Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  “I, ah, do not wish to speak out of turn…”

  “Please do,” Val said, realizing that the one aspect he did enjoy about being a duke was the fact that people did as he bid.

  “He was a lazy bastard,” Howard said, then straightened and returned to his usual reserve, “your grace.”

  What Val needed to do more than anything else, was to find people he could trust. People who would do for him what he couldn’t do for himself. The problem was determining who he could put his faith in. It was why most of those he hired had been friends or acquaintances before he became a duke. Most others, he had found in his experience thus far, all used him to further their own connections. Those who didn’t latched onto him in the hopes of leeching wealth and prestige.

  Valentine had a three-step plan. First, he would fight for short-term funds. Then, a wife to regain the Wyndham prestige. That, however, wouldn’t be enough to save the dukedom for his heirs. For he refused to do what the old duke had done to him. Thirdly, he needed to get all of the affairs in order.

  “Howard?”

  “Yes, your grace?”

  “Is there a local magistrate?”

  “There is.”

  “Have him meet me here tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, I am going to prepare a letter to be sent to my solicitors in London. We need to turn things around.” He sighed. “And we need to do it now.”

  * * *

  Rebecca leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders to try to ease the tension.

  She had been sitting too long hunched over, as was often the case. She picked up the plans before her and moved with them to stand in front of the fireplace before stretching out over top of the rug so that she could lie on her stomach and review them. Perhaps something would miraculously come to her if she changed positions.

  She tapped her pencil against her forehead as the fire crackled beside her. This was a long, drafty room. At one point in time, it had been a gallery of some sort, but as the duke had noted during their initial tour, many of the paintings had disappeared. Likely they’d been sold over the years as the previous duke lay ailing in his bed.

  It was sad, really. This beautiful estate, so mismanaged, not looked after to keep its prestige. And now it was all up to Valentine to regain its status.

  Rebecca could sense his discomfort in taking on this new position. Most men she knew would do anything to be in his shoes. But if one wasn’t prepared for such a life, she could see how it could become rather isolating and a great burden.

  She returned her thoughts to her task at hand. The estate included many spectacular rooms and fantastic views, but it was as though each wing was a manor in itself. They all circled the courtyard in the center, an Elizabethan holdover. Rebecca was surprised it had lasted so long without being given over to another style more popular of the day. The courtyard could be beautiful, she knew, but at the moment each wing of the house functioned as its own separate entity, and the courtyard had been seemingly forgotten. Rebecca would have liked to have worked with the original style, but her father was insisting on redesigns to bring in the neoclassical he was known for.

  The dukedom, however, did not seem to have any financial wellbeing. How the duke was going to fund all of this, Rebecca had no idea, though she supposed that needn’t be her concern.

  Except she couldn’t, in good conscience, design extravagance such as a new wing when the duke would never recover from the debt.

  She had tried to discuss all of this with her father over the past couple of days they had been here, but today had been a particularly unproductive day. He was convinced that they were at Remingford Hall, and when he did have more lucid moments he was determined that he needed to be designing the brand new wing.

  “But there are rooms within the current estate that haven’t even been touched in years,” Rebecca had argued, remembering the dusty, musty rooms that the duke had shown them on their initial tour.

  “Think of how grand it could be, Rebecca,” was his response. “All who come to visit the duke will be speaking of my finest accomplishment!”

  Except it wouldn’t actually be his accomplishment, for her father hadn’t been putting pencil to paper. Instead, it was Rebecca who had taken a mixture of his ideas as well as her own and created the designs, and she who would help direct the work.

  She looked around her at the long, empty gallery. The estate had a library, but it was in a separate wing. A wing that, at the moment, housed nothing but guest chambers and a room that she assumed had once been a billiards room but was now lacking a billiards table.

  Inspired, she began to draw, her pencil seemingly moving of its own will, removing current walls, combining rooms, and adding in various aspects. The duke enjoyed the outdoors, and she had noted his eyes light up at the idea of the French windows in his library in his London house.

  Perhaps with a few additions here and there…

  Rebecca didn’t know how much time had passed, nor how long she had worked. When inspiration struck her, everything else around her no longer mattered, only the ideas that flowed from her heart, through her mind, to her hand and pencil onto paper.

  “Miss Lambert?”

  Rebecca jumped, pushing herself up to her heels, nearly falling over backward in her haste. She had no wish for the duke to find her stretched out on the floor of his gallery in the middle of the night.

  “Your grace," she greeted him, lifting her hand to her head to determine what state her hair was currently in, dismayed to find that tendrils had fallen out of their pins and were now strewn around her shoulders. She must look like quite a fright.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, sauntering across the room, and Rebecca took advantage of the length of the room to quickly fold and cover her drawings.

  “I, ah, I must have fallen asleep,” she said, with what she hoped was a convincing smile of innocence. “I was cleaning up some of the notes I took earlier while helping my father.”

