Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  As he should be doing as well, were her unspoken words, as she fixed him with that stare he knew so well.

  “I have a suggestion,” she said, and Valentine sighed. He was finished with his mother’s suggestions.

  “What is it?”

  “We tell Mr. Lambert that his services are no longer required.”

  “What?”

  “We have a master-builder. We no longer require Mr. Lambert. Pay him, and let him go on his way. Along with his daughter.”

  “Mother, we have invested so much with him. Do we not want the renovations completed correctly?”

  “I am sure that Mr. Burton would be fine on his own.”

  “Mother,” he said, standing and making for the door to signal that this conversation was finished. “You wanted these renovations. If we are going to do them, we are going to do them right.”

  “But—”

  “I must go,” he said, refusing to argue with her any longer. “I have a man-of-business to find.”

  After he ushered her out, he closed the door behind her, wishing he could finish with everything else in his life in such a way.

  21

  Rebecca now lived for those stolen moments when she would see Valentine at Wyndham House in London. Now that the builders had begun their work, she accompanied her father from time to time to answer any questions and to oversee the construction. Wyndham House was currently the priority before they would continue on to Stonehall.

  “That cannot be an enjoyable task,” Jemima remarked one day as she and Rebecca stood at the back of the ballroom, staring up at the painter, who was painstakingly covering the ceiling. The workers were currently split between the ballroom and the conservatory. While both Jemima and her mother insisted that Jemima didn’t need anything besides an empty room with some tables, Rebecca was adamant that the conservatory work take as much priority as the ballroom. She understood how important it was to have a dedicated workspace. She loved her little study at home, where the sun streamed in upon her desk, angled perfectly from where she could work.

  “It is rather tedious work,” Rebecca agreed, arching her already stiff neck to watch the painter, who completed his work on a system of pulleys. “It will be beautiful, however, and completely worth it once it is finished.”

  “I hope so,” Jemima agreed. “Those are not the angels that my mother discussed are they?”

  “No,” Rebecca said, shaking her head with a smile.

  “It almost looks like they have raised their fists at one another.”

  Rebecca’s grin widened ever so slightly.

  Jemima turned to her with wide eyes. “You are having him paint pugilists!”

  “Perhaps,” she said, laughing now, and Jemima took a deep breath, her smile beginning to match Rebecca’s.

  “My mother is going to absolutely hate it.”

  “It will be done very tastefully, I can promise you that.”

  “But Valentine will love it,” Jemima finished, and Rebecca’s cheeks warmed. She hoped he would. That was her goal. She wasn’t sure whether he was going to be upset with her or pleased. She hoped for the latter, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

  “I thought you hated the fact that he fights.”

  Rebecca looked around her for a moment as she considered her answer. The finishing was being added to the pillars, which had already been in place prior to their arrival. The room would be completed before Mrs. St. Vincent’s deadline, as they were primarily polishing what had been a large, empty canvas. A few benches around the side, and it would be ready for all of London’s finest to attend — including the women who would vie to be the next Duchess of Wyndham.

  “I hate the thought that he could be injured. That he is putting himself through it in order to try to fund this dukedom,” she finally said. “But if he loves it… well, I understand seeing through on your passions.”

  Jemima nodded.

  “You have done a wonderful job with this house,” she remarked, to which Rebecca shook her head, evading the compliment.

  “It was already nearly finished anyway,” she said.

  “Yes, but you have ideas that are quite impressive,” Jemima persisted. “I am looking forward to seeing them put into place.”

  “All in good time,” Rebecca murmured. “I do get the sense that your mother no longer welcomes my presence. Why, I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Well, that’s simple,” Jemima said, arching an eyebrow. “It is because she knows of the way my brother feels about you.”

  Rebecca raised her head, meeting Jemima’s eye. “I wish I knew.”

  “Oh, Rebecca,” Jemima said, tilting her head as she studied her. “He loves you — I know it, even if he doesn’t know it himself.”

  Rebecca couldn’t say a word, her heart lodged in her throat, but she tried her best to swallow it as Valentine entered the room and began walking toward them.

  Jemima smiled mischievously.

  “Say you will come to the ball.”

  “Oh, Jemima, I couldn’t.”

  Jemima turned as her brother approached.

  “Valentine,” she said, swinging her gaze back upon Rebecca. “Tell Rebecca that she must come to the ball.”

  “Rebecca, you must come to the ball,” he repeated dutifully, and Rebecca frowned at him.

  “You both know that this ball is not being held for the likes of me.”

  “You have much more in common with us than any of the other people who will be in attendance,” Jemima said. “Even if you do not wish to speak to anyone else, you can sit in the corner with me and Celeste.”

  “Mother will not be pleased with you ensconced in a corner seat,” Valentine teased his sister, and she swatted him.

  “I would invite you not to share my plans with her,” she dismissed her brother, turning back to Rebecca. “Please, say you will,” she said with some desperation. “To have people there I know and trust is the only way I can make it through such a night.”

