Page 25 of A Duke Never Tells
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CLARA BOSLEY
“If this is the progress you’ve made in six days,” Clara said, gazing at the freshly painted walls and ceiling of the upstairs sitting room, “I daresay you may have the entire property renovated by the beginning of the Season. What a difference from my first tour this is.”
Earnhurst chuckled. “There are more ladders sitting about, anyway. But as you suggested, we’ve been concentrating on the common areas, a select number of bedchambers, the garden, and the follies—which I’ve decided to remove, by the way.”
Clara nodded, unsurprised if a bit disappointed. “I like the idea of follies, simply because they are there to be nothing but lovely, but yours are rather sad.”
“They are. I’ve been thinking of replacing them with a gazebo, suitable for picnicking or simply enjoying the view. What do you think of that?”
“That sounds lovely—and more useful, if less picturesque.”
The duke looked at her. “I thought you were annoyed by pretty, picturesque, useless things.”
She laughed. “People. Pretty, picturesque, useless people an noy me. Follies, well, they have no purpose but to be what they are. I suppose there are those who might say the same thing about women, but I happen to disagree. Being useless seems to be a choice for many of them, and it’s one I can’t fathom.”
He tapped the rolled drawings of the castle’s second-floor rooms against his thigh. The man clearly had things to do, and she knew that, yet she’d abandoned Meg and wandered nearly the entire gargantuan house until she “accidentally” stumbled across him. It was silly and girlish and beneath her, especially as they would be meeting for tea in twenty minutes, but there she stood, keeping him from his tasks.
“I’m trying to decide how to compliment you,” he said after a moment, “without offending you at the same time.”
A slight, still-unfamiliar shiver ran up her arms. She’d thought herself immune to flattery, and had in the past nearly flattened gentlemen who dispensed compliments too overblown to be anything more than what they seemed—words meant to gain something. Her body, her hand in marriage, her favor. Compliments were weapons, and they were the reason she’d become armor. “Be sincere,” she said, but couldn’t help folding her arms over her chest. “And don’t compare me to any flowers.”
A quick smile touched his mouth. “Very well. I imagine a great many men would find you intimidating, Sophie. I’ve had weapons pointed at me—fired at me—however, and while I don’t relish the idea of being lashed by your tongue, I don’t fear it.”
She adored that. She adored him, heaven help her. Her own niece’s betrothed, and she couldn’t wait to see him each day, no matter how brief their interactions might be. The fact that his demeanor couldn’t be further from the rumors about him intrigued her; the fact that he remained a puzzle despite her best efforts to decipher him only made him more interesting. And that was aside from her delight in discovering that he subscribed to her belief in the importance of accomplishments over bloodline in determining a person’s worth. “I enjoy your direct manner of speaking, Earnhurst. And that is also sincere.”
“I enjoy your direct manner of speaking, as well. I also think you’re lovely.” He put a hand out before she could react to that. “My thinking you pretty doesn’t mean I think you useless. Far from it. You’ve been of immeasurable help to me over the past week. I doubt I’d have made any progress without your presence, and that is not an exaggeration.”
“I don’t know about that, but thank you for saying so. I do have a fondness for causes.”
“I’m grateful for it.”
She snorted. “My family certainly isn’t.”
“They’d rather you were more useless and fluttery, then?”
“Oh, you have no idea. There are times I wish to be young and na?ve and optimistic like Mabel, believe me.”
When he continued gazing at her, she began to feel that sensation of having something stuck to her face again. Men didn’t gaze at her. Not like that. “I… should go see that the table in Mabel’s room is set for tea.”
“You called your companion ‘young,’” he said abruptly, setting aside his drawings.
“Indeed, she is.”
“And that makes you…”
“Ancient, I think,” Clara said with a short laugh. “I may as well be in the grave already, as far as Society is concerned.”
“I am at least a decade older than you are,” he stated, facing her. “By your assessment of age, I must seem mummified.”
