Page 23 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CLARA BOSLEY
“I couldn’t find anyone in the kitchen, so I put this together for you, myself,” Clara said, setting the tray onto Meg’s lap. “Three sugars and cream, yes?”
“Yes, please. I can’t imagine where the staff are this morning. Workers are dashing about everywhere. I thought one of them was trying to come in through my window earlier. Or it might have been an owl. Either way, it made me jump.”
Clara opened the curtains to Meg’s window and tried to look out at the buzzing, horrid garden. Now, though, her niece didn’t even have that view, as a beech tree had been set not two feet from the house, directly outside the pair of windows and entirely blocking the view from both. “You have a giant tree in your window.”
“Well, that’s silly.”
“It does explain the noises you heard, but why in the world would they put it there ?”
“Don’t ask me.” Meg glanced up, then went back to turning the pages of a book she didn’t seem to be reading very closely. “You’re the only one who’s come to visit me in the past two days, except for the duke’s valet, but he only stuck his head in yesterday to say he was looking for the duke. Why he would check here, I have no idea. But I did take the opportunity to ask him what he thought of his employer.”
“That’s good,” Clara said, nodding. Of course Meg was still looking for confirmation that Earnhurst was a horror, and her dislike of the duke at least meant that the lustful thoughts Clara had been having about him weren’t entirely a betrayal of her own niece, even if she’d been urging Meg to keep an open mind. Good heavens, Clara. “I’m certain the valet knows him better than anyone. What did he say?”
“He said his opinion was none of my affair, and I told him he was rude, and then he told me I was rude, and I said he dressed like a fop, and he said that if I knew what was good for me I would flee at once and take you with me, because everyone here was mad.”
“How very odd.”
“I wanted to chase him down and demand that he explain himself, but I only have one good leg. I couldn’t do any more than blink at him and tell him that he’d clearly already gone mad, himself, and he said he hoped he had. As far as visitors go, it was interesting, but not very useful.”
“I saw him half an hour or so ago, myself. You know you shouldn’t insult a servant, but as he thought you a servant, I suppose it doesn’t matter. And he is an exceedingly overdressed fellow. He makes the duke look plain. Oh, that reminds me. Randall said a new girl is beginning today, to aid Mrs. Carvey in the kitchen. I suppose your butler is hiring staff, finally.”
“He’s not my butler.”
The duke was Meg’s duke, though, until such time as they could flee and send a letter to her parents stating otherwise. And Meg wanted evidence of his failings. That was what Clara should have been concentrating on, their current mission, and not the fact that she enjoyed Earnhurst’s company more than she ever had any other man’s, and that she’d caught herself several times wondering if he was such a reputed rake, why he’d apologized for kissing her—and why he hadn’t attempted to do it again. The idea that she longed for her own niece’s betrothed kept her awake at night, but for once her thoughts refused to be logical.
Whatever chaos threw itself about in her chest, outside she continued her mission. Meg still refused to contemplate a wedding, and so Clara continued to urge her niece to keep an open mind. Much closer to her heart, though, in private where no one else could see, she had a cozy spot for the Duke of Earnhurst. And yes, even though he’d never admitted to it, she knew he’d shaved off his mustache for the first time in twenty years because she’d complained about it. And he looked quite handsome without it. Heart-poundingly so.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said aloud, on the tail of her own thoughts. This couldn’t be about her. She was nearly eight-and-twenty and an avowed spinster. This was all for Meg.
“About what?”
“You need to have a conversation with Earnhurst. Or—and hear me out—at least listen to a conversation. I promise you; changes are occurring. He is not the man we read about in the gossip pages.” Oh, he was so much more than that.
“How are we supposed to arrange for me to chat with him? Aside from the fact that I’m presently a servant and far beneath his notice, I’m stuck here in this bedchamber. Dr. Grimsby won’t be back until sometime the day after tomorrow, and he may not allow me to walk even then.”
“For your information, His Grace inquires about you every day. But let me figure something out. Perhaps I’ll invite him up here for tea, with you as my chaperone. That’s what you’re here for ostensibly, anyway.”
“Don’t make it sound too odd. And don’t go to any special effort on my part. I’m not changing my mind. He’s still the Pirate, and he’s still at least twenty years older than I am, he still allowed Earnhurst to fall apart practically around his own ears, and he still forced his own half brother to work as his butler. And he didn’t attend his father’s funeral. And I simply don’t find him attractive, even without his whiskers. At all.”
Meg’s list seemed to grow longer each time she recited it, Clara had noticed. On the other hand, she seemed able to find a reason or an excuse for every fault Meg named. And she saw all the good parts, as well—his keen mind, dedication to duty, appreciation for art and literature, and his deep love for Earnhurst Castle. He even believed women should have the vote.
“Well, you have to admire the amount of work being done here now,” she said crisply. “Yes, by both of them. So perhaps they are not as much at odds as you believe.”