  Rebecca stole a glance at Valentine to see what he thought of Jemima’s plea, but he wore a similar expression to his sister. Apparently she was not the only one who might welcome Rebecca’s presence.

  “Very well,” Rebecca finally agreed. “As long as your mother doesn’t toss me out.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” Jemima said, clapping her hands together and Rebecca took a deep breath. This could be a terrible decision, but in a way, she was eager to view the ballroom full of people, to see firsthand what they thought of her design.

  She would soon find out if it would be worth it.

  * * *

  Valentine surveyed the room in front of him. The ballroom renovation had taken nearly a month to complete — during which time he had taken every opportunity to be at home, just in case Rebecca happened to arrive with her father. His mother thought him ridiculous, and she told him such, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was a man torn by indecision, between following his heart and doing what he thought was the right thing, what his father had always wanted from him, what Matthew would have done.

  He and Rebecca had a few stolen moments alone, but it seemed his mother was always hanging about, or Rebecca’s father required her assistance for one thing or another.

  Valentine still wasn’t completely comfortable with Mr. Lambert. The man he presented himself as did not align with the designs he produced. He was always speaking of past projects, was lost in his affinity for the baroque, and yet the designs were innovative and classical.

  Val didn’t enjoy not completely trusting someone who worked for him — but he could never fire Mr. Lambert, for that would mean being rid of Rebecca as well, which he could never, ever do, despite his mother’s persistence.

  Guests had begun to trickle in, and while Val did his utmost to be a most gracious host, he couldn’t help his gaze from continuing to wander to the door, awaiting Rebecca.

  “Careful, or your neck is going to be stuck like that,” Jemima said from the corner of her m
outh. She stood beside him near the entryway to the ballroom — which was a masterpiece. Valentine’s mother had nearly fainted dead away when she saw the pugilists locked in an everlasting battle in the middle of the ceiling, but when she tried to insist that they be painted over, Valentine had told her that this was one decision that was not hers to make.

  It was one thing in this house that spoke to who he was, the new Duke of Wyndham, and he was not going to cover it up. He may have lost most of his identity as Valentine St. Vincent, but these pugilists would not be destroyed.

  “Do you think she’ll come?” he asked Jemima, not hiding the desperation in his voice as he asked after Rebecca.

  “She promised she would, so she will,” Jemima said confidently, and he nodded as he greeted another young woman and her mother. This entire ball seemed to be filled with an endless line of eligible young ladies. He expected most of them had significant dowries to accompany their lofty titles, but he couldn’t form much more than a passing interest in greeting them. None of them spoke to him.

  Until a striking raven-haired vixen approached. She wore a long crimson gown that draped around those hips and the bodice that he knew so well. He wanted to pick her up and spirit her away upstairs to his bedroom. He could only wish that there was a passage from here up to his bedchamber, such as the one from the long gallery to his room at Stonehall. But that was not to be.

  “Miss Lambert,” he said, a smile gracing his lips. “I am so glad you could join us.”

  “As am I,” added Jemima with a grin.

  “Save a dance for me?” Valentine asked, ignoring the knowing smile of his sister next to him.

  “I will.”

  The time between his request and their actual dance seemed interminable. Valentine decided that he didn’t particularly enjoy playing host at a ball. Which wasn’t a surprise, for he hardly enjoyed attending one as it was.

  But at least in the home of others he could leave when he wanted. Here, he was stuck.

  He managed to extricate himself from his welcoming duties once the orchestra began to play in earnest, and he quickly sought out Rebecca.

  He was well aware that he should be asking for a dance with one of the many young women vying for his attention. In fact, he could actually feel his mother’s pointed stare upon him as he crossed the ballroom. But his feet seemed as fickle as heart, for they led him over to where Rebecca sat against one of the walls with Jemima, her friend Miss Keswick, and Lady Fredericka.

  Val knew what his mother was thinking — that he was here for Lady Fredericka. She was a pleasant woman, and one Valentine figured would make a good friend.

  But not a wife.

  For there was only one woman who so captured his attention.

  “Miss Lambert,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “may I have this dance?”

  She smiled as she rose, placing her hand in his.

  “You shall.”

  He led her out onto the dance floor, aware of the many eyes turned in their direction, but he didn’t overly care. If he was to hold this infernal ball, then he would dance with whomever he damn well pleased.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, forcing himself to make polite conversation when all he wanted to do was crush her into his arms and hold her tight.

  “I am enjoying my time with your sister and her friends,” she said. “They are not like typical ladies of their station.”

  “Which is a compliment from you.”

  “And you as well, I should think.”

  He chuckled. “You are correct. I have not taken to my new status very well.”

  “I think you are doing just fine,” she said, and Val cringed slightly at her look of admiration. He didn’t deserve it. He had done nothing that he should receive any praise for.

  They enjoyed an amiable dance, content to be in one another’s arms.

  “How much talk do you think we would create if we were to dance every waltz together?” he asked, his voice low in Rebecca’s ear as they left the dance floor.

  She laughed softly.

  “Even an unconventional duke such as yourself would have a difficult time in doing such a thing,” she said. “You would be the talk of all of London.”