She flushed. Nothing about him seemed the least bit mummified. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but she enjoyed that about him. But for his limp he seemed splendidly fit, his gaze was direct, and his countenance was quite pleasant to look upon, with the sun-caused lines and tracings of scars only making him look more handsome. “No! Not at all. Age is different for men. And while I don’t approve of that, it is partly science, I think. A man may father a child well into his seventies, if he is otherwise healthy. A woman’s worth being her fertility, by thirty or forty she has ceased to be of any value whatsoever.”
His dark brown gaze held hers. “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?” he finally said, his voice quiet. “Physically and mentally. For God’s sake, Sophie, you are a fresh breeze on a still, hot day. A sip of cool water in the midst of a drought. A… Well, I’ve never been much good with words.”
At that he stepped forward, put his palms on her cheeks, and kissed her. Sensation zipped through Clara like branched lightning, warm and bright and sharp. There was less surprise this time. Only sensation, and emotion. So this was what it felt like to want—and to be wanted. Goodness.
He took a step backward. “I apologize. I seem to keep failing at my word, when I’ve previously viewed my honor as—”
She marched back up to him, pulled his face down, and kissed him back. Whatever the gossips said about him, he was a man of honor. A man of experience, a man who’d risked his life in defense of his nation, a man who’d seen far more than she ever would—and he wanted her. She certainly wanted him.
“Sophie,” he murmured, his breath warm across her lips.
Sophie again. That broke the spell for the second time, and thank goodness for it. She wasn’t Sophie. She wasn’t a lady. She was an aunt. “You’re engaged,” she broke in, as that thought burst into her cozy little cocoon and ripped all the décor apart. “To Lady Margaret Pinwell.”
Earnhurst cleared his throat. “Yes. I am. I’m engaged. And I’ve never regretted it. Not until you arrived here.”
Oh, dear. They were in so much trouble. She and Meg should never have come to Earnhurst Castle. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
“Tea,” she blurted, backing away and walking as coolly as she could to the door. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
He didn’t respond, but that didn’t signify. If he had half the roiling thoughts she did banging about in her skull, he deserved praise for being able to stand upright. She felt like Meg’s plumes, swaying and ready to capsize. And she had to stop feeling like that. Immediately. Earnhurst wasn’t meant for her. He was meant for Meg.
Even if Meg broke with him, he wouldn’t be for Clara. He would have to find a grand lady, someone whose title or wealth would benefit him, his position, and his future. That woman was not going to be the sister-in-law of an earl whose father had spent a very respectable career in the military, and whose mother had been a baron’s youngest daughter who’d hoped that marrying a much older army colonel would put her a step or two closer to the center of Society. Which it had, of course.
With all of that still banging about in her skull, she reached Meg’s bedchamber and walked in to find the two footmen, the butler, and the downstairs maid setting an absurdly ornate table, complete with silver candlesticks, as they laughed and chatted with Meg.
“What do you think, my lady?” Meg asked, smiling. “I told James that his first tea should be as grand as possible.”
“I think it’s very close to becoming a mockery of itself,” Clara replied, then put on a smile to take the sting from her words. Young people. James might think this was the first step in making him palatable to Society, but she and Meg both knew it was about Meg becoming better acquainted with the duke before she took the possibly ruinous step of breaking a marriage agreement with him. “Well done.”
“I call that a very high compliment,” her niece said. “It’s unfortunate we don’t have a resident harpist to play while we nibble on biscuits and cheese.”
“Now, now, Mabel,” she chastised. “This tea is very important… to James, here. Pray don’t make light of it.”
Meg’s smile faded a little. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m merely excited for the biscuits.”
James laughed as he straightened a napkin. “Mrs. Carvey’s been baking lemon biscuits, rose petal biscuits, and lavender tea bread. We’ve been wrestling for the best position by the stove all afternoon. If you’d said something earlier, I would have snabbled a handful for you.”
His gaze remained on Meg as he spoke, and Clara narrowed her eyes. She’d seen that look before, though never for her. Fond and possessive, a male warning to every other man in the room that this woman was taken. Oh, dear. If—when—the truth came out, she hoped it didn’t cause a rift between the half brothers. They’d been nearly civil to each other over the past day or two, she’d noticed, but there had clearly been a long period of bad blood between them. The situation with Meg, no matter how it ended, couldn’t possibly help.
