His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  But that would solve only half the problem—they had still escaped the house party together, and she would still be ruined. Unless he intended to marry her in truth.

  “James?” Jilly prompted, her brows knitted.

  There was nothing for it. He touched the nib to the paper, signed his name with a flourish, and imagined he felt the last bit of anything good and honorable in him flee in shame.

  ∞∞∞

  “I never thought to ask,” Jilly said, as the carriage rumbled down the road. “But where is your country seat?”

  “East Sussex,” he said. “About an hour’s ride from Brighton. We ought to arrive just after noon.” He was aware of the brusque tone of his voice, knew it must make her uneasy. He’d said little enough since they’d packed away their luggage and settled into traveling once again. It was just that he felt so abominably guilty seated across from her, knowing that she thought herself a new bride on her way with her new husband to their new home—while he knew better.

  Still, he forced himself to gentle his voice and say, “I’m sorry, Jilly. I’m not a particularly good traveler. I’m sure you have questions; what would you like to know?” That single errant curl had bobbed over her forehead again, and he resisted the urge to lean across the empty space separating them and brush it back for her.

  “I suppose I’d like to know about your household. Your staff. I’m sure there must be a great number of them, and I’d like to learn their names as quickly as possible.”

  James’ conscience shrilled at him. Of course she would not ask about his estate, his lands, his holdings. Of course she would not care how large a residence she would preside over, or how many horses were in his stables, or anything that could be boiled down to pounds and pence upon a page. She wanted to know about the people he employed.

  “There are a great number indeed,” he said. “To be honest, I’m not even entirely sure how many, or all of their names. My butler, Bartleby, and my housekeeper, Mrs. Simpson, will certainly introduce to you anyone whose names you ought to know.”

  “I should like to learn all of their names,” Jilly said.

  James lifted a brow. “There’s got to be at least fifty,” he said. “Windclere Castle has a great many rooms. It requires a rather large staff to oversee it.”

  “Still, I would like to learn them,” she said. Her gaze drifted out the window, to the rolling hills passing by them. “After my parents passed away, all I had until I was grown was the staff at Kittridge Manor. I can’t imagine not having known their names. It would have made them seem like less than people.” She folded her hands in her lap, and his eyes flitted to her elegant fingers. She’d left off her gloves owing to their travels and to the fact that she believed him to be her husband, and thus it was no impropriety to display her ungloved hands in his presence.

  He should have purchased her a ring. Even if it was all a farce, every new bride ought to have a ring to show for her vows. He hadn’t even managed to get that much right.

  He was beginning to believe that sharp stab of guilt was going to become a permanent sensation.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to learn,” he said. “I thought we’d stay for a while. Let the scandal of our elopement die down, and return to town in a few months or so.” Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he said, “I’m sure you’ve many engagements; will it trouble you to miss them?”

  She shook her head, and that blasted loose curl bobbed enticingly. “No,” she said. “I filled my days with them because the social set was all I had. It is exceedingly lonely to be an unmarried lady at my age, you know.”

  Of course he didn’t know; he was a man. He could go anywhere, do anything. He needed neither permission nor approval, and his reputation would not suffer for it. He could travel the world if he liked, secure passage aboard a ship, and sail for distant lands and adventure. It was a perfectly ordinary, acceptable pursuit—for a man. Ladies were expected to spend their time husband hunting, and then, once said husband had been acquired, to set about filling their households with heirs and spares, securing the family line for generations to come. They did charity works, or planned balls, and reared their children.

  For years, Jilly had lived vicariously through what few friends she had who had done what society deemed it acceptable for a lady to do. She had lived hours, days, years in solitude, collecting invitations not as pleasant events to attend but as diversions from the emptiness of her life.

  Guilt shoved a knife in his gut, twisted viciously.

  Soon enough she wouldn’t even have that. The invitations would dry up abruptly. People she had once called friends would suddenly be not at home to her. Mothers would shepherd their pampered little darlings away from her, as if her taint might somehow stain them through association, through a word or a glance.

  She had had so little happiness in her life already.

  What would she have left when he was through with her?

  ∞∞∞

  The carriage at last pulled to a stop before Windclere Castle. James had alerted Jilly to their approach some minutes ago, but she had only flicked back the curtains and taken a brief glance. Any other lady would have wanted to see what was now her home, to view its majesty first from afar and then perhaps with fresh eyes as they neared, as the well-manicured lawns slid into view, as the topiaries lining the drive appeared, as the castle shifted from a mere pinprick on the horizon to a majestic, looming building.

  He suspected that Jilly had only looked to pacify him, that he could have taken her to a veritable hovel and she would have no criticism for it so long as he shared it with her. Another twinge of shame.

  Before the coachman could climb down from his perch, James thrust open the carriage door and climbed out, offering his hand to Jilly. She placed her hand in his and let him help her from the confines of the carriage, shading her eyes with her free hand as she stepped into the early afternoon sunlight.

  With her free hand she twitched her skirts in a futile attempt to yank out the wrinkles that had been pressed into the fabric during their travels, her mouth twisting fretfully as they resisted her efforts. She wanted to make a good impression, James realized. Though it mattered little what his staff thought of her—they were only servants, after all—she wanted to make a good impression upon them.

