Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  “She devised a way to cook eggs using the steam of a kettle,” Jemima said, and Rebecca’s jaw dropped slightly.

  “That is impressive,” she said. “How does it work?”

  Soon enough, Rebecca found herself in deep conversation with the woman she had been trying to avoid. Her mind whirled with possibilities.

  “And then there is the bed which allows for exercise.”

  “Truly?” she said, intrigued. “Well, perhaps we can incorporate such a bed into this house,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “We shall have to talk to Valentine.”

  The reminder of him slightly deflated the bubble of enthusiasm that had surrounded her, but she refused to give into it.

  Freddie tilted her head and studied Rebecca for a moment. “You know quite a bit about house design. I suppose it makes sense, having lived and worked with your father for so long.”

  “Exactly,” Rebecca murmured, taking a sip of her tea as she realized she had revealed far more than she had ever meant to.

  “In what capacity do you assist him?” Freddie asked, sipping her tea herself, though her eyes were shrewd as she watched Rebecca carefully while she answered the question.

  “I, ah, I’m his secretary,” Rebecca said, setting down her teacup.

  “Well, even in such work, you must come to understand all that he does,” Freddie said with a smile, though Rebecca could read the glint in her brown eyes, telling her that Freddie was just as aware as Jemima that Rebecca was likely far more than a secretary. It seemed a woman who worked unconventionally herself could see beyond what most others did to find a similar soul. Somehow, however, Rebecca sensed that Freddie would keep her secret, and she gave her the slightest nod of thanks.

  “I’d best be going,” Rebecca said, hoping her father had remembered why he was here — to meet with the master builder. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Keswick.”

  “Celeste.”

  “And to see you again, Jemima, Freddie.”

  They murmured their farewells, and Rebecca exited with some regret. How she wished she could stay and share all with them, to have others she could confide in — others who understood her longing to do what made her happy and to be recognized for it.

  The thought wouldn’t leave her as she sat down next to her father in the parlor, where he and the master-builder were discussing good times from the past. Thank goodness, Rebecca thought with relief, for that was one subject her father was still well-versed in. She looked over the plans now in front of them — plans that she had painstakingly drawn with her own hand.

  Those were her balusters lining the staircase, so intricate in detail that one could see the floral design on each one. That was her clever integration of Jemima’s laboratory in the conservatory, which would be constructed so that it was easily hidden when necessary, great chemistry lurking behind the citrus plants and bougainvillea.

  But it would all be attributed to her father.

  And then, just when she thought her despair couldn’t pitch to any lower depths, Valentine walked into the room. Their eyes caught, held, so many words between them unsaid and yet understood. They had been separated for long enough that Rebecca had nearly convinced herself that she didn’t need him any longer — nearly. For the truth was as obvious as the broken nose on his face. She yearned to throw herself in his arms, despite the presence of any others in the room, and tell him how much she had missed him, how she longed to be with him once more.

  Instead, she simply smiled demurely and greeted him with, “Your grace.”

  He nodded at her, though he broke convention and bowed before her, taking her hand in his and murmuring, “Miss Lambert,” as he brought her hand up to his lips for a quick kiss.

  Even Rebecca’s father noticed the motion, and he was typically oblivious to anything and everything around him that did not pertain to houses, estates, or public buildings.

  Conversation halted for a moment until Valentine began to speak. He may not have been a duke for long, but he was still a duke, and these men knew enough to understand that when a man who was not only a duke but an employer directed them, they must continue with what they were paid to do — despite Rebecca’s father’s pride, which continued to blockade them.

  “It is good to see you again, Mr. Lambert,” Valentine said. “And you must be Mr. Burton. You come with the highest of recommendations.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” the builder said. “I do hope I live up to them.”

  “You’d best,” Valentine said, with the unspoken promise that if he didn’t, he would find another.

  Trust was not easily won with Valentine.

  “Mr. Lambert!” Mrs. St. Vincent sailed into the room, her cloying perfume announcing her presence before she entered. “I am so glad you are here. And you must be the builder. There is much urgency.”

  “Oh?” Rebecca couldn’t help but ask.

  “I see you are also here once more, Miss Lambert,” Valentine’s mother said, and Rebecca didn’t miss the disdain in her voice. Interesting. It had never been there before, in all the time they had spent together. “But yes. You see, we will be hosting a ball in a month’s time.”

  “That is far too soon!” Rebecca protested, but that only earned her one of Mrs. St. Vincent’s expressions of ire.

  “It doesn’t all have to be completed. Just enough of the ballroom that it is impressive enough for visitors. It is nearly there already. Isn’t that right, Valentine?”

  He said nothing but looked extremely uncomfortable.

  “The ball is most important,” she continued. “Valentine has yet to find a bride, and it is becoming rather imperative he does so.”

  Rebecca’s stomach twisted in a knot.

  “Is it possible?”

