Page 6 of Love, the Duke (Say I Do #3)

C HAPTER 6

MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF

SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK

Never get caught between purpose and property.

Sighing her frustration, Ophelia placed her sketching pencil on the dining room table and stretched out her fingers and shoulders from hunching over the drawings. It had taken longer than she’d expected to turn Mrs. Turner’s remembrances into a semblance of a family crest. What she thought might take only an hour had turned into several. She glanced at the pile of sheets she’d discarded in an attempt to come up with the usable ones she had. In their disarray it looked like hundreds, but she was sure it wasn’t that many.

Ophelia didn’t have the finest of drawing skills, but she’d managed to draft four possible crests from details the maid was able to provide about the suit of armor, the birds, and the swirls that anchored each side like brackets. The problem was there were many different types of armor from different centuries and, as Mrs. Turner had said, many different birds looked alike too.

It wasn’t the maid’s fault she couldn’t remember more about the titled man or the crest that was on his carriage door. To her, all titled men looked the same, all birds had wings and beaks, and all armor looked alike. Ophelia had to agree that at no more than a glance, the top of a pike could resemble the top of a stalk of wheat. But what else could she do right now but try to create a likeness of the crest?

She took a bracing breath, stood up, and looked at the shy, petite woman with a mobcap covering her hair and a bit of her thinning light-brown eyebrows too. The maid started to rise.

“No, Mrs. Turner. Stay where you are. I need you a little longer. Now that we’ve finished, I’m going to lay all four drawings in front of you so you can see them all at once. Close your eyes and relax. Focus. Remember what you saw that day and then look at the drawings. When you are sure, let me know which sketch most represents the one you recall seeing on the carriage door.”

“I’m not sure which one does,” she answered, rubbing her hands together slowly.

“There’s no reason for you to hurry,” Ophelia said patiently, though she was feeling far from it. “Just try.”

Mrs. Turner’s small eyes widened. “Like I told you, miss. They are all good to me.”

Ophelia tried to keep her smile from appearing as weary as she felt. “But they are all distinctive in small ways. Just take your time and study them in detail. I’m going to walk over to the window so I won’t disturb you by standing over your shoulder. It will give you time to concentrate.”

Mrs. Turner gave her an unsure nod. “I’ll do my best.”

Ophelia massaged the back of her neck as she made her way over to look out at the budding kitchen garden.

It was by chance she had the idea to sketch what the maid saw so they could both visualize it better. Once Mrs. Turner made her decision, all Ophelia had to do was get her hands on a volume of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage to find the full coat of arms that best matched the crest. That should give her the family name of the man who’d entered the church to view the chalice and then later, she believed, returned to steal it. Once that was accomplished, she’d find a way to get into his house and show the Duke of Hurstbourne she hadn’t needed his help after all. In fact, she relished the thought of telling him.

How dare he insist she stop just because it was dangerous, difficult—and perhaps wrong—to search someone’s home without their knowledge. It wasn’t like she’d wanted to take anything that didn’t rightly belong to the church. Ophelia couldn’t give up her search no matter how much the deeply intriguing duke had urged her to do so, or how consuming the task became. That’s why she was in London. Every day brought her closer to the possibility someone would discover the chalice was missing.

It was true she’d never learned to maintain the piety level of composure that her father, mother, and brother had insisted was required of a man of the cloth and his family, but she had learned to temper her emotions and stay calm whenever she was with them. Most of the time. Certainly not when she was with the exasperating Duke of Hurstbourne. He had a way of bringing every one of her tamped-down emotions roaring to life. Good, bad, and decidedly feminine ones, which oddly she’d found invigorating.

Recalling that caused her to remember his charming smile as he’d made conversation with the young lady in the ballroom who kept fanning her face. Later he looked dashing in his evening attire when he folded his strong arms over his broad chest, emphasizing his splendid body as he protested her hint that the Duke of Wyatthaven might have an interest in religious relics. That had unques tionably displeased him. She didn’t mind. At least she knew exactly how he felt. She liked that he was loyal to his friends.

Along with all her feelings, she was dismayed too. Even more so because thoughts of the duke were always creeping into her mind at the oddest times. When she was trying to read or sleep. While she was drinking her warm, deliciously sweetened chocolate. Even now when she wanted to concentrate on something so important as finding the chalice, that man had become a hazard to her peace of mind.

Because of him, Ophelia had been gone so long from the ballroom last night, her mother was close to fainting when she returned. Roberta had worked herself into a dither fearing Ophelia had been caught and detained by a member of the household. They had left the party right away. Which was fine with Ophelia. She had no desire to stay and participate in the trappings of the marriage mart, but she had taken time to say goodbye to Georgina and Katherine while her mother waited for their wraps. The young ladies had been good to accept her so quickly into their lives.

Ophelia heard Mrs. Turner’s chair push away from the table and turned around.

“This is the one, miss,” the maid said with a broad smile and her finger pressed on top of one of the drawings. “This bird is most like the one I saw for sure. The bird, and pikeman’s armor looks the same too.”

