Page 30 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

Cecilia slowed her steps beside him, her gaze drifting across the bustle of the fair before landing on Valentine once more.

“You know,” she began,“Your tenants speak well of you. I know I’ve only been duchess for a few months, but I hear things.

I have heard one of the women say how the duke allowed them to pay their rents in harvest goods during a bad season two summers ago.

Someone else said you’d funded repairs for the mill after that storm. ”

He said nothing, but his stride faltered just a fraction.

Cecilia smiled gently. “You pretend to be gruff and disinterested, but the truth is you’re rather kind, aren’t you, Your Grace?”

That made him stop altogether. Valentine turned to face her fully with his eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and something flashing behind his gaze. He studied her a moment too long. Then, almost brusquely, he cleared his throat and straightened.

“I believe,” he said carefully, “that is my cue to stroll alone before I start believing a word of that.”

Cecilia blinked. “Oh, I was only–”

Cecilia sighed, unable to complete her explanation as he was already stepping away, offering her a brief nod.

She watched him as he walked into the crowd, hands behind his back, posture impeccable.

She pressed her lips together to hide her smile, then turned to browse a stall of ribboned bonnets nearby.

But she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder more than once.

Cecilia let out a soft sigh as she turned from Valentine’s retreating figure. He could go off and glower at flower stalls if it pleased him. She’d leave him to his thoughts.

Instead, she wandered toward the vendors with baskets of soaps and trinkets, her fingers trailing over the lacework of handkerchiefs and tiny embroidered dolls.

There were painted tin whistles and little wooden boxes that opened with snaps.

She made a mental list of things Abigail might like.

A lavender sachet shaped like a bird, a soft woolen shawl dyed in plum, a toy soldier carved with meticulous detail.

Still, her gaze kept drifting.

Valentine hadn’t gone far, but he was clearly giving her space.

She spotted him near the ribbon stall, standing stiffly as a vendor gestured toward him.

A pair of matrons walked past Cecilia just then, one clutching her shawl too tightly as she leaned into the other’s ear, and an instant low murmur followed.

Cecilia’s spine straightened.

She moved along, pretending to admire a row of polished buttons, but her mind was no longer on her shopping. She caught another glance, not direct, but quick enough to be cutting, and then the tight-lipped exchange of two older men near the cider stand.

Cecilia’s fingers tightened slightly around the small paper parcel in her hand as she passed another group of townspeople.

They smiled, nodded, but their eyes lingered still.

One woman leaned toward her companion just as Cecilia moved past, the two of them dipping their heads together with barely concealed interest.

Her steps slowed. The warmth of the air suddenly felt cloying.

She turned sharply down another row of stalls, her skirts brushing too close to a barrel of lavender soap. As she adjusted her gloves, her mind reeled back, not to the fair, not to the stalls, but to the morning Dorothy and Phillip had paid her an unexpected visit.

Her gaze flicked from face to face. There was something familiar in the way they paused, in the way they took her in. Had the whispers traveled this far? Was that what these stares meant? The rumors weren’t supposed to follow her here.

Just then, a warm pressure landed gently at the small of her back.

“Cecilia, are you all right?” Valentine’s voice was low, close, and steady.

She turned toward him at once, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Relief flooded her so quickly she didn’t bother to mask it.

Her hand reached out without thinking, resting just at the side of his waist, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his coat as she leaned in, grounding herself.

His body tensed faintly beneath her touch, but he didn’t move away.

For a beat, they stood like that. Close, pressed into the noise and the hush of a moment between them. Then, slowly, his hand lifted. His fingers brushed through a strand of her hair where it had loosened from her pins, stroking it back with surprising care. Just once. Then he stopped.

His hand dropped. So did hers. But neither of them stepped away.

Cecilia turned slightly, her breath still catching from Valentine’s nearness, when she saw one of the tenants approach. A broad-shouldered man with his cap in hand. He was someone she recognized faintly from the estate, though his name escaped her.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace...Your Grace,” he said, bobbing his head first to Valentine, then to her. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Valentine straightened, immediately composed. “Not at all, Mr…?”

