Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” she said with that impish grin that so captivated him. “For it doesn’t seem to me that you overly enjoy surprises.”

  “Usually I don’t,” he said, taking her slim, soft hand in his. “But for you, I will make an exception.”

  He bent over and kissed her hand and then, with the knowledge that if he stayed any longer she might prove altogether too much temptation, he rose and left the room.

  * * *

  Rebecca listened to the duke’s strong, firm steps echo throughout the empty long gallery as he strode away. She touched her fingertips to her lips.

  She could hardly believe that her first kiss had been with the Duke of Wyndham. Not that she was going to provide him with that information. He was a duke now and as the daughter of a renowned architect, she was likely somewhat intriguing to him. Perhaps he saw her as worldly or was somehow attracted to what he thought of as a departure from who he was supposed to be with.

  Though Rebecca wasn’t stupid. She knew what she was to him. A pretty face, here in his home, available to him. Someone to, perhaps, have some fun with before he found the woman he would spend his life with — the woman who would make him respectable, who would provide him with the dowry he so desperately needed and the knowledge of this life among the nobility.

  So much for her plan to avoid him.

  Rebecca rose from her chair and crossed over to the plans she had folded over to hide from him. Thank goodness he hadn’t seen fit to look any closer. What would he do if he found out that it was, in reality, not her father designing his London home and his estate, but her? A woman who had no formal education, but had learned all through apprenticing with her father and growing up among this life?

  She had been about to admit all to him when he had kissed her, and thank goodness he had.

  If she had confessed, he would then be rid of them. He might appreciate her work, but he would never allow an untried architect to oversee such important buildings.

  At the worst, he, or more likely his mother, would expose her father as a fraud for all to see, despite the fact that he had, in his time, designed some beautiful, intriguing buildings.

  All would be lost, and just because Rebecca had found herself falling for a man who would never be hers.

  A battle was being waged within her — should she enjoy herself with the duke or allow common sense to prevail?

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reminding herself of what was important at the moment.

  Never again, she promised herself, too rattled now to continue any further design work as she folded her papers and placed them in the leather folio she had brought with her. If she allowed him such liberty once more, it would only increase his impression of her as a woman who was willing to participate in a brief dalliance with him.

  Which was one thing she just couldn’t do.

  10

  “Mr. Lambert!”

  Rebecca and her father turned as one to see the duke entering the long gallery, his steps measured, a small frown on his face. “I’m eager to see what you have suggested for initial designs. Perhaps we can do a tour today?”

  “A tour of Sheffield?” Rebecca’s father said with a finger on his chin. “Of course.”

  “Not Sheffield, Mr. Lambert,” the duke said, frowning, his brow furrowed as he stared at her father in confusion. “Stonehall. This estate, where we are currently residing. Which you are redesigning.”

  “Stonehall?” he repeated, as though he had never heard of it before. Rebecca sucked in a breath before attempting to cover for her father.

  “Oh, Father,” she said with a laugh that sounded forced even to herself. “You always forget the name of these estates, as many sound so alike. Of course, we would be happy to do a tour, your grace. My father still has much to do, but he would be pleased to share with you some of his initial thoughts before he delves further into his work.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  Rebecca turned to her father, praying that he would be in a sound mind.

  “Sheffield Hall is one of the finest examples of Elizabethan and baroque styles meeting and working with one another,” he began, and Rebecca nearly groaned aloud.

  Lately, he had been speaking quite often of Sheffield Hall, at times becoming lost in the past and certain that he was in the midst of the massive renovation that he had overseen some twenty years prior when Rebecca was just a girl. She had spent much of her childhood there, for it had taken a few years to complete, so luckily she remembered it well and could usually relate back her father’s musings of the estate to Stonehall. It was fortunate they had many similarities, which was likely why his former commission continued to enter his consciousness.

  Rebecca turned her smile on the duke now, hoping she could distract him from her father’s words.

  “Perhaps later this afternoon?”

  “Very well,” he said with a nod, though Rebecca could tell from the bemusement on his face since her father had spoken that he was beginning to realize something was not quite right — and now she had to complete a tour of the entire house with him and her father without him learning the truth.

  She placed a hand on her forehead. The sooner they could leave here the better — for more reasons than one.

  * * *

  Valentine thought that Rebecca looked nervous.

  He was watching her before she noticed him. She and her father were awaiting him in the drawing room. He had specifically not told his mother or sister about this particular tour. Something was off about Albert Lambert. Valentine hadn’t yet determined exactly what that was, but he was determined to learn more. Perhaps a conversation when he had time alone with the man might help.

  He was both pleased and disappointed in equal measure that Rebecca would be joining them. While he always welcomed her company, he would have preferred to spend more time alone with Lambert, to hear him speak himself instead of through his daughter.

