiting his summons.
“Yes, your grace?”
“The steward that was here before I arrived…”
“The one you were rid of, your grace?”
“The very one,” Val replied. As soon as he had realized the ledgers hadn’t been updated in years, he had been rid of the man. “Did you know much about him?”
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 5