Page 3 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Three

“S he’s not warming to him,” Mr. Kinsle reported as the footmen returned the last of the dinner dishes to the kitchen.

Violette looked up from the table at one end of the room, where she and the other staff not currently on duty were enjoying a quick dinner before having to go back to work.

“He did not appreciate the crimson velvet?” she asked.

They had become so accustomed to her French accent that no one asked her to repeat herself, as they’d done the first few weeks she’d been at Tyneham Manor.

“I’d say he appreciated it,” Mr. Kinsle said, glancing to where the silverware was waiting to be washed. “There were times he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Her Grace the First.”

“She has that effect on most men,” Cook pointed out where she stood silhouetted by the hearth, the fire making red highlights in her white hair. She flapped her hands at the footmen, who went to join the others at the table, the maids scooting over to make room on the benches that lined either side.

Mr. Kinsle shook his head. “This was more than usual.” He tipped up his chin to his wife, who sat next to Violette. “Save some of the syllabub for me, will you?”

“Already set aside,” Maisy promised him with an encouraging smile.

He stalked back out of the room. He would have to stand on duty with Their Graces until they all retired for the night. Violette didn’t envy him.

Then again, she would be working until Her Grace the First retired for the night too.

Beside her, Maisy, who would also have to be up late, blew a curl off her forehead. She was very good at arranging the hair of Her Grace the Second and Her Grace the Third, but Violette had noticed that the other lady’s maid struggled to keep her own unruly crop of golden hair inside the white cap she normally wore.

“This may be harder than His Grace thought,” she told Violette.

“ Possible ,” Violette said. “Then we must try harder to show the duchess that Monsieur Warden is a gentleman of worth.”

“Without letting her know of his secret until he’s ready to tell her,” Maisy amended. She cradled her chin on both hands. “And I thought His Grace was so reasonable!”

The Duke of Tyneham had been reasonable and far kinder than Violette had expected. She hadn’t told her parents or brother her intentions to go into service until she’d signed on with the placement agency. And when the agency had sent her on her first interview, she had never dreamed she’d be meeting the Duke of Tyneham himself!

She had met ducs , exiled from their home country like her and her family. They tended to be older and smelled like decayed roses, forever clinging to their fading glory. The Duke of Tyneham was younger than she was, with reddish hair, a gentle smile, and clear blue eyes that twinkled behind his spectacles. And if anything, he smelled of prosperity.

“And why do you wish to enter service, Miss Collier?” he’d asked in a quiet voice as they’d sat in the drawing room of his London townhouse. He had looked down at the sheet of paper the agency must have sent over. “I see this will be your first position.”

“ Oui ,” she said, then hurriedly corrected herself. “Yes, this will be my first, but I have been dressing my own and my mother’s hair for years and I see to my own clothing.”

He had glanced at the careful arrangement of dark hair and then at the sprigged muslin day dress more thoughtfully than most men did. She was used to the stares, the whispers. Some assumed because her family had fallen so far, she must have fallen farther. Her brother had had to correct several fellows with his fists. It was not easy living where they could afford in London.

“You are to be commended,” the duke said. “The city certainly affords opportunities for indulging in the latest fashion.”

In clothing and many vices. “London is large and loud,” she said, trying not to put her nose in the air. Such posturing was not for servants. She must remember that.

A smile hinted on the duke’s handsome face. “Then you won’t mind that this position is in the country, miles from London. It may require relocating more than once. And it will require putting my orders above those of the lady you will be serving.”

Disappointment pressed down on her shoulders. So, he was one of those sorts after all. Well, she might be willing to sell her skills, but nothing more. Violette raised her chin, though she was fairly sure servants didn’t do that either.

“I will obey any order that does not violate my faith, my character, or my person,” she told him.

His reddish brows shot up. Was he blushing? What sort of duke was he?

“I think you misunderstand me, Miss Collier,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I have recently been elevated to this position, but I have no intention of abusing it. Along with the estates and duties of the Duke of Tyneham, I have been given the responsibility for three dowager duchesses. It is my primary goal to see them happily settled. And for that, I need your help.”

She had listened as he’d described his plan. It was audacious, particularly for a man who seemed so quiet and self-effacing. And yet, something about his calm manner told her she could trust him to achieve it.

So, here she was, lady’s maid, spy, and assistant matchmaker.

Of course, she was not the only one His Grace had enlisted in his effort. All of the staff understood and believed in his plan. They seemed enormously fond of their duchesses, calling them by the order in which they had been made widows. She had been surprised how fair and thoughtful Her Grace the First had been, helping Violette learn how to dress her and arrange her hair to her liking. Violette had thought it would be easy to find a man who would appreciate such a woman.