They’d set out four chairs, she realized. “Mabel, do you mean to sit up?”
“I do. Hannah’s helping me bind pillows to a footrest so I can put my feet up. If I sit sideways, I think I’ll manage it.”
It wasn’t proper at all, but she could understand why Meg wouldn’t want to be stuck lying in bed while her three guests sat at table. “Just be aware,” she cautioned. “If your ankle begins aching, it’s back to bed with you.”
“Am I early?” The Duke of Earnhurst stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raising as he took in the décor.
“I was just about to send for the tea and desserts,” James commented. “Hannah, I commend your ingenuity. Timothy, Randall, thank you. Will you see to the service?”
“Right away, James,” the older footman said, ushering the other two out of the room ahead of him.
Clara started to take the seat opposite where Meg sprawled, only to have James pull it out for her. “My lady,” he said, looking her directly in the eye.
Butlers didn’t do that, but then he was a terrible butler. Nodding, she sat, and he pushed her up to the table. “Thank you, James.”
The butler then took the seat with its back to the tree-obscured window and left the duke to assume his own chair. In some ways, James had the arrogance, and even the conversation, of a gentleman perfected, though she didn’t imagine a viscount—or any other lord—with any sense of self-importance would tolerate being spoken to in that way by a man of James’s background.
For a moment, the four of them stared at each other. Clara doubted Meg would be the first to speak, since she didn’t want to hear anything that might cause her to change her mind about Earnhurst. James likely didn’t know how to begin a proper conversation, and the duke, despite being the one to suggest the tea, sat with his arms folded and his chin lowered.
Up to her, then. “While we wait for the tea, perhaps we should all introduce ourselves. Say a sentence or two about something we adore, and something we detest. For example, I am Lady Sophronia Frumple. I adore books of all kinds, and I detest small-minded persons of either sex.”
“My lady,” Meg muttered, her cheeks darkening.
“What? There are no small-minded people here, so I haven’t insulted anyone.”
The duke cleared his throat. “Good afternoon. I am James Clay, the Duke of Earnhurst, and I adore a good tale. I detest harpsichord music.”
“Do you?” Clara asked, grinning.
“It sounds like cats dying, if you ask me.”
“I had no idea.”
“Good afternoon,” Meg said. “I am Mabel Gooster, lady’s companion. I adore gardens, and I detest people who act one way in public and another way in private.”
“That’s very specific,” the butler said, before Clara could turn her niece’s statement into more of a jest. “Do you have someone particular in mind?”
Meg’s jaw jumped. “No. It’s only that sometimes in public people are kind, and in private they’re horrible.”
“Ah.” The butler stirred a little. “Well, I’m James Riniken, former card player, bastard son of the former Duke of Earnhurst, and butler. I adore a clever conversation, and I detest false pretenses. And having to stand and watch other people eat when I’m hungry.”
Clara would have taken his voiced dislike as a general statement, except for the fact that he looked directly at her as he said it. Had she asked him to do something for a reason other than the one she’d stated? She couldn’t recall anything in particular, though she had eaten in front of him on several occasions now. That hadn’t been her fault, but before she could ask for more information the two footmen arrived laden with teacups, sugar, honey, cream, and far too many biscuits, breads, and cheeses for four people.
“Goodness,” she exclaimed, platters overhanging the edge of the table and the scents of lemon and rose and lavender and tea swirling into the room with an almost sickening sweetness. “Are we celebrating something?”
“Merely unexpected guests and the progress on the house,” Earnhurst commented.
“With biscuits and tea?” Meg countered. “That seems a very mild celebration for someone as accustomed to the pleasures of Mayfair as the gossip pages say you are, Your Grace.”
“Mabel!” Clara said sharply, then put on a smile as she shook her head for effect. “Young people. Just saying whatever comes to mind.”
