He was about to give up and return to his own bedroom when one of the doors opened a crack and a beautiful dark head emerged.
“Val?”
“Rebecca!” he exhaled, quickly crossing toward her. He was ready to take her in his arms but he stopped short. Would she reject him?
“May I come in?”
“Of course,” she said, opening the door wider, though she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest, barring herself from him.
He closed the door gently behind him, looking around at the room she had inhabited during her stay here. The heavy curtains were pulled over the windows, leaving the room in near darkness aside from light from the fire in the grate and the lone candle that burned beside her bed.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“Pardon me?”
“You opened the door.”
“Oh,” she said, the smallest of smiles licking at her lips. “I heard you in the hall. You were bumbling about with the grace of a brawler instead of the fine pugilist you are.”
He snorted. “I would hardly think you would have ascertained that from the fight you saw.” He sat heavily in the armchair near the window. “I am actually much better than that, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore a night-rail that was as elegant as she was. It lacked lace frippery or ruffles or any other adornment but allowed her true beauty to emerge.
Val leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“You didn’t come to me tonight.”
“I couldn’t,” she said, her teeth raking over her plush bottom lip.
“Why not?” he asked, the air still and tense as he waited for her answer.
“Because, Val,” she said, walking over to him, kneeling in front of him and placing her hands over his. She looked up at him and he nearly forgot himself in the forest of her eyes under her thick lashes. “Today was a reminder that you are not mine. You never will be. We have to stop this charade, for the more we are together, the more it will hurt when we must be separated.”
“I have no wish to be separated from you,” he said, his voice rough to his own ears. He was not a man used to expressing such emotion, and the words were foreign on his lips.
“That may be so,” she said with a sad smile, “but being with me would do nothing for you.”
“It could,” he said, hope and excitement spurring his heart to beat faster as he thought of it. “Perhaps, we could make it work, you and I.”
“What of the dowry you are seeking? The respectability?”
He shrugged, at a loss. He hadn’t thought it through, but the urge to be with her was overwhelming all reason.
“So we dispense with the renovations for now. We’ll keep your father’s plans, put them into place someday. You could be my duchess, Rebecca, and we will learn the life together.”
“We would never be accepted by the ton.”
They wouldn’t — not really. Oh, they would be welcomed, but ridiculed. He didn’t want that for Rebecca, and yet he couldn’t promise her much else. He thought of his father, what he would have said about him shuffling away his ducal responsibility for the woman he wanted in his bed, in his life. Valentine had always done what was best for him and no one else. Because of that, Matthew was dead. Now, what of his mother? What of Jemima? He ran a hand over his face, which Rebecca reached up and caught within hers.
“Tomorrow, my father and I will return to London,” she said. “There is work we need to complete, and he will start on the renovations to your London house. By the time you return, it will be livable. Perhaps, after some separation, we will know better what we both want.”
He didn’t want her to go, but he had no reason for keeping her with him any longer. He would return with her, but he needed to interview stewards first and put his affairs here in order.
“I will return as soon as I am able,” he promised, clutching her hand to his chest.
She nodded, her eyes shimmering in the dim light. He reached down and picked her up effortlessly, bringing her to sit on his lap as he held her close, wishing he could capture this moment as more than a memory, keeping her with him forever. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of rose petals that had become so familiar.
Her hands came around his neck as she held him with the same strength. Valentine had no idea how long they sat there like that, no words required as they simply held one another as close as could be.
“Rebecca…” he began, needing to share with her all. They had been as close as could be physically, but she deserved more from him.
“You know that I never wanted this title.”
“I do.”
“And you know it should have been my brother’s, but… he died.”
“I know, and I’m sorry Valentine.”
Valentine paused. “It’s more than that. He’s dead because of me.”
Rebecca was silent, but the trust in her hazel green eyes was nearly more than he could bear.
“I’m sure that isn’t true,” she said quietly.
“I wish that were so,” he responded, hearing the heaviness in his voice as he began telling the story that had been replaying in his mind for the past few years. “We had come to London — this was before we knew my cousin had been deemed illegitimate. I agreed to a prizefight, one against a new young lord, a member of the Fancy who wanted to prove himself. I beat him — soundly. He was humiliated, as he had reason to be, but there was no way I was letting him win just because of who he was.”
He stopped, this part nearly too hard to put into words.
“He sent a group of men upon me the next night, to teach me a lesson. They found where I was staying, saw me leaving the house, and attacked.” He swallowed hard. “Only, it wasn’t me. It was Matthew. We always looked a good deal alike, but especially in the dark, they didn’t see the truth. He— he died from his injuries.”
“Oh, Valentine,” Rebecca said, sorrow in her voice, and he could only nod jerkily.
“The worst of it is that the young lord was killed in another prizefight he should never have entered before I could do anything about it.”
