Page 6 of Kiss the Duke Goodbye (The Troublesome Trio #3)

CHAPTER 6

WHERE A LOVE-STRUCK MILLINER MAKES A DECISION

C larissa glanced up as the door to her shop opened, her heart dropping to see it wasn’t the Duke of Herschel.

Knox . Now, she only thought of him as Knox.

Her exquisite, kind, dreadful-at-chess lover.

He didn’t stop by the Petal and Plume anymore, those random visits that had secretly brightened her day. With a fabricated cough, she concealed her smile behind the length of ribbon in her hand. An emerald green close to the color of a certain duke’s eyes. He made no visits here because he appeared on her doorstep almost every night . Where they’d kiss until they were dizzy, then sneak up to her bedchamber. Or make their frantic way to the parlor. Once only going so far as the staircase, their clothing littered about her entryway. She’d sat atop his lap like she was mounting a horse. Ride me , he’d directed in that commanding tone he used when he was very, very aroused.

Clarissa sighed as heat rolled through her, settling between her thighs.

La , just the thought of Knox DeWitt did wicked things to her.

She nodded to let her customers know she’d noted their arrival. Although she didn’t particularly like Countess Wimby and her companion, Miss Trenton. They were gossipy and condescending, typical of society matrons and their staff. However, Clarissa made bonnets for shrews as well as ladies. The hats sat the same, no matter the head.

Setting her ribbon aside, she picked up her quill and began making notations on a folio for her next order of fabric. Somewhere along the way, she found herself doodling Clarissa DeWitt in the margin. Three times before she stopped herself.

With a quick glance around her shop, she closed the folio with a snap.

If their affair had been what she’d envisioned, she would have been fine. Amorous negotiations only, and she might have been able to make it through the day without thinking about Knox a hundred times. However, they’d wrecked it with the meals and the jokes and the discussions about their childhoods. They frequently dined together at the small table wedged in the corner of her cozy kitchen, then climbed the stairs and snuggled beneath her woolen blankets, talking until they fell asleep. Sometimes they’d already made love, sometimes they waited until dawn. It was wonderful. Ordinary pleasures with an exceptional man. They had breakfast together, he reading The Times , she the Gazette . He liked fried eggs, and she was happy to accommodate.

Because her housekeeper, Mrs. Newton, only worked afternoon hours, they were able to share what Knox claimed to have never shared with anyone before.

Solitude.

Clarissa tapped her quill on the counter. He was witty, always making her laugh with stories about his brothers. And amiable even in the wee hours of the morning, a time when she was cranky without provocation. He seemed to find her brief bursts of irritability until she’d had her first cup of tea amusing. Despite having a turbulent past and a vile father, he was the kindest person she knew. He loved his family and acknowledged his obligations to his staff and his tenants without question.

She’d written three letters to him, absolving him of any responsibility toward her . Expressing in words that could not fully express how much their time had meant to her. Kissing the duke goodbye as she’d once flippantly called it.

Three notes she’d burned to a crisp in her hearth.

“Herschel will be at Lady Templeton’s ball, I’ve been told,” the countess whispered to her companion. “I should like a new bonnet in the event he shows, as he’s been quite cagey of late, refusing most invitations. Something to set me apart from the female hordes in pursuit.”

She snatched herself from her daydream to find Countess Wimby modeling a yellow capote bonnet in a beveled mirror. The color looked ghastly with her ginger hair and freckled skin, but Clarissa wasn’t about to halt this conversation.

Miss Trenton, a distant cousin of some far-flung sort, preened and danced around the countess, giving the hat’s brim a light tap. “Divine, simply divine. If anyone can capture a duke’s attention, it would be you, my lady. Rumor has it His Grace is in the market for a wife.”

The countess offered her companion a cheerless smile while Clarissa’s blood churned. “He’s in the market for a sizeable settlement, dear, his dwindling finances forcing his search for a duchess. The timing is perfect, nonetheless, as I’ve decided that the next time I marry, I’d like a man I fancy versus one old enough to be my grandfather. The Duke of Herschel is”—she sighed and fanned her face with her glove—“more attractive than one has a right to be while holding the oldest title in England. I can picture us being very happy together.”

