Page 15 of Courting the Duchess (Spy Society #1)

“A s you can see from this report, Your Grace, the textile manufacturing in the North has continued to exceed expectations, even with the conclusion of the wars.”

“And the working conditions?” Sterling asked his solicitor as he perused the sheets of figures laid out before him. Thoughts of Peele’s deplorable opinions of those who worked for him came rushing back to Sterling. He hadn’t been simply paying him lip service when he’d claimed he intended to ensure those who worked his mines and factories would be paid fair wages for their efforts. It was vitally important to Sterling that he follow through with his father’s example and teachings and do whatever was in his power to improve the lives of others, starting with those whom he could impact most directly.

“Your Grace?”

Sterling’s eyes flicked up to look at the diminutive, graying, bespectacled man sitting across his desk, Mr. Bernard Bartholomew Bates of Bates, Bates the lands in Staffordshire, Surrey, North Yorkshire, Devon…” Sterling added thoughtfully, wondering if he might be able to convince Alaina to accompany him on this tour of sorts. He knew she’d traveled little prior to their marriage and he didn’t believe she’d done much of it since; perhaps this might be a sort of much delayed honeymoon for them. A man could dream, couldn’t he?

They proceeded to discuss the rest of the Morton holdings and estates; spent hours going over production, staffing, maintenance, repairs, and updates; and planned the sale of one of the lesser properties in Cornwall that Sterling had only visited once in his life and had no desire to spend the money on upkeep when there was already another interested party.

“And now, if I may, the household expenses,” Bates added, flipping through the papers and pulling out the ones he was looking for before handing them to Sterling. Tidy rows of numbers and accounts filled the pages in a looping, floral script so unlike the other pages they’d reviewed thus far.

“Has Her Grace been keeping these accounts on her own?” Sterling asked, skimming page after page of the document.

“She has, indeed. But not without supervision, of course.” The last was added as if he believed Sterling might find fault with his own wife managing the household accounts.

“Should I have cause to be concerned about Her Grace managing this?” Sterling cocked a brow, fixing his steward with a penetrating stare.

“N—No! Of course not! Every penny is always accounted for.”

“Then I believe Her Grace has proven her abilities many times over by this point. I trust her calculations; you needn’t monitor her every move.”

The older man’s mouth twitched, but he nodded in acquiescence. Satisfied, Sterling turned his eyes back to the documents in his hands. All seemed in order until his gaze snagged on a line indicating a sizable expense simply marked Mrs. Worthy with itemizations below it for books, fabric, a physician… He stared, trying to decipher what it could mean. It was in the same area of the ledger as the monthly donations to the foundling hospital and other charitable contributions, but he knew no one named Mrs. Worthy. It needled him, this unfamiliar charge on the account, and he couldn’t fathom why Alaina would be sending that amount of money to her for these items. It wasn’t one of the usual foundations the Morton Dukedom normally supported, but—he flipped back through the pages—it seemed to go back more months than he could count with Bates staring at him expectantly. Sterling tapped his fingers on the desk in thought.

What was Alaina hiding in plain sight? What was she coordinating?

His life was made of secrets—he lived and, potentially, died by them—but there had been something comforting for him to know Alaina was exactly who she presented. She was blunt, straightforward, and unafraid to show her teeth…but what if there was much more to her than he knew? This seemingly innocuous entry in the household account was disconcerting when compared to row after row of easily explainable expenses. The secrecy of it was like a pebble in his boot. It seemed innocent at first, relatively easy to ignore, but it would wear a hole if left to its own devices. It would lay in wait for him until the most inconvenient time to remind him of its uncomfortable presence. His nature would not allow him to leave the puzzle unsolved.

Sterling made a mental note to look into the item on the ledger. While the rest of the books demonstrated Alaina’s aptitude for efficiency, he told himself he just wanted to be sure she wasn’t being swindled or that something untoward was not taking place. He didn’t doubt her intelligence in the slightest, but Alaina had demonstrated a bit of a bleeding heart in her adoption of Society’s misfits and their championing of unpopular causes. Besides, he’d already vowed to do a better job of protecting her; this seemed as good a place as any to start.

It took Sterling a moment to realize Bates had resumed speaking to him. He pasted on a blandly interested expression and did his best to pay attention as they continued their meeting.