“None of this was your fault,” she said gently.
“It is,” he insisted. “If I hadn’t fought—”
“But you had fought plenty of times before, I'm sure. It was the fault of the nobleman, not of you at all.”
“It should have been me who died.”
She jerked back. “Don't say such a thing!”
“But it should have. My parents never recovered. My father died soon after, likely of a broken heart. He had never approved of me to begin with but after that… anyway. It is why I do what I can now, to try to support my family as best I can.”
“That is admirable, Valentine, but I still believe you are far too hard on yourself.”
“So be it.”
Finally, she leaned back, but only far enough that she could press her lips against his. He accepted her kiss eagerly, like a thirsty man desperate for a drink of water. He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, laying her down as though she were fine china.
They had made love in many ways before — passionately, languidly, with a fair bit of fun and laughter. But this time was different.
This time when they came together, there was a sense of melancholy about their joining. They kissed one another as though it was the last time they would ever do so, savoring the moments, the touches, the caresses.
When they came together, it was as wonderful as it always was, but a heavy weight filled Val’s heart with the innate knowledge that this was farewell, in one way or another.
It was just left to determine how permanent that farewell might be.
* * *
Jemima wouldn’t stop staring at him the next morning across the breakfast table.
“What?” Valentine asked around his mouthful of food.
“Are you all right?” she asked, peering at him carefully.
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“Of course I am!” he said, though he realized he may have been slightly too emphatic, for she narrowed her eyes at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because Rebecca has left.”
Thankfully their mother had yet to join them at the breakfast table.
“Why should it matter that Miss Lambert has returned to London? Besides the fact that we had to lend her and her father one of the carriages that is in a sorry state of repair. I do hope it makes it to London.”
“You know why it matters, Valentine.”
His sister was far too smart.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he lied, refusing to capitulate. “We will also be in London soon enough ourselves.”
“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” Jemima said. “I have much to discuss with Celeste, and I, for one, am not ashamed to admit that I rather liked Rebecca and I look forward to seeing her again. I am sure she and Celeste would get along famously. Are you looking forward to taking your seat in the House of Lords?”
“No.”
She laughed. “I didn’t think so. But think of all the good you can do, coming with a different perspective than the rest of them.”
“I suppose.”
“My, you are sullen this morning,” she said, tilting her head, goading him.
“Must you be so contrary?” he muttered.
“Yes, until you admit the truth,” she said. “Now tell me, what did you think of Lady Fredericka?”
He shrugged. The truth was, he hadn’t given her much thought, for his mind was too filled with Rebecca.
“She seems like a nice young lady.”
“She is,” Jemima said, her eyes lighting up. “She and I got along famously. She is quite intelligent, speaks of much beyond the silly nothings most women talk about, and I found her quite kind. I wouldn’t say, however, that the two of you seemed overly interested in one another. In fact, you hardly said a word to her.”
“I have other things on my mind.”
“Like Rebecca.”
He glared at her. “No, like getting this estate in order. I have interviews today with five men who may be good candidates to become steward here, and when I return to London, I must find a competent man-of-business. I need someone I can trust.”
“You trust Archie.”
“Yes, but Archie has not the connections nor the knowledge to put this estate in order,” he said. “I need someone with ideas that are outside of the usual.”
“Like Rebecca’s scheme.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, attempting not to show how intrigued he was by Jemima’s words, but regardless needing to know more.
Jemima quickly told him of Rebecca’s father’s failed project and her idea of how to earn back the money they needed.
“A lottery with the houses as the prizes themselves,” he murmured. “Interesting.”
Jemima nodded as she picked up her coffee cup, taking a sip. “Very. She is quite intelligent.”
“So she is,” Valentine admitted. Much more than he, that was for certain.
Archie appeared in the doorway with a nod, telling Valentine that he must prepare for his first interview. Val knew it was quite unusual for a valet to sit in, but he needed someone he trusted to provide a second opinion, and at the moment, Archie was the best person to fit that role.
“Well, good day, Jem. Best wishes on whatever it is you are embarking on today.”
“Thank you, Val,” she said with a wink. “To you as well.”
One thing was for certain — he had to keep an eye on his sister. She was too smart for her own good.
19
Rebecca was typically one who found the positives in life. She prided herself on making the best of even the most tragic of situations. She and her father had turned the most ghastly of buildings into the incredible. She enjoyed her life despite the fact that she hadn’t had any prospects nor even much opportunity to find a man who might consider her as a bride.
Most men she was acquainted with were noble, or colleagues of her father’s who were typically far older than she. None of the noblemen, of course, saw her as anything more than a woman to be trifled with, so she had avoided any liaisons. Until now.
Now she was hopelessly falling for a man who would never truly be hers — except for that fact that he held her heart and likely always would.