Every other sentence Meg spoke these days seemed to be about James, and the idea that they’d kissed continued to trouble Clara. The poor girl needed something to do other than lie alone with her thoughts, clearly. Pining after a butler when all of Mayfair was about to be open to her? Since that would only happen once she ended things with the duke, Meg needed to be especially careful to avoid any whiff of scandal. Dallying with a butler was a very large scandal. Yes, she knew she was stomping all over her theories about the greater worth of self-made men, but this was about her own niece, for heaven’s sake.
“I still don’t know what to make of James,” Meg continued, confirming Clara’s concern. “Considering his skills, if not for seeing that portrait I would be half convinced the duke must have won him in a game of faro or something.”
Snorting, Clara adjusted the blanket over Meg’s foot. “I’ll see if I can arrange for a daybed or a chaise longue to be moved to the library today. You looked extremely uncomfortable with your legs hiked up on that pile of almanacs yesterday.”
“Is there even a chaise longue here? I still don’t know how this house functions at all, with only a handful of servants and a butler who feeds himself during his employer’s dinner and steals tea from the cupboard.”
“As you said, workers are swarming the house like ants today. I’m sure I can persuade one or two of them to help carry a bed.” Clara fluttered her eyelashes.
Meg gasped, putting a hand to her chest in exaggerated horror. “What is this? You, stooping to using your feminine wiles to persuade men to your cause? What would the suffragettes say?”
“They’d say if men are dim enough to be led about by some blinking eyes and a smile, then huzzah to me for using them as I wish.”
Her niece laughed at that, as Clara had known she would. And given how generally cheerful Meg had remained despite her temporary imprisonment, Clara decided to keep the majority of her evolving opinion about the Duke of Earnhurst to herself. It wasn’t just that the duke didn’t much resemble the rumors about him, either, or that she’d become infatuated with him. She didn’t remember reading that he’d served in the military, and apparently briefly with his father, but serve he had. And well. She could hear the affection he had had for his men in the tone of his stories, and she would have been willing to wager good money that the fondness and respect had been mutual. She also heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of his service, and she found that admirable.
Her father had certainly been proud of his service, had regaled her with stories about his adventures—some of them hair-raising—and she knew the truth of something when she heard it. She also knew how to spot a liar, and she’d met several of those the last time she’d been in London. The ones who bought themselves an officer’s commission, gave a few orders that hopefully didn’t get their own men killed, and stayed far back from the battlefield, as if their blood was too precious to spill because they or their father had a “Lord” attached to their name.
She detested those men, and the ones who shunned serving or disparaged those who did, and her inability to keep her disdain hidden had fairly quickly ended her own debut Season. Her mother had deemed her a failure, but her father had privately admitted to being quite proud of her. Thank goodness Josephine had already married quite well and had a ten-year-old daughter, or her mother might have prevailed in her demands that Clara learn some manners.
“Clara?”
She shook herself, looking over at Meg again. “Yes?”
“Were you planning a campaign, or reminiscing about one?”
“Neither. I’m just trying to reconcile the… original apathy about this house with this new burst of activity. What’s changed since last week?”
“You’ve been here to advise the duke. I know how persuasive you can be, whether you bat your eyelashes or not.” Meg grinned. “When you enjoy something, everyone can tell, you know.”
Oh, she hoped that wasn’t true. “But you’re certain that even the repair of Earnhurst will not be enough to change your mind?”
As she once again asked the question, Clara realized with searing clarity that she wanted Meg’s answer to be yes. However much she wished her niece would see the better side of the duke, she didn’t want Meg agreeing to marry James Clay. And the reason for that… Oh, dear. No. She wasn’t even going to think it, much less say it aloud. Even if she’d been aristocratic, she’d made her choice ages ago. She would be most effective alone.
Meg made a face. “You must stop asking me. I told you I would keep an open mind for two weeks. Eight days remain. I’ll perhaps believe deeds, but keep your praise to yourself, Clara. Your opinion of him and mine just don’t match.”
“Not very succinct, but I do comprehend your point. Nothing will sway you back toward honoring the marriage agreement.” Clara considered for a moment, wondering just whose wishes she was trying to grant. She took a deep breath. “Waiting another ten days until we arrive in London, then, is unnecessary. You should inform your parents. They’ll need time to compose themselves and an appropriate response. You’re turning down a duke, after all.”
“You’re correct, of course. I’ve written them several times already, about how pleasant London is, and how we’re doing a great deal of shopping, but I never said ‘trousseau.’ Nor have I mentioned running into the Duke of Earnhurst or anything but how gentlemanly all the young men are.”
Clara frowned. “But you told them before we left that we would be shopping for your trousseau.”
“I want them to begin to realize that I’m displeased with this agreement, so when I do write them to inform them of that, they won’t be so surprised.”