  He nodded, causing a stab of guilt to course through Rebecca at his easy belief in her. As he walked toward her, her heart rate quickened, but then he brushed past her and began to stoke the fire, which had fallen to embers. She swallowed hard, for his large frame seemed to fill the room and make her suddenly feel quite small.

  “It’s late,” he murmured now, turning around and leaning back against the marble that surrounded the fireplace.

  “It is,” she agreed, her teeth scraping over her bottom lip as she searched for something to say. He cut an imposing figure, and she knew that she shouldn’t be here, alone with the duke in the gallery-turned-workroom, but at the same time, it seemed so right to be here with him that she couldn’t bring herself to leave.

  “We probably shouldn’t be alone together," he said, reading her thoughts, to which she shook her head.

  “No,” she answered, her voice just above a whisper, “but here we are.”

  He ran a hand through his hair as he practically dropped himself into one of the upholstered green armchairs that were pushed against the wall of the room. The fire lit the chiseled planes of his face, leaving the rest of it in shadows.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” she asked, and he looked up suddenly.

  “About what?”

  “Whatever has you so despondent,” she said, taking a seat in the chair next to him, forgetting for a moment her current state of disarray

  “It’s nothing,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Nothing worth speaking of.”

  “Nothing worth speaking of, or nothing you think should be worth speaking of?”

  He frowned. “You are talking in circles.”

  She chuckled under her breath.

  “You were seemingly gifted a dukedom overnight,” she said, resting her chin on her fist as she leaned on the arm of her chair, studying him. “Most would see that as a great boon, would think you to be a very lucky man. But your dukedom is impoverished. You are suddenly responsible for much more than simply your family. And you alwa
ys thought it would be your brother looking after them.”

  She paused for a moment, tense, worried she had said too much. He stared at her in shocked silence for a couple of seconds before finally snorting and looking away from her.

  “My sister talks far too much.”

  “My apologies, your grace. I simply thought that perhaps you needed someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t matter.”

  Those blue eyes returned to her now, holding her captive in their stare. He straightened, losing some of his defeated slump.

  “Please don’t call me ‘your grace,’” he said. “I hate it.”

  “Wyndham, them?”

  “Valentine is fine.”

  “Very well… Valentine.”

  “And you, Miss Lambert, should not say that you do not matter. For you matter very much.”

  Heat rose in Rebecca’s cheeks, then spread down her neck. She inwardly cursed, for she knew her skin was turning red and she was thankful for the darkness that permeated the room, lit only by the fire’s glow.

  “Rebecca, please,” she said. “And to you, I am simply my father’s secretary. You can share your thoughts with me without worry that they will go any farther or have any repercussions.”

  He nodded before leaning his head back and looking up at the cherubs dancing across the ceiling.

  “Through all of this,” she said after his continued silence, “are you all right?”

  9

  She was more than a pretty face.

  There was depth to Rebecca Lambert’s soul. Why she cared about him, he had no idea. Indirectly, she worked for him, that was true. But she needn’t sit here and ask him questions, provide him an outlet to share, simply for what he would pay her father.

  She asked him how he had fared through all of this. The truth was, no one had really asked him that. All had assumed that he had been so fortunate, to have gone from a man with nearly nothing to the Duke of Wyndham. Only Jemima had really understood, and even then, she had commiserated with him more than had any sympathy for him.

  It had been a burden. One he didn’t want.

  But he couldn’t tell Rebecca that. He was not only a man, but a duke now, and vulnerability led to weakness.

  “I am fine,” he said, despite the disbelief that crossed her face at his words. Tendrils of her midnight black hair had escaped from their pins and now framed her face, the slightest bit of wave providing softness to her prominent cheekbones and pointed chin.

  “Truly?” she asked softly, to which he nodded.

  “Of course,” he said. “What man would not desire to become one of the most powerful men in England?”

  “A man who enjoys other pursuits. A man who has no taste for additional responsibility,” she countered, and he leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows upon his knees as he looked up at her.

  He lifted a hand and loosened his cravat, before wrenching it off of his neck entirely and placing it over the arm of his chair. “I hate those things,” he muttered, looking up, expecting her to be shocked. Instead, her brows were raised and her stare seemed to see through all his pretense, as though she had already known his sentiments. “They are just so starched and damned uncomfortable, as though they are choking a man,” he said in defense.

  “You should try wearing stays,” she said dryly, and he couldn’t help himself.

  He laughed. “You are refreshing, Rebecca, do you know that?” he said, interlocking his fingers and lifting them behind his head. “I have been around the ton for too long now. I had forgotten what it is like to speak to someone who understands.”

  “Someone common.”

  “Someone honest. Someone truthful.”

  For a moment, he wondered if he saw a flash of guilt in her eyes, but in a second it was gone once more.

  “I am no saint,” she murmured, and he shrugged a shoulder.

