Page 13 of Hot Duke Summer

Glenbrook Castle, England

1834

“D oes your valet steam your trousers, darling, or simply hang them from the wardrobe hoping the wrinkles will fall out on their own?” The Duchess of Ferris took a delicate sip of tea and then added, “I so wish you would have hired Mr. Talbot instead of that… Smith fellow—or was it Sloth?”

“His name is Sloan, Mother.” Victor Fairchild, the Duke of Ferris, stared into his tea, his mouth set in a grim line. “And he is quite capable.”

After all these years, Victor ought to be accustomed to his mother’s highhanded nitpicking, especially on important occasions. With Lady Lincoln and her daughter, Lady Lucinda, set to arrive today, he supposed this qualified as such.

He needn’t look up to feel the disappointment in his mother’s frown.

“What is that you are wearing? I’d prefer the grey waistcoat—the one that matches your eyes.” She twisted around to address her companion, seated on a stool behind her. “You relayed my instructions to Mr. Smith, did you not?”

Miss Evalina Sparrow rolled her lips together, drawing Victor’s attention to her mouth. Her lips were a dusky rose color, glistening, plump and inviting, but also quite off-limits.

He could appreciate them from a distance, but that was all.

Accustomed to his mother’s harsh manner, she remained unruffled, casually flipping through the small journal she carried everywhere before answering. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Eyes the color of jade locked with Victor’s momentarily. Miss Sparrow blinked and then turned her attention to his mother. “I do not know about Mr. Smith , but I did, in fact, inform Mr. Sloan of your wishes. Would you like me to—”

“It’s too late now,” the duchess snapped, causing Victor to wince. He hated hearing his mother speak with such contempt to anyone, but especially to this particular young woman, who had borne far more than her fair share of these beratings.

Miss Sparrow, for reasons unknown, had lasted in his mother’s employ for nearly a year now. None of the companions before her had lasted more than a fortnight.

Even now, any other person would be bristling or cowering. Not Evalina Sparrow.

She leaned forward and, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be quite focused on that little notebook of hers. But Victor couldn’t help but notice the way her mouth twitched and the amused little twinkle in her eye.

She hid it well, but underneath that calm, professional exterior, she was smiling.

The woman was either delusional or utterly unconcerned at the possibility of displeasing the duchess. He’d wager it was the latter.

Victor’s gaze followed the trail of freckles smattered across her pert nose, over the curve of her cheek and along her jaw. Her complexion was pale and her flashing green eyes sparkled beneath auburn eyebrows. Victor wondered if the hair hidden beneath the white mobcap was a deep brownish-red, ginger, or orange and gold, like the setting sun.

Regardless, his mother’s companion defied the stereotypical expectations of a redhead. She also defied the expectations one had of the typical lady’s companion.

She was a question wrapped up in an enigma, but as much as she intrigued him, he could never be the man to solve that equation.

Victor turned to his mother. “I chose the black, Mother. The silver waistcoat is too formal for daytime.” He held tightly to his patience, a practice that was becoming more and more difficult where his mother was concerned. Furthermore, with Lady Lucinda and her mother’s visit upon them, Victor had been feeling unusually tense all morning. He rolled his shoulders and then tugged at his cravat. “Neither Miss Sparrow nor Mr. Sloan is to blame.”

“Harumph.” Of course, rather than apologize to her companion, his mother would prefer to pout instead. The duchess never apologized to anyone. Pushing herself out of her chair, she went on as if the entire exchange had not occurred at all. “Seeing as I cannot count on others to properly relay my instructions, I’m going to have to speak with Cook myself.” She shot Miss Sparrow a disapproving scowl. “I want everything to be perfect for my son’s intended and her mother.”

“She is not my intended,” Victor reminded his mother.

Predictably, she pretended not to hear him. He didn’t know why he bothered. She didn’t hear a word he said, not if it contradicted her own notions and certainly not when she was in this state.

Miss Sparrow glanced up and shrugged. To his mother, she simply said, “Very well, Your Grace. If that will make you feel better.”

Victor rubbed his hand over his mouth. He envied her ability to dismiss his mother’s insults. After the door closed behind the duchess with a snap, he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Put up with…” Victor shook his head. He shouldn’t have said anything; such a question wasn’t just inappropriate, but utterly disloyal.

“The duchess?” Miss Sparrow knew what he was asking anyway and blinked in his direction. Her grin was far too pleased and smug—and it sent his temperature spiking.