  As the front door opened and a number of servants, led by Bartleby and Mrs. Simpson, began to spill out into the courtyard to assemble themselves into a line for introductions, James quieted Jilly’s nervous movements with a hand placed at the small of her back.

  “You look marvelous,” he whispered. “Don’t fuss.”

  She puffed the wayward curl out of her eyes as she peered up at him with an abashed smile. “I want them to like me,” she confessed, almost sheepishly.

  It wouldn’t matter whether they liked her or not; they were paid to attend to their duties and keep their opinions to themselves. But it mattered to Jilly, because, of course, she was the sort of person who genuinely cared about the thoughts and opinions of others. Even those far below her own social standing. She would live in the place these people worked, and she wanted them to be comfortable with her.

  “Of course they will like you,” he said, a touch too brusquely.

  Bartleby cleared his throat, his disapproving gaze spearing James. “Your Grace,” he said. “I have assembled the staff, as requested.”

  His cool tone had not escaped Jilly’s notice, and she glanced at James, her brows drawn.

  “Jillian, this is Bartleby, our butler. He and Mrs. Simpson will serve as your liaisons to the staff,” James said. “Bartleby, this is my duchess, Jillian. I trust you will make her welcome.”

  “Indeed,” Bartleby said, with a crisp, if stiff, bow. “My lady, welcome to Windclere Castle.”

  James ground his teeth together. “Your Grace, if you please, Bartleby.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Jilly said with forced levity. “It will certainly take some getting used to, even for me.” She stepped
away from James and toward Bartleby, extending her hand to the flummoxed butler. “Would you please introduce me to the staff? I shouldn’t like to upset your household more than necessary.”

  “Of course, my—Your Grace.” Bartleby’s vaguely censorious tone had been reserved for James alone, and he kindly conducted her toward the staff lined up before the front steps, introducing them to her in order of their rank and position within the household.

  Bartleby flicked his hand to a couple of footmen who had already been introduced, and they removed themselves from the line to begin the process of unloading the carriage of its luggage, which they took inside with them. A few maids followed swiftly upon their heels, presumably to begin unpacking.

  “Windclere has well over three hundred rooms spread out over three wings,” Mrs. Simpson was telling Jilly. “It might take you a while to get your bearings. I shall assign you a maid to guide you until you’ve found your footing, Your Grace. May I ask when your lady’s maid will be arriving?”

  “Oh,” Jilly said. “I don’t think she will—Victoria much prefers London to the country, and she’ll be delighted to only have Aunt Marcheline to attend, I think. I don’t suppose you’ve got a maid with the requisite skills?”

  “We had,” Mrs. Simpson sighed, “but she has gone with Lady Gloriana. I shall have to inquire amongst the other girls.”

  “Lady Gloriana?” Jilly repeated.

  “The duke’s sister, Your Grace,” Mrs. Simpson clarified. “This Season ought to have been her first, but…” She hesitated, her gaze darting nervously to James. “But she has put it off in order to care for a sick relative. She’s off in Hampshire at the moment.”

  “Oh. What a kind thing to do. She must be a lovely young lady,” Jilly said.

  Mrs. Simpson gave a sniff, bristling under James’ hard stare. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I will inquire among the maids for a temporary lady’s maid until a suitable replacement can be found.” With a hasty curtsey, she took off after the last of the servants, leaving James and Jilly alone in the courtyard.

  “You didn’t tell me you had a sister,” Jilly said. And then, almost reflectively, “I suppose now she is my sister as well.” A hint of a smile played about her mouth. “How wonderful. I don’t suppose you have any other siblings lurking about?”

  “Only Gloriana,” he said. Not that Jilly would ever meet her. Gloriana would be secluded away for months yet, and Jilly would be gone long before that. “Come, I will give you a tour of the residence.”

  “May I write to her?” Jilly asked as she placed her hand on his extended arm. “I imagine it might be somewhat shocking to find one has acquired a new relation in one’s absence. I should like to introduce myself.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Bartleby handles the sending and receiving of the post. Just give it to him, and he’ll see that it is sent out.” Irrelevant, as Bartleby would be instructed to send no letters to Gloriana. “Don’t be surprised if you do not receive a swift response. Gloriana is an occasional correspondent at best.”

  “Your staff seems to have expected us,” Jilly said as they entered the foyer. Her voice echoed through the cavernous room, bouncing off the marble floors and pillars.

  “I sent a messenger last night from the coaching inn,” James said. “I don’t spend a great deal of time here, and while the staff is quite large, when I am not in residence they do close down a number of the rooms. I wanted to ensure they had enough time to prepare at least our rooms, as well as to restock the kitchen for our stay.”

  Two enormous staircases spiraled out on either side of them, stretching east and west. The corridors beneath them were partially hidden from view by the wide steps, which were lined with pristine scarlet carpeting. The ornate balustrades that wreathed the stairs gleamed beneath a fresh coat of varnish.