“Rogers, Your Grace. I oversee the barley fields east of the main road.” The man fidgeted, glancing at Cecilia before continuing. “It’s only, well, I thought you ought to know. There’s been some talk among the folks lately. Nasty sort of talk, if you’ll excuse me saying so.”

Valentine’s expression didn’t shift, but the air seemed to still around them.

“What kind of talk?” he asked.

The tenant’s throat bobbed. “Now, I don’t know where the rumors began, but I do know them to be untrue, given that I have been of service to you for many years, Your Grace. Some are saying the old duchess didn’t pass naturally, Your Grace. That maybe something happened.”

Cecilia felt the world tip for a moment.

Her fingers, still curled loosely around the edge of her shawl, went cold. She didn’t even need to glance at Valentine to know he had gone perfectly still beside her. The lines of his jaw were always firm, but now she could feel the storm behind his silence.

“I see,” Valentine said at last, voice even.

Rogers hesitated, then added. “Some folks say word of it came from London. From the Ton. So they are believing it.”

That was all Cecilia needed to hear.

Her stomach clenched as the truth snapped into place like a blade.

Aunt Marianne. It had to be her. No one else would have the motive or malice enough to spread something so vile, so cruel, and dress it as casual gossip.

She could feel her temples beginning to throb.

Her aunt hadn’t just sent whispers through the ballrooms of London, she had chased them all the way to her home.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers,” Valentine said coolly.

The man dipped his head and left at once, clearly relieved to have delivered his message. Cecilia turned slowly to look at Valentine. He hadn’t moved. But it was clear as day that he had become upset.

“Your Grace, I–” she began, but Abigail’s laugh rang out nearby, and they both turned. She was holding a pink ribbon, beaming as Miss Flaxman bent to tie it in her hair.

Valentine’s features smoothed over with impressive speed. When he turned back to Cecilia, his voice was soft. “We’ll not speak of this here,” he said. “Let Abigail enjoy her afternoon.”

Cecilia nodded mutely, but her thoughts spun furiously.

The rest of their time at the fair passed in a flurry of sights and scents.

Abigail darted from stall to stall with Miss Flaxman in tow, her delighted squeals drawing smiles from nearby vendors.

Cecilia bought a ribbon from a weaver, sampled a tart that made her eyes water from sweetness, and even convinced Valentine to try a toss-the-ring game, though he declared it a complete waste of skill.

Despite the gossip murmuring at the edges, there were moments of levity.

Valentine handed Cecilia a sugared bun with a rare smile, Abigail crowning them both with flower wreaths, and a short-lived chase through the crowd when a chicken broke loose from a nearby pen.

For a while, laughter triumphed over unease, and Cecilia found herself wishing they could stay in that little pocket of joy just a while longer.

The ride home was quiet, save for the soft creak of the carriage and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels over gravel. Night had folded itself around them, dark, hushed, and still. Cecilia sat pressed into her corner of the bench, her thoughts far too loud.

Abigail’s head had drooped not long after they left the fairgrounds; her curls were damp with sweat, and her cheeks were rosy from excitement.

Now she slept with her face tucked against Valentine’s chest, her small fingers curled near his lapel.

Valentine held her effortlessly, one arm braced behind her back, the other supporting her legs.

He had been quiet too, quieter than usual, even since they began the ride home.

In that silence, she couldn’t stop thinking about what the tenant had said. Somehow, she figured she owed Valentine an apology. It was her aunt after all. But every time Cecilia opened her mouth to say something, the words crumbled.

Because then she would glance at him and see the curve of his hand as it smoothed over Abigail’s hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, trying not to wake the girl, and the words would die again.

It was late when they returned to Ashbourne Manor. The footmen moved swiftly to open the doors and hold up lanterns. Valentine stepped out with Abigail still in his arms, and Cecilia followed quietly.

There was something surreal about the moment, how the air felt heavier after the brightness of the fair, how the sounds of the estate seemed distant and sleepy. They moved inside, climbing the staircase slowly.