She might have been able to handle that if it wasn’t for the fact that she was reading about him in the society papers. He was returning to London, the papers read, and there he would find himself a wife. The most likely candidate, according to the talk, was Lady Fredericka Ashworth, with whom he had been spending a great deal of time at his country estate near Hungerford.
The worst part was that Rebecca knew the woman would likely make a good bride for Valentine, and she could never begrudge him the match, for Lady Fredericka — Freddie, she reminded herself — seemed to be an amiable woman who would make a lovely life companion.
Rebecca groaned as she and her father climbed the steps of Valentine’s London home once more. And now she had to be reminded of her feelings for the man every day they arrived here, as the renovations were to begin.
The truth was that they weren’t so much renovations as completions and they would not take overly long.
And then there was the housing speculation. They had been hit by one obstruction after another. The only way Rebecca saw her lottery plan working now was through Crown approval — or divine intervention, which, at this point, seemed more likely.
They were greeted by the butler, Dexter, as they had been upon their first arrival. Rebecca reminisced about the initial meeting between her and Valentine. It seemed like so long ago now, though, in reality, it was only just a couple of months ago. So very much had changed in such a short time.
They had been strangers then, when she had first seen him half-clothed in his dressing room. Now she knew him so much better. She knew every sculpted line of his body. As for his heart — well, she thought she knew that much better as well, though there was so much more to discover.
“Lovely to see you again, Dexter,” Rebecca said in greeting now as Val’s London butler opened the door to her.
“And you, Miss Lambert, Mr. Lambert,” he said, taking their cloaks. “Did you enjoy Stonehall?”
“We did, thank you,” Rebecca said.
“Hungerford turns rather chilly at this time of year,” he remarked, and Rebecca turned to him with some interest.
“It does,” she agreed. “You have been there before?”
“Of course, Miss Lambert,” he said with a boyish grin. “It’s where I’m from. Where we’re all from, actually. We knew Val— his grace before he became duke, and he only hires those he trusts. Which means he must think highly of you.”
How interesting, Rebecca thought as they made their way through the house. First Archie, and now Dexter. Men who were not necessarily trained in their actual positions, but knew more about Valentine than any others would.
She and her father were to meet today with the builder and discuss the forthcoming plans. They had received a missive from Mrs. St. Vincent, however, with one instruction — the ballroom was to be ready by the time the Season began in earnest, for they would be hosting a ball with all of London’s finest to be invited.
They were to set up in the parlor, but Rebecca heard voices coming from the drawing room as they passed. Eager to see Jemima, she forgot her place for a moment as she paused in the doorway.
“Jem—”
The words died on her lips as she saw who Jemima was conversing with. Lady Fredericka.
“My apologies,” she murmured, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, no, do come in,” Jemima said, rising and walking to the door with a true smile on her face. “I am so happy to see you, Rebecca. Please join us.”
“Oh, no, I should—”
“Please?” Jemima said, raising her eyebrows, and Rebecca didn’t have it withi
n her to say no. When she walked into the drawing room she saw that in actuality it was not just Jemima and Lady Fredericka present, but there was a third woman in the room. She had a shock of red hair, her nose was covered in freckles, and a warm smile crossed her face when she saw Rebecca.
“Rebecca, this is Celeste Keswick, a good friend of mine,” she introduced her, and the woman began to rise from the chair, though her foot got caught in the arm as it had been folded underneath her.
“Forgive me,” she said as she slightly stumbled while walking toward Rebecca. “It is nice to meet you. Jem has told us much about you.”
“Oh,” Rebecca said, stealing a look over at Jemima, wondering just how much she had shared. Her heart quickened ever so slightly as she wondered if she had shared everything, particularly with Lady Fredericka who just might become Valentine’s bride.
Jemima shook her head just slightly, enough to tell Rebecca that she hadn’t shared all her secrets.
“You are an astronomer,” she said to Miss Keswick as she took a seat, remembering Jemima telling her about her friend.
“Lovely of you to say so,” Miss Keswick said with a laugh. “I do enjoy looking at the stars. Call me Celeste, please.”
“She is being modest,” Jemima said, reaching toward the table between them and pouring Rebecca a cup of tea. “She is hoping to make the next great discovery.”
Celeste’s cheeks turned a shade of cherry red, and Rebecca guessed the woman had the misfortune to blush easily.
“Well, I wish you the best of luck,” Rebecca said, meaning each word.
“We are discovering that Lady Fredericka—”
“Freddie,” she cut in.
“Freddie is a kindred soul as well,” Jemima said, smiling at the small woman. “She invents things.”
“You do?” Rebecca said, turning toward Freddie. “What types of things?”
Freddie shrugged, her lips turning in a small smile. “Nothing of note, really. A few things to help women that men would never think to invent, I suppose. If you observe others long enough, you see where some things might be useful.”
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 13