“I find that refreshing,” James the butler put in, popping a lemon biscuit into his mouth. “You do have a certain reputation, Your Grace. And you must have your own opinion about it, Lady Sophronia.”
This wasn’t supposed to be a conversation about her, drat it all. “I admit I had a preconceived idea of what the duke might be like,” Clara offered, “and who he might be, but in person I have found His Grace to be kind and compassionate. You have to admit, Mabel, that the man in the rag sheets likely wouldn’t have both called a doctor for you and given you and your employer a fortnight to recuperate in his own home.”
“That’s hardly flattering,” the butler interrupted again. “If temporarily taking in someone injured due to his own negligence is the height of genteel behavior, regular behavior must be the equivalent of hyenas fighting over a downed zebra.”
Meg snorted. “I’ve read about several parties where that description would have fit quite well.”
James, though, wasn’t looking at Meg. He was staring—glaring—at Clara again. What in the world had she ever done to him? Yes, she’d mentioned that his butler skills were lacking, but he’d admitted that to be true himself. “My point was only that gossip is magnified,” she said. “And when it’s set against fact, its worth is even more diminished.”
“I’ll admit to reading some things about Lord Duffy’s and then Earnhurst’s exploits in London that baffled even me,” the duke said mildly. “But Sophie, tell us about your home. Hollister Hall, yes?”
Oh, dear. She and Meg had only decided on the vaguest of details about their imaginary home. And they hadn’t expanded the story much since their stay at Earnhurst had been extended. “It’s… lovely,” she said, conjuring Meg’s house for her inspiration. “Much smaller than here, of course, but it’s comfortable and generally filled with family and friends.”
“I have wondered, Your Grace,” Meg dove in once more, “if your marriage isn’t the reason you’ve embarked on the restoration of Earnhurst Castle.”
“Of course it is, Mabel. We’ve talked about that,” Clara said, her voice sounding a little too sharp even to her own ears.
“I mean, your bride is rumored to be from a wealthy family, and will bring a generous dowry with her. Is that what’s enabled these repairs? It has been six years since any action was taken here, according to your staff and your own admission.”
“Mabel, you can’t b—”
James choked on a piece of lavender bread, and the duke began to look as if he regretted suggesting tea in the first place. “I don’t believe my finances are any of your affair, Miss Gooster,” Earnhurst said, his deep voice tight. “But as a general matter of information, Earnhurst is one of four countryside properties owned by the dukedom. There are also Town properties, investments, partial ownership of two shipping companies, recently-resumed business dealings with France, and even more with Prussia. I daresay the title could purchase every grand property in Dorset and Hampshire and still have enough left over to own every racehorse in the entire country.”
“Interesting that you mention racehorses, Your Grace.” Meg, who’d evidently paid attention to some of her mother’s instruction about verbal dueling after all, took a sip of tea. “I hear that you own several already. And that you enjoy wagering on them.”
“I—”
“What’s your opinion on wagering, my lady?” the butler asked Clara.
“I don’t know why that signifies, James.” Gambling was one of those topics she’d avoided, because it was a vice that could rarely be put to anything positive. As far as she knew, Earnhurst hadn’t placed a wager since she’d arrived, except for their games of billiards. But that had been entirely for bragging rights and didn’t signify. James, on the other hand, had lived by the vice.
“Humor me, will you?” the butler pressed. “This is all for practice, yes? Surely wagering is a common topic among the peerage. And as you know, I’m quite familiar with it, myself.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Meg wince. He’d asked for her opinion, however, and he would receive it. “Very well. In my opinion, wagering is a ridiculous pastime. If a man—or a woman—has more money than they need, there are a multitude of charities and causes that would be thrilled to make use of it. The wagers on each and every horse at the Derby could fund a decade of trade instruction at work houses, for just one example.”
“What about wagering that involves trusting one’s own skill to be superior to that of his opponent? Is that not a mark of… confidence and intelligence in the victor?”
“James,” Earnhurst said, clanging his teacup against its saucer with less grace than he generally showed. “Enough.”