  Rebecca’s father and Mr. Burton shared a look, and Mr. Burton nodded.

  “Not all the fine detail and the painting, of course,” he said. “But as we are simply completing it and not starting from the beginning, then I’m sure it is possible for us to have it finished enough for you to host your ball.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, clapping her hands.

  Valentine looked as though he wanted to punch someone.

  Rebecca only wished she could do the same.

  20

  Valentine had excused himself as quickly as was possible and then had decided to lie in wait.

  He wasn’t very good at waiting. He had situated himself in the as yet unfinished but comfortably furnished drawing room, recently vacated by his sister and her friends. He was glad that Jemima had gotten on well with Lady Fredericka — at least one of them had developed a relationship with her.

  Finally — finally — he saw a flash of green fabric, and he sprinted out the door with all of the speed required of a pugilist.

  “Rebecca!”

  She swirled around so fast that a couple of pins fell out of her hair and pieces of her midnight tresses cascaded around her shoulders.

  She was alone. Thank God.

  They paused in the hall for a moment, staring at one another from across the corridor.

  Then, without breaking the connection held between their shared gazes, they began to move toward one another — slowly at first, but their footsteps soon quickened, and before Valentine knew it, she had launched herself into his arms, or maybe he had scooped her up and thrown her in the air, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  All he knew that when their lips met, it was as though all that he had been worried about over the past couple of weeks without her simply disappeared.

  He had no idea how long they stood there in the corridor with their arms entwined around one another, but voices from down the hall soon had him stepping back into the drawing room, though he didn’t let her go.

  Finally, he set her down and they just stood there, her cool hands upon his face, stroking, exploring.

  Until they stopped.

  “You fought again.”

  “I—” The lie began to form, but he cou
ldn’t keep the truth from her. She was too important for that.

  “I did,” he admitted. “But not to worry. I won this time.”

  She dropped her hands along with her chin.

  “I still worry.”

  “It’s over now.”

  “This fight is,” she said with the slightest of bitterness in her tone.

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t hurt this time?” she asked quietly.

  “I was not.”

  He wouldn’t apologize for fighting. He had to do so — he had these renovations to pay for, in addition to ensuring the dukedom didn’t go further into debt.

  “How is everything else?” she asked, her gaze returning to his, her eyes searching.

  “I think it’s improving,” he said, leaving her now and walking over to the sideboard, ignoring the tea sitting out on the table and pouring himself a stiff drink instead. “I’ve found a steward for Stonehall who I hope I can trust.”

  “Do you know him?”

  He snapped his gaze to her.

  “I do. He’s a friend of Archie’s.” He took a sip of his drink. “How did you know?”

  “You seem to enjoy going back to the familiar.”

  He reflected on her words. He hadn’t really thought of it like that. He swirled the amber liquid around in his drink.

  “I like knowing what to expect,” he finally said. “And it’s important to be able to trust those around me.”

  Valentine couldn’t be sure, but it seemed a flicker of panic crossed Rebecca’s face, though only for a moment.

  “I do hope it works out for you,” she said instead, trailing her fingertips along the back of the chesterfield that looked horribly out of place in the room. “Do you think those who worked for the former duke were stealing from your estate?”

  He had reflected upon that question for quite some time, though actually determining the fact through the ledgers had proven a little more difficult as they had been so lazy there were missing accounts.

  “The best I can tell is that it was mismanagement,” he said with a shrug, though he didn’t tell her that it was actually Jemima who had determined that and not him. “People being lazy, not being held accountable.”

  “Will you hire a man of business?”

  “I will,” he said. “But—”

  “It’s a matter of finding someone you can trust,” she finished for him, and he nodded with a half-grin. She was coming to know him well.

  Now that he had overcome the joy — for it was joy, there was no other way to describe the shafts of sunbeams that had coursed through him — upon seeing her, he took a closer look at her. Slight dark circles were apparent underneath her eyes, and her skin was rather pale.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, drawing closer, and she nodded, though her response was rather too quick.

  “Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You look… tired,” he finally settled upon and she drew up tall.

  “A woman never wants to be told she looks tired, Val,” she admonished him. “It is basically saying that I look awful.”

  “You could never look awful,” he said, attempting to save himself. “Just unwell.”

  That, at least, brought sparks back into her eyes.

  “You would tell me if anything is the matter?” he asked.

  But while she responded with a terse, “Of course,” she looked away from him, not meeting his eye.

  He sighed, set down his drink, and drew her against him. As he stood in front of her, he wrapped his hands around the top of her shoulders, gently easing his fingers into the tight muscles.

  He could tell she was about to push him away, but then her head dropped back and she gave herself over to his ministrations.

  “That feels good,” she murmured.

  “What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I’ve never felt such knots before.”

  “They’re always like this,” she said, rolling her head back and forth, providing him better access to the muscles underneath. “Too much… writing for my father.”