“Well, yes…” He frowned.

Miss Sparrow withdrew a pendant that she had been wearing hidden beneath her gown and leaned forward. Victor squinted, unable to make out the ivory design from across the room, but also a little distracted by the stretched fabric of her bodice. She wasn’t at all frail, and yet, she was still very… ladylike.

“What is it?” he asked.

She rose and strode toward him, lifting the chain over her head as she did so. In the process, the necklace caught on her cap, partially dislodging it and revealing a few curling strands of hair.

The color of a sunset.

A glorious sunset.

Stopping before him, she handed over the necklace. “Memento mori,” she said.

Carved into the face of the pendant was a simple depiction of a skull and a flower in bloom, with the Latin phrase engraved along the border. Remember, you must die.

“A little morbid, isn’t it?” It was a common lesson, taught by every art and history teacher worthy of the profession.

“Not at all.” She was already tucking those flaming locks back into her cap, and Victor exhaled a sad sort of sigh. “It isn’t about death, so much as it is about life—we only have one. Even dukes and duchesses,” she said.

“And this helps you endure my mother?”

“It is a reminder that no matter what your mother says, this is my life. It’s up to me to make the most of it.”

Victor frowned. She was poor. She had little to no agency. Moreover, she was at his mother’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, excepting Sunday afternoons. Even during those times, he remembered his mother making demands of her.

“Good for you, I suppose.” He pinched his mouth shut. Anyone who could find joy in such circumstances must be a little mad.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” She cocked her head to one side, a half-smile dancing on that mouth of hers.

“I don’t not believe you,” he answered cautiously. “But my mother is…a demanding woman.”

“But so am I.” She winked. “I… find ways to enjoy my life. You ought to try it sometime.”

He lifted his brows. “Oh really?”

Miss Sparrow hesitated, biting her lip as she examined him. “I’m not sure I should say…”

Victor waved away her concerns and after a moment, she exhaled.

“At least once a month, I make it a point to… escape.”

Victor blinked. “Pardon?”

“I skip a day. You know,” she said, sounding less hesitant now that she’d already committed. “I simply choose an appropriate time and invent some excuse to… breathe.”

He raised his brows. “I’m not following.”

A shrug. “I’m not sure I could stay on otherwise…”

Victor shook his head. Had she really just confessed to shirking her duties? And yet, he couldn’t blame her… Hadn’t he just been thinking how Miss Sparrow was often forced to work during her free time?

But, of course, he could never do the same… could he? “It’s different for me. I’ve a dukedom to oversee.” He straightened his shoulders. And yet, he couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to toss his responsibilities to the wind, even if it was only for a day.

“All those irritating little tasks, ultimately, are meaningless—in the grand scheme of life.” Her lilting voice teased him, cajoling.

He had been right to think she was mad. Nonetheless, he found himself entertaining the suggestion. But no…

“Lady Lucinda and her mother are arriving today.”

“Yes. But they’ll be here tomorrow—and the next day. And the day after that.”

She wasn’t wrong. In fact, Lady Lucinda likely expected to become a permanent resident at Glenbrook Castle—as his duchess.

The thought weighed heavy in his gut. He shook his head, but his stare remained locked with Miss Sparrow’s.

“You, of all people, deserve to duck out,” she said.

Victor lost himself in the depths of the varying colors of green—several shades—perhaps hundreds dancing around in her iris. Along with browns, and golds, and even a little amber…

An itching sensation pricked the back of his neck. He was charmed. And intrigued. “What are you suggesting?”

God save him, her mouth stretched into a brilliant and inviting smile.

“Meet me in the foyer in twenty minutes, and I’ll show you.” She held out a hand, and for an instant, he thought she expected him to take it. But no, he was still holding her pendant.

What the devil was he doing?

“I cannot. You know I cannot,” he said.

“That’s what makes it so delicious.” She plucked her pendant out of his palm and then backed away. “It’s only one day, Your Grace. One day to remind you. Memento mori.”

He had dozens of tasks requiring his attention, estate reports, ledgers to audit, letters to write.

Lady Lucinda.

He ought to have rejected Miss Sparrow’s offer outright and reported her admission to his mother. She was far too cheeky, too outspoken.

Far too tempting.

“I cannot,” he repeated. He was a duke. She was his mother’s companion. And yet, his conviction was wavering, and he knew she could see it too.

“Twenty minutes,” she sang back and then sashayed out the door.