“All right, good.” Ophelia looked at the one she pointed to, and her spirits lifted. It was the one Mrs. Turner seemed most comfortable with when she was describing the bird, breastplate, and helmet. “You’ve been a tremendous help.”

“Excuse me, miss.”

Ophelia turned to see the footman standing in the doorway of the dining room. “Yes, Mr. Mallord?”

He stepped farther into the room. “I thought I might see if you planned to use your carriage this afternoon. I could go ask the driver to have it ready for you so you wouldn’t have to wait.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mallord. That’s considerate of you, but I won’t be needing it. Maman is too tired from the party we attended last evening to do anything today.” Ophelia looked at Mrs. Turner. “And thank you too. You’ve been so helpful. I’ll let you both know if I need anything else.”

The footman looked down at the drawings and then up at Ophelia and smiled before walking away.

Ophelia picked up the pencil and drew a star in the corner of the sketch the maid chose. Not that she was likely to forget, but it seemed the prudent thing to do. She stacked the four sheets of thick parchment together, thinking she should keep every one for now. Even perhaps have Mrs. Turner have another look at them again in a few hours. For now, the best place for them would be a drawer in the secretary.

She collected all the sketching materials and made her way to the drawing room, eager to show the crests and share the good news with her mother when she came belowstairs. In the meantime, Ophelia would look around for something to keep the sketches in.

The small leased house was well equipped with almost anything they needed. She hoped to find an empty packet or portfolio, or perhaps a large folder, where she could keep the sheets safely together. It would be too exhausting to replicate them.

To her disappointment, every drawer in the desk was empty. Ophelia then started looking in the chests, cabi nets, and side tables placed around the perimeter. The last chest to be inspected had been placed in front of a window between two chairs on the back wall. It wasn’t a tall or wide cabinet, so she bent down, opened the double doors, and spread them wide. Peering inside, she quickly saw it was as bare as all the others, but something seemed a little peculiar about it. The rear panel appeared buckled. She wondered if perhaps time or water had warped it. Her curiosity piqued, she took out the shelving and looked carefully, realizing it had a false back that hadn’t been properly secured. How clever. She had heard of such things but had never actually seen one.

She pondered if someone had accidentally left anything in the hiding place. Perhaps it was still there. The possibility made her smile and heightened her interest.

Lifting the hem of her skirt, she knelt on both knees in front of it and reached inside. She couldn’t quite touch the back panel but was too engrossed to give up, so she stuck her head inside and wiggled one shoulder and then the other a little at a time into the chest until she could reach the panel. She hammered at the corners with the bottom of her fist and one of the top corners popped loose.

Delighted she was making progress, she pushed, pulled, and tugged at the board trying to remove it. Obviously, there was a trick to doing it the proper way, and she was determined to find it. With the heel of her hand, she banged it dead center, and the panel popped loose, almost falling on top of her head. It was a secret compartment, but it was as empty as all the others.

“Miss Stowe,” she heard Mrs. Turner squeal from behind her. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I should be doing that for you.”

“No. I am fine,” she answered from inside the cabinet, doing her best to pop the backing on the same way it had come off. “I don’t need your help. Carry on with whatever you were doing.”

“I wanted to tell you the Duke of Hurstbourne is here and asked if you wanted to receive him, but he followed me in here.”

Clunk!

Merciful heavens!

Ophelia knocked her head on the inside top of the chest and conked an elbow on the side in a hurry to try to get out.

In the name of all the saints living and dead, what was the duke doing at her house? And of all times! Her head was stuck in the cabinet and her derriere was sticking out of it.

What nerve the man had to come into her drawing room without an invitation. All her decorous upbringing was for naught in the face of her predicament. A sense of dismay swamped her. How could she ever live down how she presented herself right now?

There was no uncomplicated way out. She started trying to back out on her knees but in her haste couldn’t get both shoulders out of the chest at the same time. Going in was definitely easier.

But then Ophelia sensed the duke kneeling beside her. She felt his warmth at what she assumed was his knee grazing against her upper thigh before resting on the floor so close to her. From his movements, the air stirred with the smell of his woodsy shaving soap scent and she trembled when hearing his low husky chuckle.

“What kind of pickle have you gotten yourself into, Miss Stowe?” he asked lightly.

“Nothing that I can’t get out of, Your Grace,” she answered defensively, hoping her voice didn’t reveal just how flustered she was. “If you would be so kind as to excuse yourself from the room.” Then, unable to help herself, she managed to reach behind her and swat him, feeling her hand connected somewhere on his face.

The duke grunted. “Hold still and I will help you.” He reached into the chest and cupped the back of her head at the very moment she lifted it and heard his knuckles crack against the edge of the opening. She heard another sound from him.

The duke muttered an impatient oath. Obviously, he wasn’t thrilled she hadn’t acquiesced to his demand. “You can’t do this on your own, Miss Stowe. Relax, and I will get you out.”

“No, I need you to go away,” she responded in a confident but muffled voice, refusing to give in to his offer of help and only wanting him to leave so she could find a way out of her predicament.