“Yes, but I sent a letter yesterday, and I mentioned that we have been buying night rails and dressing robes and that you’ve ordered two new gowns. For your trousseau.”
Meg stared at her. “Why would you do that, Clara?”
“Because I didn’t realize you’d altered which lie we’re telling everyone, I suppose. How am I to keep anything straight if you don’t tell me the current plot?”
“Oh, dear. Let me think.” Meg scrunched her eyes closed for a moment. “I did say we went shopping. And I did mention one dress, a pretty green silk and lace with a triangular neckline.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I think it would look lovely, if it were real. So, we’ll have to order one as soon as we do arrive in London. And some night rails and a dressing robe and at least one other gown, to support your tale. But I didn’t say they weren’t for the trousseau, thank goodness. So you may have set my plan to ease them into a discussion about the agreement back somewhat, but I don’t think we’ve countered each other. Thank goodness.”
“Did you tell them anything else I should know?”
“I don’t think so. Just the general commentary about enjoying ourselves. Oh, and we had a delightful pecan cream confection on our first night at Pinwell House.”
“A pecan cream,” Clara repeated to herself. “Very well. In the future, let’s meet every morning to discuss how our previous day in London went, so we don’t risk contradicting each other again.”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. That could have been a disaster.”
Nodding, Clara reached over and patted her niece’s hand. “Yes, it could have been. Goodness. Now, if you’ll be patient, I will see who I can convince to move a suitable daybed into the library for you before we attempt to maneuver you down the stairs today.”
“I can utilize two chairs again if there’s no alternative. It’s a bit ungainly, but I don’t mind.”
With a smile Clara left the room. As soon as she was out in the hallway, though, she stopped, leaning one hand against the near wall. What the devil was she doing? Her sister would be expecting her to encourage Meg to give the duke another chance, to take the opportunity to see if they might at least become friends and lessen the scandal, and to say nothing about canceling the agreement until Lord and Lady Brundon had time to meet with them in London and make their own preferences known again.
As a friend she was supposed to encourage Meg to think for herself, to look at Earnhurst with unbiased eyes and decide whether the benefits of such a marriage would outweigh the detriments. Her niece needed to make a considered decision, and then Clara, as a good friend, would support it.
She’d been attempting that, but she hated every moment of it. And despite her belief in the arbitrariness of titles and the uselessness of most of the aristocracy, her mind kept niggling over the thought that the Bosley family, her family, had been landed gentry, and that her own older sister had snagged an earl. If one Bosley sister was good enough to marry into the peerage, then was it so out of the range of possibilities that the other sister might do the same? Yes, an earl hardly compared to the loftiness of a duke, especially one of Earnhurst’s power and standing, but in the end both he and the Earl of Brundon were the same—aristocratic.
Oh, it was ludicrous. A woman of eight-and-twenty years didn’t lose her mind, or her heart, in six days. She didn’t do that. And certainly, she didn’t become doe-eyed over a man to whom her own dearest friend, her own niece, had been promised—even if said niece had no intention of going through with the wedding.
Straightening, Clara shook out her hands. It had only been two memorable, scratchy kisses. She could tell herself that she was simply enjoying the rarity of finding someone with whom she could speak on any topic, even ones deemed unladylike. He had yet to bat an eye at anything she’d said. Yes, that was it. She admired his mind. She enjoyed conversations with him. That didn’t make this a romance. And it didn’t mean she had any intention of setting her cap at the duke, whether Meg wanted him or not.
If only she could convince herself that that was true.
“Are you in distress, my lady?”
With a jump Clara turned around. The duke’s valet, who dressed like a fop and was quite possibly mad. “I’m quite well, thank you. Just taking a moment for thought.”
The servant nodded, no easy task for a man wearing shirt points as high as his. “I’ve just left the duke, and he mentioned that you’re to join him for breakfast. He’s just gone down, I believe.”
“Yes, that’s where I’m headed.” She paused. “Do you know if there’s a chaise longue in this house?”
“I have no idea, my lady.”
“Ah. Well, good day, Goodfrey.”
“My lady.”
What an odd fellow he seemed, with his spiky blond hair, dandyish garb, and overly ornate shoes. A harlequin character, almost, except he didn’t seem to have any idea that he looked at all outlandish. She would have to ask Earnhurst about him. There must be a story to his employment.
She descended the stairs and made her way up the main hallway, stopping in the breakfast room doorway to see the duke finishing a cup of tea. “I’m late,” she announced.
He set down the cup with a clatter. “Not at all. I only just came down. Several unexpected appointments this morning. My work is never done, apparently. But you were quite stealthy, just now.”
Clara bobbed a little curtsy. “I’m pleased you noticed. Or didn’t notice, rather. I am quite handy at stalking deer, I’ve been told.”
The duke grinned. “I agree. We could have used you in India.”