*

Later that afternoon, Sterling followed the sound of his wife’s voice and strode into the drawing room. There, he found Viscount Sommerfeld and his fiery-haired wife sitting across from Alaina. Between them, the table was filled with a full tea service, sandwiches, biscuits, and other treats.

“Sommerfeld,” he greeted the blond man with a smile.

“Morton,” the viscount said in return and set down his plate. Sterling saved him from having to stand by striding over and clasping his hand in greeting. “My wife, Meredith Stratford, Lady Sommerfeld,” he added, gesturing to the lovely woman beside him.

Sterling took the pale hand of the willowy woman dressed in a bright blue gown. Her dark blue eyes were striking and intelligent as he bent over her hand in greeting.

“Charmed, my lady; though I do believe we’ve encountered one another before.”

Mischief danced in her eyes. “I might recall an instance; would you refresh my memory?”

Sommerfeld flashed a wicked smile at his wife’s wit a moment before he could mask it. Clearly, the secret was out.

“I believe we’ve all had enough Shakespeare for the time being,” Sterling replied good-naturedly before turning back to Alaina. “I hadn’t realized we were having guests.”

“I knew you were busy and—” she stuttered uncharacteristically when he took her hand and pressed her bare knuckles to his lips in greeting. “And you were with Mr. Bates all morning. I didn’t think you wanted to be disturbed.”

“You could never disturb me,” he whispered, and she set her teacup down a bit more forcefully than she’d intended.

“Pardon our intrusion upon your day,” Sommerfeld chimed in. “We only intended to stop by for a short time.”

“I get a bit anxious whenever I need to leave the girls,” Lady Sommerfeld explained somewhat bashfully.

“Well, I cannot blame you,” Alaina reassured her. “They are absolutely darling.”

“You have my most sincere congratulations, by the way,” Sterling added earnestly.

The other couple beamed warmly, accepting his words. “Thank you; we’re planning on having them christened in the next few weeks,” said the viscountess. The way she and her husband squeezed each other’s hands in a silent language all their own was not lost on Sterling. He glanced at Alaina out of the corner of his eye.

What would it be like to have that with her? Would she ever allow him in enough for them to develop such a bond?

Sterling cleared his throat and addressed the viscount. “While this is a lovely spread, I was thinking of heading to the study for a cigar. Would you care to join me?” The proximity with Alaina was too intoxicating for him to handle. He didn’t trust himself to be so near to her with an audience—not when the memory of her coming apart in his arms was so fresh in his mind.

Sommerfeld looked to his wife who lifted her chin in silent agreement. “I think I just might, thank you, Morton.” He snagged two more biscuits from the platter, pressed a quick kiss to his wife’s temple, and used his cane to stand. Sterling took note of the leg brace the other man wore and, rather than hinder his movements, it seemed to lend him more strength and mobility than without it. Sommerfeld bowed to Alaina and thanked her for her hospitality before following Sterling from the room. Their wives resumed their conversation about the infant girls.

Once in the study, Sterling retrieved two cigars from their cherrywood box, collecting the cutter and matches and a crystal ashtray, carrying all of it over to where Sommerfeld had taken up a seat on the leather-upholstered armchair and propped his leg on its matching ottoman.

“May I offer you a brandy or scotch as well?”

Sommerfeld shook his head. “No, thank you.” He concentrated on the glowing tip of his cigar, filling the room with its rich, thick odor. “But do not feel as if you can’t enjoy a drink. By all means, man.”

Sterling chuckled and waved it off as he sat back in his own chair.

Several minutes of companionable silence passed before Sommerfeld next spoke. “Pardon me for the observation, but I take it the wooing must be going well; it doesn’t seem like Her Grace wanted to draw blood when you came upon us in the drawing room.”

Sterling exhaled the truth in an aromatic cloud of the rich tobacco. “It’s actually going quite terribly.” He smiled despite his words. “No doubt you heard about the scene at the last meeting of their bloody Reading Society.”

Sommerfeld had the good grace to cringe. “I had, but I’d been trying to avoid mentioning it.”

Sterling took the opportunity to give his account of the meeting—omitting only how arousing he’d found Alaina’s defiant performance. Sommerfeld responded by laughing in appreciation of her cunning.

“She shows no mercy, does she?” the viscount chuckled.

Sterling shook his head in amused resignation. “It is a good thing I’m an infinitely patient man.”

He’d waited eight years; he could wait a bit longer.