Clarissa pressed her hand to her stomach to suppress the queasy sensation rippling through it. The woman tying the ribbons of a gypsy bonnet beneath her chin across the room could be the next Duchess of Herschel. She would share Knox’s bed. Touch him in the many wondrous ways Clarissa had. Watch his eyes cloud with bliss, his ardent release ringing through the night. She would watch him dip his toast in his tea while he hummed, a breakfast habit. She would argue with him about women’s rights and the future of the House of Lords. She would have his children. His children .

Clarissa swallowed past the dizzying haze that spotted her vision.

These were more than feelings of possession, these were feelings of love .

She took a deep breath to calm herself, her mind spinning with the probability of misfortune. Unless she made her dreams come true—instead of waiting for a man to do it. Although her mother hadn’t given her many words of advice, there was one statement that rang true.

Fight for what you want, gel.

Knox had come to think of Clerkenwell as home.

Shaken by this sudden realization, he nodded mindlessly to the costermonger and waved to a group of children playing marbles on the corner. A tow-headed boy he’d given sweets to last week. He was early, a departure from his usual routine of arriving after dark. The day hadn’t yet drawn to a close, a twilight mist only now rolling in to twist about his feet. He’d had his driver drop him on Chancery Lane and had walked from there. His fingers were numb from the cold, his cheeks were stinging, but his heart was light.

Because today was the day he changed his life.

Today was the day he asked the woman he loved to marry him.

Knox almost laughed to recall the shocked, nay, stunned , expressions on his brother’s faces when he told them of his plans. The girl he’d chosen wasn’t a complete surprise, marriage was .

A union he wasn’t forced into, that is. Money—and his lack of it—having nothing to do with it. This was all about love.

There was still the issue of his failing estates, of course. His tenants, the church roof, the village roads, etcetera. But the DeWitts had put their heads together and figured out how to gather enough blunt to keep the duchy above water for another six months, maybe eight. Cort felt sure the steam engine investments would start paying off soon after. And if they didn’t, Knox could start working at the Petal and Plume. He felt he’d make an excellent milliner if his darling girl was willing to train him.

He whipped his hat from his head and thumped it happily against his thigh. He honestly didn’t give a fig what he had to do to keep her.

He would dig ditches if it came to it, which it wouldn’t. Somehow, he’d concoct a plan, the dance a hundred aristocratic men before him had done with moderate success. Living without the woman he cherished was a burden he wasn’t adding to the others. While watching Clarissa sleep the night before, her gentle breaths calming him in a way nothing had, he’d decided. The utterly final straw had been a scented note from that silly Countess Wimby asking him if he’d like to come for tea. I’d appreciate being the one doing the courting, is what he wanted to reply. Instead, he’d ripped up the missive and tossed it in the rubbish bin where it belonged.

He couldn’t wait for the day all of England learned of his marriage and reacted accordingly. Let the broadsheets spill gallons of ink about the scandal and every titled nob in London rebuff him per the ton’s standard social agreement. He hoped the rags made a bloody fortune writing about the duke and his milliner, and society had a fine time reading about it. Maybe he and Clarissa would become a legendary couple, like Eros and Psyche. He only needed to ensure Clarissa was aware of what was to come. They’d be pariahs for a while, or possibly, forever.

He honestly didn’t think she cared, part of the reason he adored her to pieces.

No matter the disgrace he faced, he wasn’t backing down. Amiable to a point, the Duke of Herschel was the most stubborn of men when he made up his mind.

Knox rolled his gloved fingers into fists. This time, he’d made up his bloody mind.

Clarissa Marlowe was going to be his duchess.