  “What does an architect need such meticulous note-taking for?” Valentine asked with a frown. “You work too hard.”

  “I enjoy it,” she said, but her gaze dropped again to the floor between them and he couldn’t shake the sense that she was keeping something from him.

  “Lady Fredericka seems lovely,” Rebecca said, stepping back away from him and out of his touch.

  “Is that what is amiss?” he asked, understanding. If it had been a gentleman he suspected of stealing Rebecca’s affections, he could certainly imagine how he would feel. The ball of rage in his gut at the hypothetical thought confirmed it. “Never fear. Lady Fredericka and I have come to the determination that we do not suit.”

  He could practically see the relief course through her as her shoulders dropped ever so slightly.

  “If you are to marry a noblewoman with a significant dowry, I cannot see any others being a better option than she,” Rebecca said, her words short and clipped. “She is beautiful, she seems kind, and she is intelligent.”

  “But she’s not you.”

  Rebecca’s head snapped up and she looked at him, the melancholy there apparent.

  “I have no dowry, I am not noble, and I must look after my father.”

  “Your father is a grown man.”

  “He is,” she agreed but said no more.

  “I am starting to believe that our separation is ludicrous,” he said, voicing the thoughts that had taken hold of him during the previous days and he realized just how much he had missed her.

  “Or perhaps what is ludicrous is the fact that we are holding on to hope that there can be a future for us,” she said, smiling sadly. “Perhaps there could have been, if you were still a simple pugilist. Or even if you had been born a duke instead of thrust into this life and requiring the guiding hand of a woman who knows it well. But you are trapped between two worlds, and you must embrace who you have become now.”

  She began to back away slowly toward the door, as though his very presence was what was causing her such pain.

  “I must go.”

  “We are not done this conversation,” he said sternly, to which she did not reply.

  “Goodbye, Val,” she whispered softly. “Until next time.”

  And then she was gone, the door shut behind her, empty space where she had been just moments before.

  He had just finished downing his drink when another knock sounded on the door, and Val crossed to it expectantly, convinced that Rebecca had returned, having changed her mind following their previous conversation.

  But it was his mother.

  “Valentine,” she greeted him curtly as she walked into the room as though she owned this place. “I am pleased with the designs Mr. Lambert has prepared.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said wearily, although to be honest he hardly cared any longer. His mother had taken over anyhow, spending his money as she saw fit, telling the architects what she wanted. “But Mother, we need to make some compromises.”

  “We wouldn’t if you would simply marry as we discussed long ago. I don’t understand, Valentine, what is holding you back.”

  “Just looking for the right woman,” he muttered.

  “Or, you are looking at the wrong woman,” she admonished, pointing a finger at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, I’m not an idiot, Valentine. I know you’ve had your eye on Miss Lambert.”

  Well, in truth, he had more than that upon her, but he certainly wasn’t going to share that with his mother.

  “She is quite striking,” his mother continued, waving her hands as she paced around the room. “But I hardly think she has the dowry we require. And while she has spent much of her life around nobility, she has no title herself, and would not further us in any way.”

  “Tell me, Mother,” Valentine said dryly, “am I the one to be married, or are we all going to wed my future
bride?”

  “Oh, Valentine, do not be daft,” she huffed. “You always did manage to bungle every situation. I should think it would be easy. Find a woman with a dowry and marry her. You’re a duke, and you are not bad looking. Many women will forgive an unconventional background in order to be called Duchess.”

  “I would hardly want such a woman who might think that way.”

  “Valentine, I wish you would just do as your parents bid you,” she said with a sigh, collapsing into a chair, the unspoken words between them — that he would do as Matthew always had.

  “We are talking about the woman who will join our family and who I will spend the rest of my life with, going to bed with and waking up with every day,” he said with frustration. “It is not as though I am simply picking out a bolt of cloth.”

  “No,” she said, standing now and walking over to him, placing her hands on his cheeks. “I know this has been difficult, Valentine, but I must tell you that your father would be so proud of you now.”

  Her words caused anguish to coil in his gut. It was what he had always wanted to hear, and yet somehow now that she said the words, they didn’t provide the fulfillment that he would have assumed.

  “Father is not here anymore,” he responded without emotion.

  “Even so,” she said. “It would be what he always wanted of you. We never thought, of course, that the title would find its way to our family, and if it did—”

  “Then it would have been Matthew’s,” he finished for her.

  “Yes,” she said, her smile sad, and he was reminded of how much she missed his older brother. How much he did, as well. Matthew would have done the right thing. Matthew would have known what to do. Not for the first time, he wished, more than anyone, that Matthew had lived.

  “He always loved you so,” she continued, and Valentine nodded. As different as they had been, as much as Matthew had always received his parents’ approval as opposed to Valentine, who was constantly testing them, he and his brother had gotten along well.

  “I am sorry if I seem particularly harsh,” she said, resuming her seat, “but I am only doing what is best for our family.”