Page 14 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Fourteen

V iolette rushed into the haberdashery, pulling up short when she realized that the only customer in it was an older woman. The lady and the shopkeeper both paused in their conversation to eye her a moment, then as easily dismissed her. She was a maid, of little consequence to them.

Head down, she moved more slowly to the row of fabric bolts. She was later than she had been the previous week. She’d heard the bells of St. Mary’s ring as she’d crossed the bridge. She’d hoped to find him waiting.

Had he also decided she was of little consequence?

She shook her head. She would not think of that. She had important questions for him, questions that had kept her up too late last night. And she longed to see him again.

The shop bell tinkled, and she whipped around, but it was only the older lady leaving with her ribbons and lace. Violette forced herself to focus on the fabric before her. The yellow muslin was easily found, though how Her Grace the First would convince Her Grace the Second to wear it instead of the black of mourning, Violette did not know. And there—that cream-colored wool patterned in lines of forest green chevrons and crimson dots. It would look well as a shawl. She pulled both down and carried them to the counter.

Mr. Pierce regarded her as she set them before him like an offering.

“Three lengths of the muslin,” she said. “Enough for a day dress. And one length of the wool for me to fashion into a shawl for Her Grace.”

“Excellent choices,” he said, pulling them closer. “May I recommend the blond lace as trim for the muslin?”

“ Merci . That is, thank you.” She must remember not to sound too French. England was at war with her birth country, after all. She took her time going over the various ribbons and trim before selecting a pale lace patterned in roses. Her fingers trembled as she put it on the counter.

“A word of advice, if I may,” Mr. Pierce said, sheers slicing through the muslin. “Mr. Atkins is an artist, if you recall. Artists are known for their inconstancy. I would not refine on his attentions.”

The words were sharper than his sheers. Violette’s throat tightened. “Thank you. Perhaps you could cut a little slower?”

Smile sad, he did as she bid.

But, alas, the fabrics and trim were cut, packaged in brown paper, and handed to her, and still Roland had not appeared. Violette managed to keep the tears from falling until she was outside the shop. Head bowed, she clutched the packages to her chest and trudged toward the bridge.

“Miss Collier!”

She whirled, heart leaping, as he waded through the dry grass of the fields.

“Forgive me,” he said as he reached her, face red and breath coming short. “I was detained by a client who would not leave off her instructions. Wait, have you been crying?”

Her chin was quivering. “You were late.”

“Oh, chérie !” He stepped closer, making a moue with his mouth. “And you thought I had forgotten you. How could I possibly forget the most beautiful, the most charming, the kindest…”

She dropped the packages on her feet, took his face in her hands, and kissed him.

His lips had been parted in speech, but they quickly molded to hers even as his arms came around her, sheltering her. Oh, to always feel so safe, so beloved! She couldn’t seem to let go.

At length he drew back and touched her heated cheek. “I knew you shared my feelings. This is precipitous, I realize. We have not known each other long. Will you allow me to court you properly?”

Court her? A chill breeze pushed past her, bringing sense with it. How could he court a maid who worked long hours? And what had she been thinking to kiss a man on the public street! She glanced both ways, but the village lanes were mercifully empty.

Drawing a breath to steady herself, she clutched at his hand. “Before I can answer, I must ask you something. Are you the son of the Duke of Tyneham?”

He started laughing. “Oh, the lengths some will go to to entertain themselves. They see an artist living like a gentleman and assume there’s some salacious story behind it.”

She lowered her voice, even though she could still see none of the villagers near them. “There is a painting of yours hanging in the duke’s bedchamber.”

“I am honored,” he said. “But there are likely other paintings in the house, and I assure you none of them are by a son either.”

She shook his hand and tried again to make him understand. “But yesterday, we found a room, off the bedchamber of the duke. It contained a painting of a youth who looked like you.”

His laughter shut off. “Standing, with the sun at his left shoulder, book in one hand?”

She nodded. “The very one.”

“Odd,” he said, frown gathering. “My mother commissioned the portrait of me. It was the first time I’d seen one done, and it made me want to create such likenesses myself. I have it still at the house. Why would the artist have made a copy?”

“Why would the duke have it and keep it hidden?” she pressed him. “Her Grace believes the boy in the picture is a lost son, born not in wedlock.”

“Oh, that’s all it needed.” He shook his head. “Please do not mention this to anyone. It is enough they speak of my mother poorly. What sponsor would wish my services if they thought me baseborn? As it stands, I only saw the fourth Duke of Tyneham a few times. He was a very conscientious landowner. He would come on occasion to make sure my mother was getting along well, usually with his cousin, Sir Winfred, in tow. Sir Winfred continues to be kind and considerate of me. He always visits when he’s in the area.”

Sir Winfred had claimed to know the artist when Her Grace had commented on the painting. This explained why. But Violette could only wonder what more the baronet knew about the entire situation.

