Page 19 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MEG PINWELL

Meg had to admit that after two days in her night rail, it felt good to be dressed. Mostly dressed, anyway—she wore one dancing slipper, and one ridiculously overlarge mitten over her injured foot. At least the mitten was colorful: a striped blue and white with the thumb sticking up from the top of her foot like a fish’s fin.

Whatever the surprise was, she didn’t wish to waste the thirty minutes the doctor had permitted her to lower her foot from above her heart. With that in mind, she lay back on the bed again, above the covers, and set one of the ever-expanding number of pillows beneath her heel. Whatever else Earnhurst lacked, the house held a plentitude of pillows. Everyone who visited her room here brought her a pillow. Sometimes she thought the plump things might be making their way onto her bed all on their own.

Despite what Hannah had said, she hoped this surprise she’d gotten dressed for was from James, and that it wasn’t the duke doing something nice for her. She didn’t want Earnhurst doing nice things, because everything was simpler if he remained the villain.

No clock sat on the mantel or on the wall in this bedchamber, and the very limited and subdued sounds of the house gave her no clue as to the time of day, but she’d finished her breakfast at least an hour ago. That made it midmorning, which was imprecise but adequate considering that she had nothing whatsoever on her calendar for the day. Except for a surprise, whatever that might be.

Meg tapped her fingers against the quilt. She knew the reason now that James Riniken was such an odd sort of butler, and if not for the revelation of his parentage she would have suspected that the duke must have known his family or owed someone a very large favor. Otherwise she couldn’t explain why a man who’d lived by playing cards would have reason to be promoted to the head of staff at Earnhurst Castle.

At the same time, he was a butler, and butlers had duties. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Vance at Brundon Hall back at home, because other than opening the front door for family and guests and directing the staff in the serving of meals, she had no idea what a butler did with his day and couldn’t advise James at all. Polishing things, she supposed, and sending other servants on errands, and running a gloved finger over furniture to determine whether it had been adequately dusted.

Oh, she detested sitting about. Or rather, lying about. It gave her mind free rein to wander, and that meant thoughts about the Duke of Earnhurst and his castle. The two of them had nothing in common at all. She adored the country, he lived in London all year round; she liked gardens, and he liked war things, and even though the newspaper columns said nothing about it, he’d been in battles and wars and shot people. Clara also said he had a sense of humor, but Clara enjoyed sharp, cerebral humor, whereas she preferred cleverness and silliness. “Silly” was not the first word that came to mind when she thought of the new Duke of Earnhurst and his very stubborn, bristly looking mustache.

None of that mattered, of course, because she wouldn’t be mar rying him. She didn’t feel bad about that, but this flurry of activity at Earnhurst did trouble her. The estate was spending money and effort on an event that wouldn’t be taking place, and it was possibly her dowry they were relying on to pay for the improvements.

A knock sounded at her half-open door, and she jumped, nearly dropping the Gulliver book onto the floor. “Come in.”

James stuck his head around the door. “Are you decent?”

“I’m always decent. I’m also dressed, as you instructed. What is this surprise?”

“Always decent, are you?” A slow smile curved his mouth. “I have so many things I’d like to say in response to that, Mabel Gooster.” After a moment he took an audible breath and straightened. “Ready?”

“I have a question first.”

He paused his approach. “Of course, you do. What is it?”

“Is this a surprise from you, or from the duke?”

“It’s from me.” His brows dove together. “Were you hoping the duke would give you a present?”

“No. Not at all. I’m only a lady’s companion, after all. It would be silly for him to even spare me a single thought. I was just confused. I’m glad it’s from you, whatever it is. Unless it has six legs or more.”

“It does not have six legs or more.”

“Good. You may proceed.”

Grinning again, he walked forward, slid his arms beneath her knees and behind her shoulders, and lifted her into the air. “Let’s be off, then.”

Yelping, Meg flung her hands around his neck before she could fly up to the ceiling. “I asked to be warned before you fling me about, if you’ll recall.”

“No flinging. We’re going downstairs.”

His arms were quite strong, and his shoulders beneath her hands firm and wide. “I’m certain this is very improper.”

“Don’t be a coward.”

“I am not a coward. I have a well-founded fear of falling on my head.”

“If you make me laugh, that is much more likely to happen, you know.”

They reached the balcony, and she could see several other servants gathered below in the foyer. She looked up at James, to find him gazing down at her. No prospects, illegitimate or not, but for heaven’s sake he was attractive. And charming; she hadn’t smiled so much in a year. He seemed quite good-hearted, as well, when she couldn’t imagine a single reason for him to be kind to anyone.

He studied her face for a moment, and she had the oddest desire to tighten her grip, raise up, and kiss him right on his mouth. Oh, good heavens. She was becoming a hoyden.

“If you’re not a coward,” he said, “then close your eyes.”