With a nervous shake of his shoulders, he knocked on the door, crumpling the brim of his hat in his fist. Knox could have used the garden entrance as he had on several occasions, but today of all days, he wanted to arrive formally through the front. His heart thumped when it opened, then took a firm dive to his belly. Clarissa’s housekeeper, Mrs. Newton, stood in the entryway wearing the same guarded expression she’d worn the other times she’d met him. Which were precisely two. She didn’t trust him, and he didn’t blame her for it. He was renowned in ways he wished he wasn’t. He also appreciated that she was trying to protect her employer in some small measure.

“Miss Marlowe isn’t in at the moment,” she said before he’d formulated one damned thing to say. Then, she made a move to shut the door practically in his face.

He wedged his Hoby boot neatly in the jamb to keep that from happening. “Did she leave a note for me, by any chance?”

“She did not, Your Grace.”

His temper sparked. “I’ll check the Petal and Plume, then.”

She nodded without comment.

They stared across the narrow battlefield of an open doorway, his beaver hat taking the punishment for his unease. Reluctantly, he stepped away, drew a breath of London’s frigid winter, and went back the way he’d come. West, to Mayfair.

His steps were trudging, and his heart was no longer light.

Crestfallen, he feared this rejection signaled the end of his grand love affair.

Clarissa wandered Viscount Pemberly’s indigo parlor, as his majordomo had called it when he’d settled her here. She’d had to travel to his Surrey country home for this discussion, a dwelling she’d never visited. The chamber was lovely, done in shades of sapphire that would make an impressive bonnet. Another servant had come to pour tea and serve gingerbread biscuits, flitting around like her visit was perfectly normal. The piquant scents mixed pleasantly with the cozy aroma of the hearthfire, a calming aspect she wished she could appreciate.

Perhaps she’d create an indigo-hued hat for the occasion of swallowing her pride whole. A celebratory accessory when one admitted hereditary defeat.

Sighing, Clarissa glanced at the mantel clock. Her father often used delay tactics to put her at a disadvantage. Thankfully, she was no longer young or impressionable enough to fall for such rubbish.

She hoped.

When the parlor door opened, and he marched through it seconds later, she suspected the world had changed in some way for him as well. He’d never come to her in less than a half hour.

Her stomach twisted to note their resemblance, a shock each time she saw him. Not enough of a similarity to alert society but enough for her . Enough for him, because he’d been unable to argue with her mother’s claim about her parentage.

“Clarissa, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in a dulcet tone and crossed to her. He dusted a kiss on each of her cheeks, a habit he’d acquired in France after his graduation from Eton. It always felt a bit forced to Clarissa, but suitable, as Viscount Pemberly wasn’t known for his genuineness.

“Father,” she returned, a moniker she used only in this home, per his instructions when she was five years old.

He gestured to the settee as he parked his large frame in the armchair across from her. She poured tea and served biscuits while he waited, both of them aware her ladylike graces had come from governesses paid for by him. It made her feel wonderful to know she’d finally found a use for the skills. Little did he understand this, however.

They nibbled and made idle conversation about the recent snowstorm, the tempest that had kept a duke trapped in her home for three delightful days. Of course, she’d been in love with Knox by the time he left. Likely, he’d planned it that way, the diabolical scoundrel.

The viscount pointed to her with his teacup. “You seem changed, dear girl. A soft smile and a more winsome demeanor. If only you’d found this maturity years ago, we might have gotten along better.”

Clarissa shoved her wrath deep, in the chest she’d filled to the brim throughout her childhood. Although she must agree, she’d never been charming with this man. “You may disagree with your assessment after I tell you why I’ve come.”

He froze, his cup and saucer shivering in his hand. Shaking his head with a breath shot through his nose, he slumped back in the armchair. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Your mother didn’t have a mind for commerce, either, though she tried, I will say. Skill with a needle and thread was about all she had going for her. I knew that little shop she left you would be in peril at some point.”

Clarissa sipped tea and continued flashing her soft smile while she felt like a tigress inside. “The shop is actually doing well. Since I took over after Mother passed, I’ve tripled profits. What I’ve come to you about is a larger endeavor.”