Roland cocked his head. “Does my lack of mystery make you less interested in my attentions?”

She rolled her eyes. “ Mais non , of course not! But you were not there yesterday. So much emotion! So much concern! I thought only of how it might affect you.”

“It affects me not at all,” he promised her as he took her hands. “But you have not answered my question, my dear. Will you allow me to court you properly?”

Oh, how she longed to say yes. “My heart leaps at the thought,” she told him, and his face brightened. “But I must speak with Monsieur Kinsle, our butler, first. His Grace allowed him and Maisy, the other lady’s maid, to marry, but they both work for the house. I do not know how His Grace feels about a staff member marrying outside of it. While some of the footmen and chambermaids live out and come in for the day, it would not be so easy for a lady’s maid.”

“You are one of the upper servants, not a slave,” Roland said, voice tart, as if he was indignant that she should be treated poorly. “But I would not endanger your position.” He squeezed her hands. “Tell me at services on Sunday, and see if you can convince one of the other maids or the cook to chaperone you that day. I’d like to show you the Grange.”

He was serious. He thought toward marriage. Tears were once more gathering, but she nodded eagerly. “I will do it.”

His smile returned. “And may I call you by your first name?”

She laughed. “ Mais oui ! It is Violette.”

“Ah, had I but known, I would have suggested yellow ribbons that first day, for every violet has a touch of gold at its heart. I hope you will call me Roland.”

She already thought of him by that name. “ Avec plaisir , Roland.”

His smile widened. “Only the French can do justice to that name.” He bent his head toward hers, and she lifted her chin, no longer caring who might notice them.

A rumble sounded from the village. Roland tugged her out of the way as a carriage rolled past, followed by a wagon filled with luggage.

Luggage and people.

Coats and cloaks wrapped around them, they stared at Violette and Roland before the wagon carried them on toward Tyneham Manor.

“Who is that?” Roland asked, watching the cavalcade.

“His Grace,” Violette said, breath catching. “The Duke of Tyneham has arrived.”

* * *

Claudia had tried to return to her usual routine that morning after speaking with Georgie over breakfast. While Ben had been asking Mr. Kinsle some questions about the staff quarters, she had bustled into the library and opened the bookcase that held the estate documents. Joseph’s will had been easy enough to locate among the old ledgers belonging to various stewards and copies of wills and marriage records. She carried it out and up to her bedchamber to review it.

The solicitor had penned it for him, so she didn’t even have the comfort of seeing her husband’s determined handwriting. But she could see his intentions. The document summarized her dower settlement—a generous living allowance and the use of the dower house for her lifetime. There was no mention of what would happen should she marry again. Once a duchess, she would hardly marry below her station, and what duke or prince would want a wife unable to conceive an heir?

The hurt swelled like a wave on the Channel, but she forced it down. She wasn’t here to mourn what might have been but to discover what was.

Ah, there were the bequests. The stipulation that only a duke may hire or fire the upper servants. What, had he thought her so vindictive as to toss out those who had given good service simply because he had hired them? The upkeep of the stained-glass window in St. Mary’s. She would certainly have seen to that, will or no will. A burial stone for several retired members of the staff who had given good service. Those currently stood proudly in the graveyard. A stipend for the woman who had been Frederick’s nanny, now deceased.

The payment of the lease on the Grange for the life of the current tenant.

No name, no reason.

Was this the proof she sought? Was the current tenant Joseph’s son? Was he aware of his parentage or as in the dark as she had been?

With these thoughts swimming in her head, she had no wish for company. She set aside the will and threw herself into her work. She noted which tenant farmers she must visit to determine their needs for the spring. She reviewed a list of candidates and their qualifications compiled by Mr. Nash for the vicar position at St. Mary’s. And she wrote yet another letter to His Grace informing him of the many obligations he was leaving unattended. She was a little afraid she’d sounded rather strident.

Or desperate.

It was only natural to retreat again, out of her room, down the corridor past the door to the duke’s bedchamber and the perfidious secret room, and into the portrait gallery. She perched on the bench in front of Joseph’s portrait, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze. He had always seemed fond of her, contented in their marriage. Or had she fooled herself into thinking he cared?

Sophia and Georgie had volunteered to watch Oliver that morning, and Anastasia’s occasional yip of delight told Claudia they were playing with the pug. So, she wasn’t entirely surprised when Oliver tiptoed into the portrait gallery.

“I am hiding,” he whispered as he passed.

“I can see you,” she pointed out, trying not to smile.

He glanced around, then went to crouch beside one of the pedestals that held a bronze bust of some Darling relative who had been a general. This particular pedestal was made of the famous Blue John stone of Derbyshire, blue and gold swirling together along the polished length.

“I can still see you,” Claudia told the boy. “But Anastasia might not from the door.”

He offered Claudia a wan smile before calling, “Find me!”

“Where did you leave her?” Claudia asked.