But an architect? Monsieur Warden might be kind on the eyes and exude a certain charm, but he was a man with a profession. What sort of partner would he make for a duchess? Was the duke’s bold plan impossible after all?

“So, what do we do next?” Cook asked now, plopping herself down on the chair at the end of the table. “He’s already dining with her. She’s insisted on supervising his work, as we expected. They’ll be together frequently. Will it be enough?”

They all exchanged glances.

Violette tapped her chin with one finger. “I saw some ribbons at the haberdasher when last we visited. They will match her eyes. I will fetch them in the morning.”

Bailey, one of the footmen, eyed her. “You think a man like Mr. Warden will be swayed by fripperies?”

Maisy swatted him on the arm. “Never underestimate the power of a well-placed ribbon, sirrah. And remember, the French understand how love grows.” She beamed at Violette.

Violette managed a smile. She was representing France, after all. But she could not claim to understand the workings of love. It had certainly never worked for her.

* * *

“Have we heard nothing from Mr. Warden this morning?” Claudia asked as she sat down at the wrought-iron table. The little white table and matching set of chairs generally graced the veranda that ran along the back of the main section of the manor. With temperatures so cold, she had asked Mr. Kinsle to have the set brought in and erected in the rear entry hall behind the stairs. Tall Corinthian columns marked either side of the space, and the wall supporting the stairs held a massive painting of ships at sea.

She liked to take her late morning cup of tea where she could look out on the formal gardens just beyond the terrace. The heads of yellow daffodils were peeking up among the sculptured shrubs. It didn’t hurt that she had a direct view down the lawn avenue to the dower house.

“I haven’t heard a word from Mr. Warden, Your Grace,” Mr. Kinsle said, setting out a platter of scones. “Shall I send someone to ask?”

A figure appeared on the length of lawn, rapidly growing larger. Running? Good. Perhaps he realized he was derelict in his duty.

“No need,” she told her butler, pausing to take a sip of the tea.

Mr. Kinsle withdrew to a position by the wall. Claudia ignored the scones. No reason to take the risk that she might find her mouth full when the architect arrived before her. She sorted through various barbed comments on his lack of industry, his tardiness.

But the closer he came, the more that tingle ran through her. His long legs ate up the turf, stride firm and confident. He had apparently left his top hat behind, for the sun glinted on his dark hair. He stepped up onto the terrace, tweed greatcoat flapping, and Mr. Kinsle hurried to open the door for him.

Mr. Warden nodded his thanks, then blinked as if surprised to see her there. He quickly recovered himself to bow.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

She ignored the way his voice warmed her more than the sun. “Is it still morning? I had thought the day had advanced more than that as I waited.”

He straightened. “I would never want a lady to wait on me. Unfortunately, there was an issue at the dower house I thought best to deal with before I met with you.”

Claudia frowned, setting down her cup. “Issue? Did no one air it for you?” She cast a glance at Mr. Kinsle, who stepped forward.

“We set up the rooms just as Mr. Warden directed, Your Grace.” He and the architect exchanged glances, and Mr. Warden nodded. What was that about? She’d almost think them better acquainted than a single day would allow.

“Your staff is efficient and kind,” Mr. Warden assured her. “Were you aware that the roof leaks?”

She puffed out a sigh. “No, but I’m not surprised. Such issues, as you call them, occur on a distressingly regular basis. I have written to His Grace.” Who had done nothing except send her this fellow who wanted to do who knew what!

“Given my charge from the duke, I thought it best to fix the issue,” Mr. Warden said. “I’ve been to the village and hired some men who will be out shortly to rectify matters. I will, of course, supervise their work to ensure it’s up to your standards, Your Grace.”

A commendable statement, especially accompanied by that winsome smile. Claudia aligned the handle of her teacup with the plate of scones. “And have you suddenly determined what those standards are?”

“I listened well,” he told her. “You value an adherence to tradition and the history of the place, with an eye toward beauty and ascetics and a respect for all who rely upon this estate.”

Well. It was a little discomforting that she was so easily read. “Very well, Mr. Warden. In the meantime, perhaps Georgina was correct. You should stay with us at the manor.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you, Your Grace, but the dower house will be sufficient. I hope to have the leak repaired by sunset. To that end…” He turned to Mr. Kinsle. “Would you have staff you could send down to clean up the water? I did what I could, but I fear it wasn’t enough.”

“I’ll tell our footmen and one of the maids straight away,” her butler replied. “With your permission, of course, Your Grace.”

Claudia waved a hand. “Whatever Mr. Warden needs to get on with his work.”

Her butler bowed and left them.

And the rear entry hall felt suddenly too small.

She busied herself with playing hostess. Goodness knows, it had been a while since she’d had the excuse. “Would you care for anything to drink, Mr. Warden? I could ring for another cup.”

