Page 6 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Six

T he duchess continued to be a force of nature, breezing along the avenue like a spring gale, and all bowed or curtsied before her. She introduced Ben to several long-time residents of the area, either gentry or tenants, all of whom had nothing but praise for the manor and its occupants. The other shopkeepers were much the same. Ben hadn’t expected anything else, but he’d wanted to be thorough.

“And what have you gathered today, Mr. Warden?” she asked as they headed back toward the manor in the carriage.

“That your people are as well tended as the estate,” he told her, admiring how the sun crept into her bonnet to touch her cheek.

“Better tended,” she insisted. “But don’t think there are no complaints.” She sighed, gaze going off over the countryside. Gently rolling fields, brown with winter, were divided by lines of trees that likely marked the edges of streams. In the distance, he spotted another house, similar in size to the dower house but whitewashed.

“Did His Grace mention when he thought he might come himself?” she asked Ben. “There’s only so much I can do without his permission.”

“He gave me to understand it would be this spring,” he told her, returning his gaze to hers. “I don’t believe he intends to stay in town for the Season.”

She sighed. “I suppose I must be satisfied with that.”

Ben nodded toward the house that was rapidly disappearing in the distance. “I hadn’t realized you had neighbors that close.”

She frowned in that direction. “The Grange. It’s at the very edge of our holdings here. It’s been leased for some years by a colonel; his daughter, Mrs. Atkins; and now her grown son.”

The maid leaned forward as if to catch a glimpse of the place.

“Someone I should consult?” Ben asked the duchess. “He likely can see the manor from there.”

“The trees interfere,” she explained. “We can’t see the Grange, and its occupants can’t see us. I don’t imagine His Grace, my husband, would have allowed the lease to continue if it had been otherwise. The colonel was a gentleman, but there was some scandal with his daughter, and I have never so much as laid eyes on her son.” She seemed to pull herself together to offer him a smile. “May we host you for dinner again, Mr. Warden?”

If only he could. To sit beside her, talking about the plans for the house, talking about anything really, what a joy that would be.

“Alas, no, Your Grace, though I thank you for the offer,” he told her sincerely. “I have a great deal to do and a woefully short time to do it.”

Her brow puckered as if she had hoped for more. He longed to explain, but telling her the truth about his circumstances could well destroy everything he had come to build. His clients must believe their concerns took precedence over his own.

Even if he was already having trouble remembering she was merely a client.

* * *

Claudia hadn’t wanted to like Benjamin Warden. He might have come on His Grace’s bequest, but he had not come to solve the problems she needed solved. While she had been the oldest dowager and the College of Heralds had been searching for the next duke, she’d had a little more control in how much she could manage. But now that there was a duke, everything must meet his approval.

An approval he did not seem inclined to offer.

And yet, every moment she spent with Mr. Warden, the more she enjoyed his company. She’d never met a man so easy with everyone he met, able to speak to duchesses and shopkeepers with equal warmth. And the way he listened! He seemed to focus all his attention on the person before him, as if they were the most important one in the room. Even Joseph had not treated her with such thoughtfulness.

When they returned from the village, Mr. Warden asked her to show him the house, so she led him from room to room, explaining the function and the important aspects of each space, from the library to the game room and both galleries.

“And which is your favorite?” he asked as they descended the main stairs.

The portrait gallery, but it seemed odd to explain her penchant for sitting in front of her late husband’s portrait to gather her thoughts. “All of them,” she told him. “I would not see one changed.”

He noted something on his pad, but asked her no more questions.

On Friday, she found him in the main corridor that ran the length of the ground floor, twine strung along the carpet. Mr. Kinsle hastily straightened at the other end of the corridor, and the twine curled in on itself.

“Hold it steady, Mr. Kinsle,” Mr. Warden cautioned. “I need to take the reading from this end.”

“What,” Claudia asked, “are you doing now?”

Mr. Warden also straightened, then bowed to her. He must have been crawling around on the floor before she’d found him, for his navy coat was rumpled, his tan breeches had flecks of dust on the knees, and that enticing curl was down on his forehead again.

“We’re measuring the rooms, Your Grace,” he explained. “I already paced them off, but I need to be more precise if I’m going to propose any improvements.”

Without waiting for her comment, he crouched again and tugged the twine straight. Now she could see red marks along its length, likely signifying feet and inches. A larger pad of paper sat on the carpet next to him, with numbers running neatly down it. He noted another number before straightening again.

“Gather it up,” he instructed her butler. “We’ll move to the sitting room next.”

The twine began snaking its way down the corridor as Mr. Kinsle wound it into a ball.

“I hope you don’t mind me conscripting your butler,” Mr. Warden said with that charming smile that made it so difficult to argue with him.

“Mr. Kinsle is aware of his duties,” Claudia said as Mr. Warden began moving toward the door to the sitting room. “And I expect him to fulfill them as he usually does.”