She poured herself a cup of tea, adding one sugar. “I should like to have seen India.”
For a moment he gazed up at her. “You’re a young lady. You may yet find cause to visit. I do recommend it. Parts of it, anyway.”
“I imagine you would be a wonderful guide. And you are not by any means old, Earnhurst, if that is what you were implying.”
He continued gazing at her. “I would like to show you about there,” he said, his tone almost wistful.
“I would like that, as well,” she mused, stifling a sigh.
“Would you?”
She could imagine it, riding elephants, seeing the beautiful statues and the temples and mosques and gurudwara, smelling the spices—and him by her side, in her bed… Now she wanted to kiss him again, to see how different he felt without the mustache. “I would,” she said, meeting his gaze.
Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down onto his lap. She squeaked in surprise, her heart beating nearly out of her chest as she sat.
His hand still gripping hers, he looked at her intently. “I know I gave my word that I wouldn’t—”
Sometimes honor was just… stupid. Clara grabbed his lapel with her free hand, straightened, and planted her mouth on his. And he kissed her back, his mouth molding with hers, asking for—demanding—more.
Oh, if he’d been anything but a duke—Meg’s duke—she would never want to leave his arms. What a formidable pair they would be. And to have a partner, a friend, who thought her his equal and who believed in her causes, would be more than she’d ever dreamed.
“Sophie,” he murmured, kissing his way along her jaw in a way that made her moan.
Sophie. She wasn’t Sophie. She was Clara Bosley. Aunt Clara. Lifting her head, she set her hands against his chest and pushed away from him. “I—No.”
He blinked. “Of course not.” Taking her around the waist, he helped her to her feet, then stood, himself. “I apol—”
“No,” she said again, cutting him off. “That was spectacular.” Lifting her hand, which shook a little, she ran a finger across his lip. “My heavens.”
The duke cleared his throat. “An improvement, I hope?”
“I do not miss the mustache,” she affirmed, nodding, her gaze, all her attention, still on his face. Oh, she wanted him to kiss her again.
“I—” Abruptly he turned away, retrieving the rolled paper that had lain on the table next to him. “I have a pair of architects looking at the east wing,” he said, straightening again. “I’m to meet them there now, in fact.”
She moved backward, straightening her gown and very grateful for the dearth of servants. One of them should have been tending the sideboard, at least, this morning. And then everything—she—would have been ruined. And Meg… Oh, dear. “Of course.”
“Before I go, though, I… wondered if you might do me a very large favor.”
Anything. “Certainly. What do you need?”
He reached out to fiddle with one of her sleeves. “My… James, as you know, has shown very little promise as a butler. I’ve been thinking that I might make an attempt, once we’re back in London, to slowly introduce him as who he is. As a member of my family. It might be silly, but I wondered if you would sit for tea with us, and we’ll attempt to show him some polish and clever conversation. An example, as it were.”
It struck her just how mad it was, that now she was assumed to be a paragon of polite Society, simply because she’d stuck the word “lady” in front of her name. Her mother would be having an apoplexy—and her father would be laughing uproariously. “I… Of course. I was actually going to ask if you and I could take tea in my companion’s room. She’s been lonely with James working in the garden, and she’s meant to be my chaperone, anyway. James could join us there.”
“That would be acceptable. Three o’clock, shall we say?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“No, thank you.”
As he stepped past her, though, she put out a hand, touching his shoulder. “Earnhurst?”
The duke stopped in his tracks, facing her again. His gaze lowered to her mouth. “Yes?”
Oh. “I… I found a chaise longue in the drawing room, and wondered if I might request one of your workers to move it temporarily to the library. Mabel has been balancing on a pair of chairs and some almanacs, but I worry she’ll slide off to the floor and reinjure herself.” That hadn’t been at all what she wanted to say, but she’d done enough damage to all of them already.
“Yes, of course. In fact, I’ll send someone to see to it at once. And I’ll inform James that your companion won’t be in need of company today. Not that I’m certain I could remove him from the garden even if I wanted to.”
“He is suddenly very dedicated, not that I mean any insult to him or to you.”
“No, no, I’m surprised, myself. Pleasantly so. It’s allowed me to double my efforts at making repairs on the interior of the house.”
“Yes, for your wedding.” She forced another smile. “I won’t keep you from your appointment, then.”
“Sophie.”
“Never fear, we’ll see Earnhurst back to its former self. Or you will, rather. I’m pleased if I’ve been a little help.” It wasn’t what she wanted to say, but it was the best she could manage this morning.
He nodded, opening and closing his mouth once more before he walked away, limping a little as he always did. For some reason the sight made her sad, and she took a quick breath. Whatever happened here needed to be for Meg. And once her niece officially informed Earnhurst that there would be no wedding, the duke would never wish to see either of them ever again. She could allow herself no dreams of a different conclusion.