  “I never said that,” he responded. “I certainly am not. Far from it, in fact. The truth is, Rebecca…” he took a breath, “…I am not equipped to take on this role. I have no knowledge of what it means to be a duke. I barely finished any schooling, let alone have the learnings of how to balance books or manage agriculture or understand Parliament. The only way I know how to solve disputes is with my fists.”

  Finally, something seemed to unsettle her, for the corners of her mouth dipped at his declaration.

  “Do you not enjoy violence, then, Rebecca?”

  “I—” He could tell she wanted to attempt to lie to be polite, but she stopped herself. “Not particularly. You were a fighter, then?”

  “You could say that.”

  It was the truth. He had been a fighter in the past. He didn’t see the need to tell her that he still was.

  She was silent for a moment, and his defenses rose slightly as he sensed that she might be judging him.

  “Well, we all have our pasts,” she said pluckily before sobering somewhat. “That doesn’t mean that you cannot take on the role that has been entrusted to you.”

  “I have neither the skill nor the knowledge,” he pointed out, but that didn’t seem to deter her.

  She leaned forward in her seat, which meant their knees were but inches away from one another, and he was losing himself in the forest of her bronzed green eyes.

  “People can accomplish great things without necessarily possessing the skill or knowledge required,” she said earnestly, and as much as he wanted to believe her, Val tilted his head at her doubtfully.

  “I hardly think—”

  “What matters is that you have the drive to succeed. That you have the will to do what it takes and that you do not doubt yourself.”

  She paused for a moment as though considering what else she might say. “My father… well, there are certain aspects of his work that he requires help with.”

  “For which you perform as his secretary?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Exactly. Yet all know him as a great architect, one whose name will be remembered through history.”

  “I hardly think that a man hiring his daughter as a secretary is the same thing as having no fortitude whatsoever to look after one’s own land and responsibilities. However, Rebecca, you need not fear, for I have already come to the same conclusion that you have suggested.”

  “You have?”

  “I have,” he nodded. “I need to find men. Men I can trust, who can look after the estates and who can help me gain a profit once more.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, as though assessing him and finding him worthy. “Smart.”

  “Do not tell me that you approve of me, Rebecca?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow, and she laughed.

  “I approve of this particular idea,” she said, but then her chuckle slowly diminished. “Though a duke such as yourself hardly requires the approval of a common woman whose only accomplishment is assisting her father.”

  He leaned in closer to her, sensing that in doing so he slightly unsettled her.

  “Somehow, Rebecca, I have the feeling that your father needs you more than you let on.”

  “You do?” she said, her voice slightly higher than usual.

  “Yes,” he said, eyeing her. “You clearly keep him grounded, focused. He’s the creative type, while you, I’m sure, are the practical one in the family.”

  Her gaze became shuttered.

  “Of course.”

  Somehow he had the feeling he had insulted her, though he had no idea just how he had done so, for he had only meant to remark on how well she and her father worked together.

  “And then, your grace, do not forget your dowry.”

  “My dowry?” he repeated, confused for a moment.

  “Yes, the one you will receive when you wed,” she reminded him, and he felt a fool for as they had sat here conversing by the firelight, he had completely forgotten. “Perhaps your bride will also possess some knowledge on the management of an estate such as yours.”

  “I doubt it,” he muttered.

  “Why?” she implored.
“Because women do not have it within them to do such work?”

  “No,” he said, frowning at her. “Because women are not provided the education on how to manage an estate. She would be in the dark as much as I am.”

  “I see,” Rebecca said, showing her chagrin as she looked down at her lap once more.

  “You are so eager to find fault in my words,” he said, reaching out a finger, nudging it under her chin and tilting up her face to look at him. “But know, Rebecca, that I have no aim to belittle you. I know that women are capable of many great things — just look at my sister.” He paused, musing for a moment, “Although, Jemima has not exactly concluded anything great yet, I have every faith that she will.”

  “Not many men would say such a thing,” she said, her eyes wide now as they met his. “Particularly not a duke.”

  “Well, I am not just any duke, now am I?” he asked quirking an eyebrow.

  “No,” she responded, a shyly seductive smile on her face. “You most certainly are not.”

  Before he could think of what he was doing or the repercussions of it, he bent his head and took those lush, cherry lips with his.

  She gasped in surprise, and he waited for her to lean back or to push him away, but she surprised him. She paused for a moment as though unsure of what to do, but then she began to apply the slightest bit of pressure in return.

  He took that as an invitation, pressing his hand against the back of her head as he held her close against him for a moment. Her lips upon his were soft and pillowy, her hair silky smooth underneath his fingers. This was a woman who could drive him mad. She had already filled his thoughts, both awake and asleep. Now that he would have memories rather than imaginings, he didn’t know how he was ever going to be free of them.

  Finally, he drew back with one final quick kiss on her lips, not wanting to push her any further than she might be interested in going, nor to scare her off.

  “You’re quite the surprise, Rebecca,” he said, still holding the back of her head near to his.