  “Windclere faces north,” James said, “and has three wings; east, west, and south. The east wing is the family wing, the west wing is for guests, and the south wing is for entertaining. There are six libraries, one hundred and forty-seven bedrooms, a dozen sitting rooms, three music rooms, a grand ballroom, and a smaller ballroom for more intimate gatherings.”

  “Oh, of course,” Jilly said dryly. “We can’t be trotting the grand ballroom out for just any occasion.”

  James suppressed a snicker. “It’s a ducal residence,” he said. “What had you expected?”

  “Not three hundred rooms,” Jilly said. “It is a tad excessive, isn’t it? Why, by comparison, Kittridge Hall is practically a hovel. We’ve got only fifty-three rooms, and just the one ballroom.”

  Excessive. She thought his ducal residence excessive. From any other lady of her status, he would have expected a gleam of greed about the eyes, perhaps a sense of entitlement or even triumph that she had at last received what she imagined was her due.

  Jilly thought it excessive. And her fingertips tightened upon his arm as if she thought she might be immediately be swallowed into the bowels of the grand residence if she should let go, never to find her way free again.

  He coughed into his fist. “You will, of course, find bell pulls at frequent intervals throughout the house. If you should find yourself lost, simply pull one, and one of the staff will come retrieve you.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t like to pull them away from their duties,” she replied. “Perhaps you can simply supply me with a roll of twine so that I may retrace my own steps.” She canted her head thoughtfully. “Or perhaps some breadcrumbs.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound surprised him. God help him, but he had never expected to find a lady who could make him laugh the way she did, whose humor derived not from critical slights against her peers but from a rare, genial wit.

  He wanted to keep her.

  The thought struck him with all the force of a bullet and nearly as much pain. Had he not sold his soul—and hers—to strike out at her brother, he might have won her honestly, might have earned her love. She had offered it to him, and he’d given her back only deceit in exchange for so generous a gift. A woman like Jilly did not offer such a thing lightly, and his betrayal would crush something pure and perfect in her, kill that last incorruptible bastion of hope that shone within her.

  “James?” she asked, peering up at him, her clear green eyes inquisitive. “Is something the matter?”

  He cleared his throat, willing away the lump of mingled guilt and shame that threatened to choke him. “Not at all,” he said, forcing himself to pat her hand in reassurance. “Let’s continue, shall we? If we hurry, we ought to make it through at least the east wing before dinner.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The duchess’ bedchamber. Standing in the center of the massive room made Jilly feel very small. Her own bedroom at Kittridge Manor had been modest by any standard. Large enough to house her furniture, with enough room leftover for a closet, but still rather cozy when it all came down to it. By contrast, the duchess’ bedchamber was cavernous. The ceiling soared in high arches, and Jilly resisted the rather childish urge to shout ‘halloo’ simply to see if the ceiling high above her head would echo the sound back to her.

  The bed had probably been assembled within the chamber, for she did not see any way that the massive frame could have fit through the doorway. It was wreathed in gauzy layers of silver net curtains, by no means heavy enough to block out the morning sunlight, but rather to add a feminine touch of elegance to the ornately carved wooden frame. The seafoam green carpet was plush beneath her feet, and the wainscoting that ran along the walls was edged in gilt; a touch of extravagance that only served to make Jilly feel even more out of place.

  James had left her at the door, after dropping a dry kiss on her cheek. He’d instructed her to ring for a maid to help her dress for dinner, but instead she had become overset by a flash of nerves. It seemed somehow incomprehensible that she had ended up here, in this grand room that now belonged to her. That she had done such a reckless thing, running off into the night with James to be marr
ied. That she, who had long expected never to marry, had somehow, inexplicably, made what would surely be called the match of the Season—once the gossip died down, of course.

  She shuddered. Having been the subject of gossip enough to last a lifetime, the thought of braving London society anytime soon was enough to send an icy skirl of dread skittering down her spine. Thank God that James had suggested remaining here for a time. She would need at least long enough for the scandal to fade, for the sharp tongues of some of the Ton’s nastier ladies to blunt themselves.

  Probably some of them would say some exceedingly unkind, and untrue things. That she had forced him into a compromising position, given the fact that her advancing years made it unlikely she would receive an offer of marriage. That his honor had demanded he wed her. That at least her dowry ought to provide some recompense for having been saddled with a bride well past her prime.

  Her dowry. She would have to write to David and ask him to release it. Though the stipulations of it required that she wed only with David’s permission, she couldn’t imagine that he would be displeased with her choice. At the very least she would no longer be his responsibility, his burden to bear. Surely he would be happy to have her off his hands, at least. No man of his age wished to be encumbered by an unmarried sister to support.

  A rap at the door startled her out of her thoughts, and she whirled around. “Enter,” she called, relieved to find that her voice had not, in fact, echoed round the rafters.

  Half a moment later the door opened, and a maid slipped inside the room, bobbing a curtsey as she did. “Beg pardon, Your Grace,” she said. “But Mrs. Simpson sent me to help you prepare for dinner.”

  The poor girl was all nerves, and she could hardly have more than eighteen years. She smoothed at her skirts, and then wrung her hands before her as if she expected to be turned away.