“No, thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “Your cook sent down a basket for breakfast.”

Claudia tsked as she selected a scone. “You are making extra work for my staff. If you relocated to the manor, you could eat your meals with the rest of us.”

“I regret the necessity,” he said.

She set the scone on her silver-edged plate. “I don’t see the necessity of it. Surely it’s pride that keeps you from accepting our hospitality.”

“Oh, it most certainly isn’t pride, Your Grace. May I point out that there are three beautiful widows in this house? I would not want to set tongues wagging.”

Claudia regarded him. That smile remained. He did not appear to be teasing her.

“And that isn’t pride, sir?” she asked. “To think yourself temptation for the three of us?”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, she froze, expecting harsh words, a hand raised in anger. But no. His gaze dropped as if he had been thoroughly chastised.

“I would never be so bold,” he said. “But I know what others can make of even the most innocent of situations. Better that I stay in the dower house.”

Robert Darling, the last unlamented Duke of Tyneham, was dead and in his grave for six months, and still she expected any new fellow to behave as abominably as he had. When would she feel safe again?

But Mr. Warden could not be held at fault. She pulled her dignity around her once more. “Very well. We will say no more on the matter. When should I next expect you?”

Now she sounded like a maiden pleading with her beau!

He glanced up and met her gaze like a bashful suitor, and she nearly dropped her cup. “I shall endeavor to return to your side by this afternoon,” he said. “I had hoped to continue my work by speaking to the staff.”

Claudia frowned. “The staff? Why?”

His smile only deepened. “Because they not only live in the manor, but they understand what it takes to maintain the manor. Their work will be more efficient if I design correctly.”

“You astonish me.” Then she laughed at herself. “And I promise you that isn’t easy. Very well, Mr. Warden. I look forward to hearing what my staff have to say about the manor.”

“They might be more amendable to speaking their minds without your presence,” he pointed out.

Claudia shook her head. “Oh, no, Mr. Warden. You will not get rid of me so easily. Whither thou goest, I will go.”

His grey eyes sparkled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Your Grace.”

He bowed and left her then, his greatcoat swaying about his boots as he strode down the lawn for the dower house. She tried not to watch overly long.

At length, she finished her tea and rose. He could talk to each and every staff member from the pot boy to Mr. Kinsle, but she doubted he could fix the one thing she disliked about the manor.

It was entirely too empty.

The quiet closed in on her now. Georgie often rose early, but she was likely to be found in the library with a book about this hour or down at the vicarage seeing to needs in the village. Sophia kept to herself more often than not. She was still healing from her cruel marriage. The maids and footmen were uncannily good at going about their duties unseen. Claudia might have been the only person on the three floors.

She reached the main corridor that ran down the middle of the manor. At the end, where the corridor branched into the sculpture gallery that took up the west wing, someone short and slight scamped past.

Claudia gasped, jerking to a stop. Her hand went to her chest, where her heart threatened to escape with its wild beating. A child? How? Sucking in a breath, she gathered up her skirts and swept down to the junction.

But a glance left and right betrayed no movement among the marble statues, and she heard no sound of running feet. Had the child dashed out the door onto the terrace?

She hurried to the windows overlooking the gardens and saw only the usual shrubs.

Drawing in a deeper breath, she leaned her head against the cool of the glass. What, was this guilt? She thought she’d finally thrown that off after Joseph had died. All those years of trying to be a good wife and not always meeting his standards. Still, he’d never berated her for her inability to bear a child.

“I have an heir, dearest,” he’d say, laying a hand on her cheek when another month had passed without any sign of her increasing. “It seems the good Lord intends for us to merely enjoy each other’s company.”

Perhaps it was the memory, perhaps her own regrets, but she found herself climbing the west stairs to the first floor. Here, the portrait gallery took up much of the space. It hadn’t been enough for the Dukes of Tyneham to line the main staircase with their portraits. No, they had dedicated an entire long gallery, with wide-spaced windows facing the setting sun, to celebrate their illustrious family. Now each wall was crowded with paintings, some life-sized.

She sank onto one of the padded benches that ran down the middle of the gold-patterned Aubusson carpet. The Dukes of Tyneham, their duchesses, and their children stood sentry, gazing out with baleful eyes from their gilt frames. Joseph sat with his hand on a globe, as if his holdings encircled the earth. He was younger here than when she’d met him—face calm, blue eyes somber, and shoulders squared, as if prepared to take up all the responsibilities his title had bequeathed.

He had never expected her to carry those responsibilities, and yet, here they were.

“I will do what you cannot,” she whispered to his portrait. “I promise. Perhaps then I will believe I have been a good wife to you.”