A lifelong pledge.

The viscount rocked forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, dear girl, but I can’t help you. I have two daughters on the Marriage Mart, and regrettably, they’re not as attractive as you. Excellent lineages but grim countenances, the opposite of your situation. Their dowries are going to break me.”

Clarissa glanced at him over the rim of her teacup, knowing this was not the case. “I’ve come to ask for a loan, not a grant. Two thousand pounds, with interest, payable in three years. My solicitor will draw up the contract and send it over if you agree. The shop will be yours if I fail to repay on time. The Petal and Plume is bringing in close to a thousand pounds a year. In fact, I’ve been thinking of hiring another milliner, growing my profit margin substantially. I have the clients for it. As it is, I turn trade away. I would go to a bank, but they’d laugh me out of the lobby, as you well know.”

Pemberly snorted and slapped his knee. “That trivial twit of a ship is making a thousand a year? By God, I should get those silly offspring of mine sewing fripperies this minute! You clearly acquired your business acumen from me. Your mother lost money every blasted year.”

Clarissa scooted to the edge of the settee, her hands trembling around her cup. “Will you agree?” She knew, despite his protestations, that he could well afford the risk, or she wouldn’t have asked. “My offer is more than you’ll make on any solid investment.”

He grinned, showing a set of stained teeth, happiest when he had her over a barrel. “Desperate for cash, are you?”

He was going to do it. She knew by the bombastic expression on his face. Sitting back, relief washed over her, mitigating the burn to her pride. Knox DeWitt was worth every hint of pain. “I wouldn’t say desperate. The funds are actually for my dowry.” She decided to tell him because he would, along with the rest of the ton , find out about Knox eventually. It was too bad she wouldn’t see his face when he did.

Pemberly choked on his tea, a little dribble running down his chin. Scrubbing it away, he chortled. “ Dowry ? Dear girl, what have you gotten yourself into? Oh, this sounds like your mother,” he had the gall to add.

“The man in question has enterprises of his own, substantial ones, to consider. It’s quite common for the marriage to bring assets from the woman’s side.”

He shook his head sadly. “Not in your class, it isn’t. Most of you marry for love or some such ridiculousness. Our agreements are more contractual. Is that what you’re contemplating?”

She only shrugged, not about to tell him anything factual.

He frowned, sending a deep furrow between his brows. “Why would I do this?”

Ah, there it is . Clarissa shook the wrinkles from her skirt before looking him dead in the eye. Those familiar, gray eyes. “Because you owe me. For the times we didn’t have enough food or clean clothing or medical care. For the birthdays you missed, all of them, I seem to recall. For the promises you made and didn’t deliver upon. Which mattered very much to a child. For my mother’s tears and melancholy. Her years of defeat.” She held up her hand when he started to argue. “Those are the reasons you should do it. The reason you will is because, if you don’t, I’ll run an advertisement in the next issue of The Times for my shop, stating exactly where my pedigree lies. It won’t hurt my business if they know I’m of Pemberly stock. I could potentially add three new milliners with my new clientele.”

His face reddened to the point of eruption. “A scandal of this sort will ruin my daughter’s chances! And I need to rid myself of them.”

“Knowing your class, I’d have to agree.” She tilted her head, tapping her finger to her lips. “I’ll also add that this stipulation is in place if you ever discuss what we’ve agreed to this day. No matter who I marry, not one word of this arrangement is to be mentioned. If I find it has, that advertisement will be printed faster than you can blink.”

Furious, he shoved to his feet. “Why the hell would I want to publicize my by-blow’s marriage to a dockworker or a fishmonger?”

Clarissa laughed then, unable to call it back. “I have no idea.”

“I’ll have my banker contact you tomorrow,” he growled, storming across the parlor. With a low curse, he paused in the doorway. “If my legitimate children had your spunk, I’d be father-in-law to an earl, possibly a duke. I might even be dining at Carlton House with Prinny.”

More amused with each word he uttered, Clarissa watched him go, her leaden past trotting off with him.