“The sitting room,” he said, hunching a little smaller.

“It might take her a while to find you here, then.”

“She has little legs,” Oliver acknowledged. “But she’s fast.” He clutched the pedestal closer.

The bust wobbled.

Claudia shot to her feet and rushed to the bust. Hands reaching, feet braced, she held the cold metal in place with strength she had not imagined she possessed.

Oliver scrambled away from the stone. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…”

Claudia released the bronze to gather him close, heart pounding. If it had toppled on the boy… oh, the thought was too horrid to contemplate!

“It’s all right, Oliver,” she murmured. “You did nothing wrong. Someone must not have seated the thing properly.”

From down the corridor came the tap of dog toenails on hardwood.

Claudia pushed Oliver behind her as Anastasia appeared in the doorway, panting.

“Shoo,” Claudia said.

The pug turned and trotted off.

“That wasn’t fair,” Oliver protested, pulling away. “She found me.”

“But I needed you more,” Claudia told him, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

Oliver gazed up at her, eyes wide. “You do?”

Claudia made herself step back before she hugged him again. “Most assuredly. You are an artist, are you not? What shall we do about this sad fellow?” She waved at the bust, now sitting at an odd angle on the Blue John.

“Father will know,” Oliver said with a nod. “He’s in the library. We should ask him.”

Once more her heart hitched. She should refuse. She should not feel this eagerness about seeking Ben out. For some reason, she didn’t care.

She held out her hand to Oliver. “Let’s go find him.”

* * *

He had blundered. Ben ran a hand through his hair as he leaned back in the chair before the desk. He’d been trying to concentrate on his plans, but he could not stop thinking about the kiss yesterday. Claudia had been so warm in his arms, her lips so sweet. For a moment, he’d fancied she cared for him.

But there was no denying she had been avoiding him ever since. She’d spoken little to him over dinner last night, and this morning, she had rushed into the library and out again without as much as a greeting. He hadn’t meant to take advantage of her unsettled emotions after seeing the secret room, but clearly he had. He should have waited to express his feelings.

No, he should have buried them.

His fist came down on the plans, setting the ink well nearby to jumping. He had to get a grip on himself!

“Father?”

Ben drew in a breath, pasted on a smile, and turned to greet his son. The smile froze on his lips at the sight of Claudia with Oliver. Every platinum lock was in place; every pleat and bit of lace serene. Her smile was more tentative.

“Is something amiss?” Ben asked, rising.

“I was nearly crushed,” Oliver informed him, striding closer.

“What?” Ben glanced at Claudia, who shook her head.

He managed a breath. “Perhaps you should tell me what happened.”

“I was hiding from Anastasia,” Oliver explained, “in the portrait gallery. One of the busts is loose. We would like to know how to fix it.”

“Ah.” Though he still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, at least he knew why they’d sought him. “Bronze or stone?”

“Bronze,” Claudia supplied, joining them. “On a Blue John pedestal. I would not like to see it damaged.”

“Some sort of mortar rather than drilling, then,” Ben said. “Likely the stone mason who repaired the chimney at the dower house will know how to lay his hands on some.”

“That would be perfect,” she said.

He tried not to let her smile buoy him as she turned to his son.

“Oliver, perhaps you should take pity on Anastasia. She’s probably still searching for you.”

“Oh, yes!” His son pelted from the room without a backward glance.

“I hope he didn’t trouble you,” Ben said in the silence that followed.

“He is no trouble,” she replied, moving past him to gaze down at the plans spread out on the desk. “I see you’re making no headway. Is there anything I can do to help?”

He should demur and send her back to whatever tasks had occupied her. But he had to know.

He moved to stand beside her. “Tell me that you forgive me for yesterday.”

Her head came up. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I kissed you,” he pointed out.

“I seem to recall we kissed each other,” she said. She paused to lick her perfect lips, and he fought to return his gaze to hers.

“I very much fear,” she murmured, “that I’d kiss you all over again at the least provocation.”

Once more, he found her impossible to resist. He was bending closer, and she, oh wonder! She was rising to meet him.

From down the corridor came the sound of voices.

“Your Grace, welcome home! We weren’t expecting you until spring!”

She dropped back onto her soles and stared at Ben.

“It appears,” Ben said, “that the Duke of Tyneham is home at last.”

She rolled her eyes heavenward as if in a plea for patience. “Now, he arrives? With no more notice than a rap at the door?”

More voices sounded, confused, until a cacophony echoed in the entry hall. Ben made a mental note to see about the acoustics.

“And it appears he brought guests with him.” Her voice simmered with anger, and her fists clenched at her sides.

Ben put a hand on her shoulder and wasn’t surprised to find it tensed as if for battle. “Whatever he needs, Claudia, we’ll deal with it together. You aren’t alone.”

Her shoulder relaxed under his hand. “Thank you.” Raising her head, she swept from the room.

As Ben followed her, he could only pity the duke.