“It’s no trouble, Your Grace,” her butler said, trotting past her with the ball of twine in his gloved hands. “I’ve already set the other staff to their tasks for the morning, and I’ll check on them shortly.”

Curious, she followed them both into the sitting room.

Mr. Warden was glancing between the west and east end of the room. “There,” he said to the butler. “You can reach all the way to the wall. Hold it steady.” Mr. Warden took the loose end and began walking backward, detouring around furniture, but always coming back to a straight line. He reached the far wall, noted the length on the twine, and recorded it on his pad.

This could take some time. A duchess did not fidget, but Claudia was highly tempted. She shifted on her feet, setting her green wool skirts to swaying.

Mr. Kinsle moved to the south wall. “We have a bit of a problem, sir. The piano’s in the way.”

“So it is,” Mr. Warden said. He set down his materials and advanced on the black, six-octave Broadwood, which Joseph had purchased for Georgie shortly after she had married Frederick. What, did Mr. Warden think to manhandle it?

She rushed forward to block his way. “Careful! Georgina dotes on it so. I should not want to see it knocked out of tune.”

“We’ll go easy,” he promised her. “But perhaps you should step out while we move it.”

She drew herself up. “I will not be told what to do in my own home, sir.”

He shrugged, then began peeling off his coat.

Claudia took a step back. “What are you doing?”

“The cut of the coat makes this sort of exertion difficult,” he explained as his shirtsleeves came into view. He tossed the navy material over one of the chairs and advanced on the piano as if intending to take it prisoner. “Mr. Kinsle?”

“Right you are, sir,” her butler said eagerly.

She should pull the bell or demand he call the other footmen. But at the play of muscle under Mr. Warden’s white shirt, all other thoughts ceased. He and the butler shoved, and the piano edged its way across the carpet.

“That should be sufficient,” Mr. Warden said, straightening. He went to fetch his coat.

“Perhaps you should wait and see if you need to move other furniture,” Claudia said. Why was her voice coming out so breathless? Her suggestion was only logical.

“Very wise,” he said, and he went back to work.

As her breath came easier, she was surprised to find that it wasn’t just the depth and breadth of the room he measured. He noted distance from wall edge to window and hearth in both directions and distance between the windows. He wrote down the location of the bell pull and the height and width of the stone surrounding the hearth.

“What does all this tell you?” she asked.

“I must take into account where everything is presently located to ensure efficiencies,” he explained. He picked up his coat and shrugged into it, then nodded to her butler. “The sculpture gallery next, Mr. Kinsle, and then we’ll start at the back of the house. I wouldn’t want to impose on your time, Your Grace.”

Well! She certainly wasn’t about to be dismissed. She regarded him with the look that had once been said to freeze the Thames. “I have nothing more urgent to do, Mr. Warden.”

Immediately, something inside her protested. Georgie and Sophia had asked her assistance in planning a dame school for the village, something they would propose to the new vicar. One of the tenants had sent word that a drainage ditch had iced over and requested permission to reroute it onto lands used for other purposes. With no land steward or man of affairs at the moment, it was up to her.

But nothing seemed more important than being with Mr. Warden. Supervising his work, of course.

So, she followed him into the sculpture gallery. The Dukes of Tyneham had commissioned a number of fine pieces, including a life-sized stallion in full gallop in white marble. Others had been sent home from their Grand Tours of Italy and France. The sculptures stood alone in the carpeted gallery now, frozen in time and space against walls paneled in pale yellow silk.

“You certainly won’t be able to move these out of your way,” she told Mr. Warden.

“Very likely not,” he agreed as he eyed the stone. “Still, I thought when you first showed it to me that it was an impressive space. How often do any of you use it?”

Claudia raised her brows. “Use it, sir? Its function is to house the various sculptures. What other use is there?”

He stuck out his lower lip as Mr. Kinsle began winding his way down the gallery, trying to keep the twine as straight as possible. “If the statues were distributed throughout the house, this room would make an admirable ballroom. It could even be divided into two rooms, one the music room Her Grace requested and another a study.”

Claudia put her hands on her hips. “Did you become an architect for the sole purpose of rearranging people’s lives?”

He barked a laugh. “No, Your Grace. The shape and comfort of space has always fascinated me. Why were kitchens so small when so many people had to work in them while larger rooms went unused except on special occasions? Why were some rooms too cold or too hot? Why did windows look out on the blank walls of a neighboring house instead of the gardens? My parents wisely suggested I pursue a career that would satisfy my curiosity.”

Her frustration melted. She could almost see the boy he had been, peppering his parents with questions. “And are you satisfied?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, bending to read the marking on the twine, which now stretched from one end of the gallery to the other. “My late wife often claimed I worked entirely too hard to gain that satisfaction.”