Instead of complying, she narrowed one of them. “You’re certain it’s not going to be a frog or a spider? Because I will throw it back at you.” And thinking about insects was much safer than thinking about kissing James.

“A frog doesn’t have six legs or more, so you didn’t specifically reject it—but no, it’s not a frog or a spider. And I swear I will not drop you. Eyes. Close them.”

With an exaggerated sigh, pretending that the idea of any kind of surprise after days of mostly boredom wasn’t exceedingly delightful, and that in addition she didn’t very much enjoy being in his arms, she shut her eyes. “You are the oddest butler I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve met many butlers then, have you?” His voice sounded full of humor as they began descending the stairs.

Hmm. Butlers were rarely introduced to guests, but she did know the names of all the ones surrounding Brundon Hall, because those were the families with whom she and her parents socialized. A companion, though, would spend much more time with the butler than with the members of the household. “I have. I know at least eight butlers, and that’s not even counting you.”

“And I’m the oddest? I think I may be flattered.” Two level steps meant they’d reached the landing, and then they continued down again. Finally, his boot heels tapped against the marble floor of the foyer. Belatedly it occurred to her that this butler wore boots. Another oddity. “Open your eyes.”

Meg looked. A chair stood in the middle of the floor, the two footmen and one of the grooms standing behind it. It looked like an old formal dining room chair, but it had handles sticking out the back of it, and wheels at the feet. A wheeled chair. For her? Oh! For her.

“Well?” he prompted, looking from her to the chair.

“It’s… magnificent!”

James grinned. “I had Robert make it. He’s the head groom, but he’s handy with a hammer.”

“My pleasure, Mabel,” the groom said, winking at her.

They all looked so pleased with themselves that she couldn’t help laughing. “It’s wonderful! Whatever gave you the idea to make it?”

“I’ve seen them in London, mostly for gouty old men,” James answered, “but this one’s a bit… unique in its construction. Those are cart wheels, for example.”

“Aye.” The head groom nodded. “New ones, though. Didn’t want to have horse shite rolling through the house.”

“I adore it. Are we going somewhere?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

Bending down, James set her into the chair. She shifted a little, noting that the groom had added two small shelves to the front legs where she could rest her feet. “Oh, this is very clever.”

“Those foot paddles were my idea,” Robert the groom commented. “Didn’t want you having to hold your foot up with your ankle hurting.”

“Yes, yes,” James grumbled, moving behind her. “Let’s be off, shall we? Staff, to your work, if you please.”

“Yes, James. Aye, yer James,” echoed in the foyer, and the servants scattered.

With James at her back, Meg began rolling toward the door. It was a very strange sensation, not at all like being in a phaeton’s driver’s perch, but almost like floating. “I feel utterly spoiled,” she said, grinning. “I even have a place to rest my arms.”

“You’ll have to thank the chair for that. We just left the arms there.”

They reached the front door. James stopped for a moment. With an audible sigh, he walked around her, pulled open the door, and resumed pushing her. At the sill he tipped the chair backward, and she flailed at the abrupt feeling of falling. “Oh!”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got you.” On the front portico he set all four wheels on the ground again. “I’m tilting you back again to go down the step. Don’t fall out of the chair.”

“You should be the one worrying,” she returned, looking up at his face looming over hers. “I am very good at falling, if you’ll recall. I may begin doing it just for fun.”

He laughed, and she gripped the arms of the wheeled chair and held herself in the seat as they bumped down to the front drive. The wheels were larger than she’d seen in the few wheeled chairs she’d encountered before this, and the moment they began moving across the rutted path of crushed shells and stones, she saw the benefit of that. Hmm. Someone should be taking notes.

“You arrived here only three days before I did,” she said, folding her hands in her lap as she realized she was most likely not going to be pitched onto the ground. “What do you think of Earnhurst Castle?”

“It’s a wreck. It should probably be burned to the ground so the duke can begin again.”

“Oh, I don’t think His Grace would do that, do you?”

“Why not? The castle’s half razed itself already.”

“From what I’ve read in the newspaper, His Grace has been living in London for some time. If he was avoiding his father, which is how I interpret his absence from Earnhurst, that reason is now gone. And I would imagine he came back at all because of some fond memory or other. That memory is still here, in the bones of the estate.”

“You’re very poetical this morning,” he commented, continuing past the end of the drive. “I, on the other hand, have a sudden desire to wheel you away from here and never return.”

As little as she wanted to have any positive thoughts about the Duke of Earnhurst, everything had a degree of logic to it, as Clara would say. Something about it that made sense. “This house nearly broke my neck, so don’t expect much in the way of poetry,” she quipped. “But you have to admit that if the staying away had a reason behind it, so must have the coming back.”

“Perhaps it was only his sense of duty?”