And he instinctively knew it would be well worth it.

Meanwhile, back in the drawing room, Lady Sommerfeld took her own chance to ask Alaina what had happened following the incident at the last Society meeting.

“I was more than a little surprised when Miss Finchley told me you’d both attended her family’s ball. Together. ” Lady Sommerfeld arched a cinnamon-colored brow and took a sip of her tea.

“As you can see, I’m quite alive and well…as is the duke.”

“Well that much is obvious,” Lady Sommerfeld said with a roll of her eyes. “The duke seemed bent upon murder—a stark contrast to today’s more amorous presentation.”

Alaina willed her cheeks not to flame. For all Lady Sommerfeld and the rest of Society knew, Alaina was well and truly Sterling’s wife—and had been for many years. She shouldn’t be embarrassed by her friend’s observation.

She did her best to play it off with a tilt of her head. “He is either mad or insanely determined to get back into my good graces, neither of which I believe I can fend off forever.”

“Is it really such a bad thing if you give in?” her friend offered.

“You sound like Lady Juliette,” Alaina scoffed.

“If more than one source provides the same information, then it stands to reason there may be some genuine merit to the information.”

“And now you sound like a scientist.”

Lady Sommerfeld chuckled warmly and set down her tea to slide over and take up the cushion beside Alaina. She gently removed Alaina’s cup from her hands and placed it on the table as well before clasping her long, elegant fingers around Alaina’s.

“You have already lost eight years together…why continue to waste more time on old wrongs and stubbornness…especially when he seems to be doing his best to make things right?” She and Juliette were two of the only people who knew about Sterling’s efforts these past few weeks, and Meredith was correct, their suggestions to her echoed one another, and that made them difficult to ignore.

“I despise it when you make so much sense.”

Lady Sommerfeld’s fingers squeezed hers.

*

Though he gave it a valiant try, Sterling was unable to sleep again that night, plagued by a persistent, violent arousal. Each time he closed his eyes, he could only picture Alaina’s body, her smile, her lips, her flashing eyes, her graceful hands on his…

No.

Stop, dammit.

He wasn’t a lad who needed to frig himself into sleep each night. He had more bloody dignity than that, didn’t he?

Maintaining his patience and holding onto his hope that Alaina would eventually come ’round was slowly killing him. He’d made significant progress in living more civilly with his wife—she’d even allowed him those few kisses and caresses without clawing his face—but that was it. As badly as he wanted to move the process forward and have his wife once and for all, he needed to remember that the past eight years had been different for her than they had been for him. She’d suffered differently. And she couldn’t know the depth of the truth that he’d never stopped caring for her, had held onto her image in his mind and his heart, throughout his absence. He had to give her time.

And if she never decided to allow him to be with her, then he needed to find a way to cope with his situation.

Frustrated and in need of a distraction, Sterling decided to empty the final trunk he had yet to unpack. His valet had attempted several times to empty the offending luggage, but Sterling had refused. It contained some of his important documents, personal papers, and other items he’d deemed vital enough to cart back with him from the Continent. Beneath a pile of books, he uncovered a carved ebony box at the very bottom of the trunk. His heart stuttered and he sat back on his heels. He knew what he would find before he lifted the lid.

Every single letter his wife had ever written to him was tucked safely away, protected and cherished.

The stack was thicker than his palm and surprisingly heavy, well-worn from countless readings.

He experienced no small stab of pain when he recalled his agonizing decision to reply to none of them.

It had been far safer for her that way—better to have any enemies believe his wife was inconsequential and unworthy of his time than one of the most important things in his world.

He knew Alaina’s words as if they were his own. Her letters contained inquiries as to his wellbeing, little accounts of her days, and determination to hold onto the belief that he hadn’t truly abandoned her and would return shortly. He’d been shocked to receive the first letter, forwarded by a neutral contact established by Ramsay. Even back then, Alaina had been feistier and more determined than he’d thought possible. The letters had begun frequently and then gradually tapered off after five years of determined scribbling.

Truth be told, it had deflated his soul when the letters had stopped altogether, but he’d repeatedly told himself it was all for the best. Though the words eventually rang hollow from overuse and provided little comfort, he continued to say them to himself.

Now that he was back home, however, these letters created a very interesting opportunity.

Sterling stood and carried the box back to his bed, settling in for a night of reading.