He was a widower? How could she not commiserate with that?

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured.

He straightened. “Thank you. And I am sorry for yours.”

He shouldn’t be. Unlike the new duke, Joseph would likely never have thought to hire Mr. Warden.

“My husband has been gone for nearly five years,” she said, following Mr. Warden as he moved to the east wall. “I still miss him. He did not look for questions, as you do, but he always knew what to do about the questions others brought to him. He took his duty seriously.”

His gaze brushed hers. “As do you.”

Warmth stole up her again. “That is the role of the duchess, as I learned early on. Like you, my parents encouraged me to make the most of my talents.”

Mr. Kinsle cleared his throat. “I’ll just pop out a moment to check on the staff.” He dropped the ball of twine, which rolled under the hooves of the stallion, and dashed from the room.

Leaving her alone with Mr. Warden. Again.

* * *

Her silhouette was as classical as the sculptures around them and nearly as rigid. She was going to resist anything he proposed if he didn’t find a way to help her see the potential.

“I hope you won’t change this room,” she said, gaze moving from one exquisite sculpture to another. “It was my husband’s favorite space.”

He wasn’t sure why. The marbles were impressive, the light sublime. But it seemed cold, lifeless. “What about the current duke?” he asked carefully.

She raised her chin. She had a habit of doing that whenever challenged, as if the mere act should set her opponent shivering. Likely it did.

“Unless he has the tastes of a Philistine,” she said, “he’ll appreciate it too. Here, let me show you.”

She led him to one of the statues. Dressed in a Roman-style tunic, an older man sat forlornly, beard swirling down his chest, one hand raised as if in entreaty.

She regarded the fellow. “This is Moses, aghast that the Israelites created the golden calf. Can you feel his disappointment, his disgust, indeed, his outrage?”

“I can indeed,” he promised her. “I saw its like when I studied at the Academia di San Luca in Rome. It’s a school for artists and architects.”

Her chin came down. “You studied in Italy?”

Could he impress her? “For several years, enough that I became fluent in Italian. The academy hosts a competition for those under the age of five and twenty. I came in second.”

“Did you view the Elgin marbles in London?” she asked eagerly. “The last shipment arrived just before my stepson died, so we didn’t go up for the Season to see them.” Her face clouded. “We haven’t been up since.”

“They are humbling,” Ben told her. “Even though so many of the pieces are broken, you can feel the movement of the horses running, much like your stallion there.”

She turned her gaze on the statue. “Well, perhaps we’ll be able to go up for the Season this year.”

“Have you family there?” he asked politely.

“None that I care to visit.”

Or to claim, apparently. But before he could ask, Mr. Kinsle bustled back into the room, and they must return to their measurements.

She remained at Ben’s side as he went through the rest of the house. He must have explained his purpose well enough because she didn’t question his need to measure out-of-the-way spaces like the storage rooms and servants stairs. In fact, she said little until they reached the first floor and the rooms that must belong to the duke and duchess.

She held out her hand. “Give me the twine, sir. Mr. Kinsle and I will measure my bedchamber. I will call the measurements out to you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the arch of her brow stopped him. “Of course, Your Grace.” He offered her the twine.

She took it from him and marched into her bedchamber, Mr. Kinsle scurrying after her. The door closed with a snick.

Ben rocked back on his heels. “You’ll measure the depths of any window enclosures,” he called through the panel.

“Of course.” Her voice came out muffled, but she still sounded miffed. “I watched you carefully, sir.”

A thump inside said someone had moved a piece of furniture. “North to south, fourteen feet six,” she called. More thumps. “East to west, fifteen feet eight.”

She was thorough. She called out the distance between the walls and the windows, the height of the mantel, and the width of the stone surrounding her hearth. Ben shook his head in admiration.

She stepped out into the corridor and handed him back the twine. A line of dust streaked one cheek, and her hair had come loose on one side to tease the column of her neck. He fisted his hand to keep from reaching out to touch it.

The patter of little feet shook him from his revery. The pug galloped past them, heading for the entrance to the portrait gallery. Her Grace the Second hurried after her, black skirts pulled up to allow her satin slippers to skim the carpet.

“What’s happened?” Her Grace the First cried.

“She thinks she’s found something,” the other duchess explained, pausing in her pursuit. “She does this in the gardens frequently when she spots a squirrel or the gardener. I can’t imagine what set her off in the manor. Excuse me.”

Ben’s breath caught. A stranger in the manor might have just such an effect on the little dog, and after he’d given strict instructions!

“I believe I left my protractor in the dower house,” he said, backing away from the duchess. “I’ll need it to begin drawing. We’ll finish the measurements later, Mr. Kinsle. Your Grace.”

He didn’t wait for her permission to depart. He had told her he liked to answer questions. In this case, he knew the answer.

It was her questions he feared.