Meg shook her head. “I don’t think so. He might have arranged to have his wedding in London, or at one of his other estates, but he’s choosing to hold it here.”

“I know the answer to this one,” he countered, turning to the right as they reached a walking path. “His father, the old duke, sent him a letter the evening before he died. It said that the new duke should wed this woman he’d never met, and that he should do so in the place where he was born. New Earnhurst never had a chance to argue, because the very next letter he opened stated that old Earnhurst was dead.”

“Ah.” That made sense, now. “So, he considered the marriage letter to be his father’s last request and decided to honor it. That’s rather… noble of him.” Even if she didn’t want it to be any such thing.

“Oh, yes, definitely noble. More than likely caused by extreme inebriation and the realization that as soon as the mourning period ended he was going to be swarmed with marriage-minded chits, most of whom he’d already met and rejected. So, he decided to flee to Dorset. And still Earnhurst remains a wreck.”

The inebriation talk made sense, too. For heaven’s sake, Earnhurst—the man and the property—was nothing but a shifting pile of contradictions. Clara had said so previously, but Meg had dismissed it as her aunt trying to make the idea of being stuck here for a fortnight more palatable.

“You think Earnhurst agreed to marry that Lady Margaret because it was easier than having to fight off a horde of young ladies and choose someone on his own?”

“I haven’t a doubt in my mind that that’s what occurred.”

Oh. Earnhurst, who was already acquainted with every single lady in London, hadn’t wanted to go to the effort of wading through them all again to find an appropriate wife, so he’d left it to his father. James’s interpretation was that none of those other ladies with whom the duke was already acquainted had passed muster, leaving him with a stranger, but neither alternative offered even a miniscule compliment to her or her character.

Meg wondered what the odds were that she would have proven to be more worthy than they, especially given her penchant to speak her mind. When she looked at it that way, it made her feel almost… satisfied to be ruining his plans. She hated the idea of simply being the most expedient choice. Even if for a moment or two she’d looked at Earnhurst as her simplest solution to finding a husband. He’d been someone whose title made him important, and whose status would extend to her, and someone else had vouched for his character so she didn’t have to do any searching herself.

They stopped, and she tried to shake herself out of her thoughts as James stepped from behind the chair to unlatch and shove open a wooden gate. They wound through a scattering of elm and oak trees and then descended into a meadow covered with wildflowers, all yellows and pinks, purples and whites. “I suppose I should mention that I’m rolling you to the village,” he commented. “Remiton.”

“Oh, just this meadow is lovely enough,” she said. “I would be happy with nothing but this.” Reaching out, she picked a tall lavender flower, lifting it to her nose. For heaven’s sake, if their tour of Earnhurst had begun with this meadow and the picturesque scattering of trees, she might have been less horrified by the property. “Is this your first time at Earnhurst,” she went on, “or have you been here before?”

The chair sped up a little. “I’ve been here from time to time. I even liked it, a long time ago.”

“What did you like about it?”

She couldn’t see him shrug, but she could imagine him doing so. “It has—had—several good places for playing pirate, and the pond used to have fish.”

“Fish? I love fishing. We should go fishing.”

“A lady’s companion who fishes?”

The amusement in his voice made her smile, in turn. “Why not? I generally let the fish go once I’ve caught them, but I always feel like I’ve accomplished something when I land one.”

“I haven’t been fishing in a very long time,” he said, his voice quiet as the chair slowed again. “I’ll see if I can find us some poles, shall I?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Fishing would be grand, and a wonderful distraction. “Did the garden ever have a maze? I’m forever getting lost in garden mazes.”

With a snort he picked up their pace once more. “As I recall, I once spent an entire day in the garden maze, running from a peacock. That may be the reason there’s no longer a maze here, in fact.”

Laughing, Meg leaned sideways to pick another flower. “Is that a good memory?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I suppose I would like to think that the property here was pleasant once, that people cared for it, and enjoyed being here. I do think it was loved, once. It makes me wonder if the new duke had any fond memories here, at all.”

The front right wheel of the chair hit a rock and came to a sudden stop. Meg lurched forward. The chair toppled, landing half on top of her. With a curse James stumbled, falling over the chair and tumbling into a patch of daisies.

“Damnation,” he grunted, rolling upright. A daisy with a broken stem tangled in his disheveled brown hair, drooping beside one ear. “Are you injured?”

Meg burst out laughing at the sight of him, even with the chair pinning her on her back. “You look so lovely!”

“What?” Scowling, he looked down at himself. The daisy fell into his lap. “Good God. I’m a bouquet.”

Laughing harder now, Meg shoved at the wheeled chair. Goodness, it was heavy. “And I’m a bump on someone’s path again. Please rescue me.”

James immediately scrambled to his feet. “You didn’t answer me,” he said, lifting the chair off her and setting it upright again before he squatted beside her. “Are you injured?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She sat up, brushing dirt and leaves from her hair. “I didn’t get a daisy, either.”