  It was puzzling that Rebecca spoke for him so often. One would think a famed architect such as Albert Lambert would prefer describing his work for himself. Perhaps he thought it was beneath him to do so — that others should simply appreciate his brilliance. The times he did speak of his own work, however, it was typically regarding a former commission, which could be interesting now and again, but was becoming rather tedious.

  “Mr. Lambert, Miss Lambert,” Valentine greeted the father and daughter as they entered the rather-dated dining room. “While I am looking forward to this tour, perhaps it would be best if it was just Mr. Lambert and me.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened at his words, and she looked rather frantically between him and her father.

  “Oh, I’m not sure that is the best of ideas, your grace,” she said quickly, her cheeks reddening. “My father welcomes the reminders that I provide him about all of the work he is doing to prepare your estate for its renovation. Though, your grace, I— he — is becoming rather concerned about what the budget is for this particular estate. Some of his ideas could be grandiose indeed, but I’m not sure—”

  “Design them,” Valentine said, waving a hand, “then we’ll see what we can do.”

  Rebecca seemed dubious, but Mr. Lambert beamed at him in approval. Valentine was curious to see the depths of Lambert’s designs.

  “Let’s begin here,” Valentine said. “What do you see for the drawing room?”

  “Oh,” Rebecca said, before looking down at the pages in front of her. “What are your thoughts on covering some of these massive bare walls with tapestries, contrasting them yet complimenting them with the furnishings? I think—”

  “Miss Lambert,” Valentine interrupted her. “Perhaps your father could explain his vision to me.”

  He didn’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes, but she said nothing to the contrary — how could she, when he had asked nothing particularly consequential, besides requesting that her father, the architect, explain his own drawings?

  “Of course, your
grace,” Mr. Lambert said, though Valentine’s eyes were still on Rebecca, whose shoulders were tightly clenched as she waited for her father to say more.

  “I believe, your grace, that much of Stonehall should be repurposed.”

  “Repurposed?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lambert said with a nod, beginning to walk out of the door of the room, talking as he went, waving his hands about in the air.

  After a quick look at Rebecca, who seemed to have relaxed somewhat, Val followed Mr. Lambert through the room.

  He continued the tour room by room, describing his vision for ‘repurposing’ as he explained how the family might like to utilize each room. Valentine was impressed as he always was. His plan made sense. For example, why furnish the state apartment, the most beautiful rooms of the house, for a monarch who would never visit?

  The architect spoke of the many styles incorporated into the house — its Elizabethan beginnings, the baroque elements, and of how they could celebrate its history both inside and out.

  Val couldn’t help but continue to steal glances at Rebecca. She was listening to her father speak with rapt attention, though he could tell she was waiting for something. Watching for something.

  He, in turn, was watching her. She reminded him of forbidden fruit. Lush, sultry, with lips that were ripe for kissing.

  He commanded himself to put a halt to his thoughts and refocus on Lambert.

  The architect was vividly describing his vision of the estate as a whole as they left the drawing room and walked into the great room.

  Lambert told of trees stretching their limbs so closely to the windows that one would think they were grown indoors. A garden with buildings nearly synonymous to those of the house itself. Accents that mimicked the very greenery that surrounded the estate.

  “I can nearly see it already, Mr. Lambert,” Val said with a smile of gratitude for the man. “Would you mind showing me some of the finer details of which you speak?”

  “Of course,” the architect said, walking over to the side wall. “We change out the current window. From this to ah…” he paused, his finger in the air as though he was waiting for the right word to come to him. “Hmm,” he said, placing that finger on his chin now, scratching it. “I am actually not entirely sure what type of window we had decided, but—”

  “A Venetian window, I think you had said, Father,” Rebecca cut in, and the man didn’t look at her, but did smile and nod.

  “Of course. That is what I had told my daughter.”

  Valentine frowned for a moment. One would think that an architect of Mr. Lambert’s caliber would remember a certain window shape — though he supposed he had his own moments of absent-mindedness. He was just about to question Mr. Lambert when his mother swept in. So she had found them.

  “Valentine!” she exclaimed as her long silk dress swirled across the room after her. “You didn’t tell me you were doing a tour.”

  No, he most certainly had not.

  “I am so interested in Mr. Lambert’s plans,” she continued on, not providing him with a moment to speak. “I can hardly believe you didn’t tell me.”

  So much for his wish of a quick tour with just him and Mr. Lambert.

  “Have you already gone through any of the rooms?”

  “Most of the ground floor, Mother,” Val replied.

  “I am happy to show them to you once more,” Lambert said, stepping over to Val’s mother, lifting her hand to his lips, upon which he placed a quick, chaste kiss. But it had been some time since his mother had been charmed by a man, and Val could tell she was thrilled by his attention.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” she said as she took his proffered arm, and Val sighed. He had much to see to today, and following his mother and the architect around was not part of the list.

  “I really would have liked to see the galleries,” he muttered, but they were already out of earshot.

  “Come, your grace,” he heard in his ear, that soft, silky voice that was lighter and smoother than the finest fabric he had ever come across. “I know my father’s plans well. I can show you his thoughts — they are rather inventive.”