  “I believe I already am,” he said ruefully.

  They had nearly made it to the end of the dance floor when a rotund, balding man stopped them.

  “I say!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Valentine. “I know you.”

  Val arched an eyebrow. “This is my home,” he said carefully, “and as you are an invited guest, I would hope that you know my identity.”

  The man shook his head. “No, no, I’ve seen you before. Somewhere else. Somewhere… I’ve got it!”

  Val waited expectantly, his stomach slightly churning. Don’t say it, he thought. Please don’t—

  “You’re the fighter! The pugilist! Val Vincent!”

  Heads began to turn their way, and Val could sense Rebecca stiffening beside him.

  “You must be mistaken, sir,” she said, attempting to defend him. “This is the Duke of Wyndham. He—”

  “No, no, there is no doubt about it,” the man continued. “I saw Bucky Brown best you two months past, out in Hungerford. Didn’t we, Johnson?” he asked one of his companions, who began to nod slowly in recognition.

  “You say you are the duke?” the man continued, as a slight crowd began to form around them, more and more eyes turning toward them.

  “Your grace!” his mother, her white hair perfectly coiffed and wearing the very finest gown London had to offer, sailed through Valentine’s accusers.

  “These gentlemen must be mistaken, for I know such a thing could never be. Now, please come with me to greet Lord and Lady Hycliffe and their family. Excuse us!”

  Then Valentine was whisked away, with a chorus of onlookers staring after him, Rebecca falling away from his side.

  “I am not a child, Mother,” he said sternly once they were out of earshot. “I can fight my own battles.”

  “You were doing a terrible job of it,” she scolded him. “As it is, your name is going to be on the lips of all in attendance, until this news hits the scandal sheets tomorrow.”

  “Does it matter?” he challenged her. “They are correct. I am the fighter they are speaking of. It’s who I am — more so than the Duke of Wyndham, that is for certain.”

  She fixed him with a look of disdain.

  “You know how upset your father always was about your fighting. Well, I feel no different, as you are well aware. It is because of your fighting that we lost your brother. I told you to be done with it, now that you are the Duke of Wyndham. It will sully your reputation, and the family’s along with it, even more so than it already is. Valentine, you must find yourself a respectable woman to wed.”

  “In all honesty, Mother, I care very little about what these people think anymore,” he said in exasperation, and she turned to him, aghast.

  “But what about me?”

  “What about you?” he challenged. “I give you the finest things one could ask for. You are the mother of a duke, and you certainly act in the style one would suppose.”

  “Well, of course, I do,” she said. “Matthew would—”

  “I am not Matthew,” he said sternly, loud enough that a couple of people turned to look at him, and he quieted his tone so as not to embarrass his mother. “I am sorry, Mother. I wish Matthew was here instead of me, truly I do. But while I may be forced to take his title, I cannot become him. I am who I am — Valentine, the fighter. And it’s time I begin to fight for what I want.”

  She looked at him with equal parts respect and disappointment.

  “You are remaining the man we always expected you to be,” she said with a sniff. “But there is one thing you cannot argue with.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You need a dowry — and a significant one at that. You best come around and realize that yourself before it’s too late.”

  Then she w
as off, striding away from him with her nose held high in the air, more lady that she actually was in name.

  Aware that he had somehow bungled nearly every situation this evening, Valentine could do nothing but watch her go and wish, not for the first time, that his brother was still with them.

  22

  “Miss Lambert, might I have a word?”

  After stopping for a drink, Rebecca had nearly found her way back to her seat with her newfound friends, but Mrs. St. Vincent intercepted her.

  “Of course,” she said politely. “Thank you so much for having me this evening.”

  “Yes, well, my children were insistent,” Mrs. St. Vincent said in a way that told Rebecca she clearly would have chosen otherwise. “Miss Lambert,” she said, leading Rebecca into a corner of the room, “I am not a fool. I have come to realize that you and my son hold… affection for one another.”

  Rebecca turned to her, rather stunned. She hadn’t realized Mrs. St. Vincent was so perceptive. Or perhaps Rebecca and Valentine had been much more obvious than they would have imagined.

  “I suppose there is some truth to that,” she said cautiously, unsure of what Valentine would want her to say.

  “You must realize, however, that my son is not for you,” she continued, quite forthright. “He is a duke now, and while I am aware that you were raised with much propriety, you are not what he needs, Miss Lambert. You are an intelligent woman and I hope that you can understand this, even if he cannot.”

  Rebecca’s heart and mind swirled with opposing emotions. She was not exactly pleased with Mrs. St. Vincent’s words, and yet she was insinuating that Valentine had not given up on her. Of that, Rebecca was more pleased than she could have imagined.

  “I believe that is for Valentine to decide,” was all she could manage. And truly, she wished he would. He was a grown man, and she was becoming quite frustrated by his lack of ability to stand up to his mother. Though, who was she to tell him such a thing when she had been covering her father’s mistakes for years now?

  “Men can be idiots,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, rolling her eyes. “They cannot be trusted to make the right decisions. Which is why you must do so.”