Plucking one from beside the path, he leaned over to tuck it behind her ear. “There. Now you’re a bouquet, too.”

“Thank you.”

His fingers nudged the hem of her skirt up over her ankles. “Your mitten’s come off.” His gaze lifting to her face, he picked the silly thing up. “It looks like a fish is trying to eat your foot, you know. I’ll find someone to knit you a proper slipper.”

“I don’t mind the mitten. It’s only for a few more days, anyway.”

“Even so. Perhaps the milliner knows someone who can assist.” Looking down again, he grasped her ankle with one hand, his touch absurdly careful, and slipped the mitten back over her bare toes and her heel. “Most women would be weeping and lamenting their loss of dignity right now, you know,” he said, his voice quiet, and his fingers still around her foot. “Not laughing about it.”

“Why? It was an accident, and neither of us is hurt. The breeze is refreshing, the flowers we crushed smell lovely and spicy, and the sun is warm and bright.” Smiling, she met his gaze again. “And I assume there will be a bakery in the village?”

“I believe so.”

“And perhaps a biscuit in the offing?”

He snorted. “You and your appetite. Yes.” As he finished speaking, James leaned forward, balancing with one knuckle dug into the dirt, and kissed her.

Oh. Oh. His mouth was warm, teasing and beckoning her to follow wherever it—he—wished to lead. She wrapped a hand around his shoulder, leaning into the kiss, the tingling of all her fingers and toes not so much like feeling returning to them as it was like lightning during a storm. How could a simple touching of mouths be so wildly exciting and so… full of warm and naughty promises all at the same time?

A cow mooed from the side of the hill, and she jumped, pulling away. “That was… very improper!” she exclaimed, unable to drag her gaze from his mouth.

“Was it?” he replied, straightening again. Turning away, he tilted the chair to inspect the wheels, then returned to scoop her up like a sack of potatoes and deposit her back in the seat.

Of course it was very improper. She was a lady, and he was… he was the illegitimate son of a duke and also a butler. And more than anything, she wanted him to kiss her again. Oh dear, oh dear. This was one of those sticky moments where she absolutely knew the right thing to say—demand to be returned to the house at once, inform the duke of his servant-brother’s ill behavior, and make arrangements to leave Earnhurst Castle—and where she wanted to do the exact opposite, no matter how terrible an idea that was.

She and the chair jolted forward again, and with a squeak she grabbed on to the arms to keep her balance. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to biscuits.”

“But you kissed me!”

“Yes, I believe I did.” The chair continued down the meadow path.

“But you’re not supposed to do that.”

She heard him sigh. “Did anyone see us?”

Even though she knew the answer to that, she glanced about the meadow. “Only the cow, I believe. She thought you were improper, too.”

“No, I distinctly heard her saying that she approved. A fresh spring day, two people falling about in the daisies, and a kiss. Very fitting, and rather romantic.”

Meg’s mouth quirked. “She said all that with one moo?”

“Well, her accent is a bit tricky; I believe she may be French. But I’m fairly certain I caught the gist of it.”

That made her laugh. Oh, now she wanted to forget that she had a Season coming up in London, and one she meant to make even more difficult on herself by beginning it with everyone knowing she’d turned away a duke. “James, I have to be careful. I’m a… My value is in my reputation. Lady Sophronia won’t wish to drag a scandal along behind her, no matter how much she likes me.”

The chair stopped, then tipped backward so she had to look up at him leaning over her. “I like you,” he said, his expression solemn for once. “I enjoyed kissing you. I would like to do it again. I’m also aware of how… precarious our positions are. And that we’re a very long way from London.” He tilted his head a little to one side. “I only say that on the chance that you might be thinking the same thing. About the kissing, I mean.”

She held his gaze, seeing humor, hope, and perhaps a bit of lust in his pretty gray eyes. Oh, my. Heat sizzled down her spine in response. “I see. The next time you kiss me, then, or I kiss you, please be certain no one but the French cow can see us.”

“The next—” James closed his mouth. “Very well.” He looked to the left and right, then leaned down, kissing her again, upside down. Meg couldn’t resist lifting her hands to tangle them in his hair, or leaning up to meet his very capable mouth with her own.

Abruptly, being ruined didn’t seem so inevitable. As he’d said, they were very far from London. She wasn’t even herself. Who cared if a butler and a lady’s companion had a tendre in a wrecked old castle? Especially if she didn’t mean to marry the man who owned the castle?

James made a low sound deep in his chest, then set the chair down on all fours again and resumed pushing.

Meg felt all bubbly inside, like she was filled with champagne. He liked her. And she certainly liked him. And that, those feelings, made one thing very clear; even if she had found Earnhurst Castle and its patron completely acceptable, she couldn’t marry him. Not now. Not when she preferred his butler.