  The urge to follow her was as strong as the one telling him to flee. But the more he stared at that beautiful, seductive face, the more his desire to join her, to follow her wherever she might lead him, began to win out, and finally, he nodded. Her ready smile was worth any consequences that may come.

  They stepped into the long gallery, where he had found her just the night before.

  “One would need some paintings in order to make this room a true gallery again, wouldn’t he?” Valentine said with a quirk of a laugh, which she returned, the corners of those lips rising ever so slightly.

  She had other ideas.

  “Actually,” she said, holding up a finger, and it was refreshing to see bare fingers for a change, rather than the gloves he had become accustomed to women of the ton wearing. She followed his gaze and her cheeks lightly flushed.

  “Actually…?” he asked, bringing her back to the moment, for he was truly interested in what she was about to say.

  “Oh, right!” her eyes gleamed as she came back to the present.

  “This won’t be a long gallery anymore — if you agree, that is.”

  “And just what would it be?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “A library,” she said, her lips curling into a true smile now as she spoke.

  He wished he could join in her excitement, but it was difficult to do so when all he could think of was the added expense of not only designing such a room but filling it. Particularly when one added in the extension his mother wanted to complete, an entire new wing of the house.

  “You don’t like the idea,” she said, true disappointment filling her face, surprising him. He knew she worked closely with her father, but he was surprised she would take his disinterest so personally.

  “It’s not that,” he said, stepping toward her, taking her hands before he even realized what he was doing. “It’s just… I have few books.” He smiled sheepishly. “And I’m not exactly one who cares for them. I’ve never been a man with a proclivity for reading.”

  “Ah, that’s right,” she said with a small smile. “The sportsman.”

  He rather liked that description of what he did, but he wasn’t about to enter into a conversation with her about it.

  “Right,” was all he said, then lifted one hand from hers, grasping one of the stone shelves that was built into the wall behind her. “Books are for—”

  But his words were completely cut off as the wall behind them gave way, and with a whoosh, they were both thrown into darkness — and Rebecca right into him.

  11

  Rebecca went rigid.

  For a moment, anyway. Then her body slowly began to melt, seemingly turning into liquid right on top of Valentine.

  It was difficult to feel anything but a soft and fluid person upon Valentine. Even through their clothing, every muscle seemed to be perfectly defined underneath her. In fact, she imagined she could lie here upon him forever.

  His hands rose, running down the sides and back of her body. Rebecca melted into his touch until he asked, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” and she realized that he was simply checking for any injury.

  “N-no,” she stammered, as she pushed herself off of him, though her retreat was rather clumsy, so off-balance she was. “What happened? Where are we?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, and Rebecca heard scuffles over the floor as he stood. “Somewhere off of the long gallery?”

  Rebecca pictured the plans in her mind.

  “This explains the extra space,” she murmured, and at Valentine’s “hmm?” she began to explain.

  “There is a space that is missing between the long gallery and the grand staircase. I thought perhaps there was something amiss with the floor plans, but perhaps the floor plans were hiding this room as much as the structure of the building itself is.”

  She ran a han
d over the wall, the brick similar to that on the other side of it.

  “This must have been built at the same time as this wing of the house,” she said, more to herself than to Valentine. “It is too extensive a space to have been added at a later date.”

  Now that her eyes had adjusted, there was just enough light for Rebecca to see Valentine’s outline before her, as well as the walls around them.

  “There is a light source,” she said, then stepped back, looking up to the ceiling high above them. “There must be a small cutout into the grand stairs,” she said as she realized where the light was filtering in from. “Ingenious.”

  “It is clever,” Val agreed. “But why? What would this be for?”

  Rebecca began to walk along the wall, her fingers trailing the brick as she did. She stopped when her hand went into the air, no more brick apparent. She took a step forward and stubbed her toe.

  “There are stairs,” she said, waving Val forward, even though he likely couldn’t see her well. “What do you think?” she asked, looking up at him eagerly. “Should we climb them?”

  She didn’t tell him just how much she yearned to do so, to learn where they would go and what she might find at the top. But this was his home, and she was a guest at the most, near a servant at the least. It was up to him.

  “My curiosity is getting the better of me,” he admitted. “But I am loath to allow you up here without better light. Who knows when the last time there was a person upon these stairs.”

  “The light will improve the higher we get, closer to the cutout,” she reassured him, letting her fingertips brush against him. “Come, let’s go.”

  She held her hand out, willing him to take it — and was thrilled when, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he did so. He tucked it into the crook of his arm, and she could feel the warmth of his body from where her hand was snug against it.

  It was musty in the space — Rebecca could practically smell the dust they had unsettled when the wall had apparently flipped to allow them into this small alcove. Her mind raced with all of the possibilities as to how and why such a thing would be designed. The estate was built too late for it to have been a priest hole. Perhaps an escape route? Or was it an entrance?