Clara did recognize a direct challenge when she’d been handed one. “I understand that you were able to keep a roof over your head and food on your table thanks to wagering on your skill with cards,” she said to the butler. “And you of all people must also acknowledge that it is a very questionable way to remain afloat. When the determining factor in something is luck, nothing is guaranteed.”
“So, in your opinion any wagering is folly and should be avoided in favor of emptying one’s pockets into charity coffers every evening? Surely a wager or two among friends doesn’t in any way mean that the involved parties aren’t already supporting charities.”
The duke lifted a platter in Clara’s direction. “Rose petal biscuit?”
Clara took one out of good manners more than because she remained hungry, and she set it on her plate. “You have to admit, James, that you’ve seen men being inexcusably reckless with money they or their loved ones depend upon. It is folly, and yet they persist.”
“Yes, that is true,” he conceded. “And yet their folly has funded my dinner.”
Clara took a breath, trying to lower her annoyance. It was past time to alter the topic of conversation. “Your Grace, you told me a delightful story about some missing packhorses during one of your operations. Mabel, you will enjoy this.”
The duke chuckled. “Perhaps another time. Sophie, you told me you enjoy riding. Do you jump, as well?”
Back to her again, for heaven’s sake. If these people knew who she actually was, they would be mortified to recall how much time they’d spent listening to her opinion and hearing tales about her imaginary life. Thank goodness she had Meg with her to serve as her model of how an earl’s daughter should behave. “I do jump, though not well enough to ever do so publicly,” she said truthfully. “My mare, Helen of Troy, is a fine cross-country mount, and I am a fair rider, if I do say so myself.”
“‘Helen of Troy’?” James repeated.
“Yes. She’s white with a blond mane. It seemed appropriate.”
Meg chuckled. “My mare is Penelope of Plymouth, for obvious reasons.”
The butler laughed. “You ride as well, Mabel?”
Grinning, Mabel nodded. “Not as well as Lady Sophronia, but I do enjoy it.”
Clara had intentionally given Helen an auspicious name of an auspicious woman; it caught people’s attention and gave her an opening to converse, which then led to gaining supporters for her causes. Here, though, it sounded haughty, and that surprised and dismayed her. One’s station in life caused several unexpected things, including a jest of a horse’s name, to be viewed differently than she expected. “Don’t let Mabel fool you,” she said aloud, happy to see her niece be the center of attention. “She’s a splendid rider.”
“Speaking of your companion,” Earnhurst said, “if you were ever to wed, Sophie, would Mabel remain with you?”
As he spoke, he glanced across the table at James. The abrupt anger on the younger man’s face took her aback. Just as quickly as she saw it, his expression smoothed again, so completely that it nearly made her wonder if she’d seen it at all.
“If I were ever to marry, I suppose I would hope she also finds someone worthy of her affection. Mabel is welcome to remain with me for as long as she wishes, however, whatever my matrimonial circumstances.”
James stood up. “I believe it’s going to rain,” he stated. “I have to remove some of the tools from the garden before the mud claims them.” Without waiting for permission from his employer, he left the room.
The duke set down his teacup. “Well. Thank you for your indulgence, Sophie. I’m afraid we have a way yet to go if I’m to present James as my kin.” He stood as well, much cooler and more collected than his butler. “If you’ll excuse me, Sophie, Mabel.” Nodding, he followed James out the door.
Clara silently counted to twenty in order to be certain he was out of earshot. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think that while he may not need my dowry, he is far more interested in you than he is me. I might as well have been a stump covered in mushrooms for all the notice Earnhurst paid me.”
“You are disguised as a companion.”
Meg wrinkled her nose. “I know, I know. But he is engaged to, as far as he knows, a woman he’s never met. And you are not that woman. Perhaps Mama and Papa should have arranged for you to marry him, Clara.”
Oh, if only. “Meg, don’t say such th—”
“Please go. I need to lie down so Dr. Grimsby will give me leave to walk when he comes.”
Well, that had been the worst possible tea ever. Damnation.