“I can’t do that. You’re moving but not getting anywhere,” he argued exasperatedly.

“Sweet mercy, Your Grace, I know that,” she whispered, unable to believe what was happening, but then she felt his palms press on the back of her shoulders. His fingers came around the tops of her arms and gently squeezed. She felt his strength, his command of her situation, and realized how vulnerable she was to him. Not because she was captured by the chest, but the way his touch gave her delicious feelings inside.

Weary, and somehow comforted too, she had no choice but to give in to his help. She wormed from side to side as he pushed down on first one shoulder with his gentle strength and then the other, helping to work her out of the chest.

“Don’t rush, Miss Stowe,” he said in a soothing tone that made her know his lips were just above her ear. “Take your time or you will be black-and-blue with bruises.”

There was something reassuring about what he was doing, the way he was handling her with tenderness, and how softly he was speaking so that she felt compelled to obey and offer no further opposition. The trembling inside her subsided.

Just when she thought she had cleared the offending cabinet, the crown of her hair caught in the center hinge that held the double doors together at the top and she was once again snared.

Ophelia stretched up to untangle her hair at the same time the duke reached to help. It was their fingers that caught and wove together. A tantalizing shiver of more tingles washed up and down her spine. His warm breath fanned closer to her temple.

“Should I get Mrs. Stowe to help?” Mrs. Turner asked excitedly from behind them.

“No,” they said in unison.

The duke leaned farther over her nape, causing his muscle-hard chest to press against her back. She was aware of his every breath as he whispered softly, “Let me help you.”

Let me help you.

Those were the words she’d longed to hear him say from her first thoughts of seeking him out. For a fleeting moment it was as if her dream had come true. The duke was going to help her find the chalice so Winston’s legacy wouldn’t be damaged. For a moment she soaked in his words and relished the prospect of his help.

But rational thoughts invaded, her fantasy faded quickly, and she stifled a groan. That wasn’t what he meant. He only wanted to free her hair—not her brother from the threat of being labeled a thief. Her pride was in shambles, and her head sore. Her elbow was hurting. She once again surrendered and accepted the only help he was offering.

Inhaling deeply as her fingers fell away from his, she lowered her arms and remained still as possible. It wasn’t easy. His touch was tender and welcomed as seemingly strand by strand he took his time.

“Your hair feels like silk, Miss Stowe.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I hope this will be over soon.”

He chuckled so softly she wasn’t even sure it was one. But at last, she felt the final tug and she was freed to face him without a pinpoint of pain as she straightened.

With them still on their knees in front of each other, a sense of anticipation erupted inside her. She lifted her head and met his amazing green eyes. They were filled with lively sparkles of interest as he stared into hers. His penetrating gaze made her heartbeat pound harder in her ears and something delicious tingle inside her.

That now familiar fluttering started in her chest as it so often did when she looked at him or simply thought of him. Heat flared into her cheeks as awakening feelings of desire sprouted and blossomed like a rose unfurling its petals. She remembered the calming words, the quiet power of his hand and gentleness of his fingers. She wanted to feel that again.

He leaned toward her, moving his face closer and closer to hers. It felt as if she were taking every breath he took as his lips descended toward hers. The thought he was going to kiss her flashed across her mind as swift as a lightning strike.

What should she do?

She was attracted to this man. Desirous feelings of excitement were bursting all over her. The problem was she wasn’t worldly enough to know how to act upon them or what to do about all she was experiencing. This wasn’t one of the things that had been a part of her extensive education.

Ophelia had always expected her first stirrings of that ethereal feeling of passion for a man would be for a modestly clothed, doe-eyed, gently spoken man much like her father and brother.

But she’d never thought about the possibility of being attracted to the most irritating, brash, and handsome man in all of England. Probably the world too. And a duke at that. She loved the feelings she was having and wanted more of them. There was no doubt she was thinking about the real possibility of him kissing her right now. On her lips. Not the forehead as her father had always done.

“Miss Stowe,” the duke whispered, with his lips so close to hers she felt his breath sweep across her cheek and flutter against her eyes. “If you lean any closer to me you are going to topple us both. If you want a kiss that much, all you have to do is ask, and I will be happy to honor your request.”

Merciful angels! Quickly, she settled back on her legs. Was it possible that what he said was true? Was she the one who had been moving toward him?

Probably. He’d caught her in a defenseless moment and seen her in an inconceivable state. His rescuing had made her think about warm embraces, sweet kisses, and soft touches. The sight of him made her think about being cuddled against his chest. The intensity in his expression made her wonder if he might be sensing some of the same feelings that affected her.

“I fear I might be a little dizzy from being trapped in that small space,” she answered. She mentally shook herself and looked away from the duke, fighting to regain the abiding calm she used to be able to accomplish with ease and take pride in doing so.

“Then don’t fight me anymore, Miss Stowe. Let me help you stand and get back your balance.”

His smile was so tender she agreed without complaint. The duke gently took ahold of her elbow, the one she’d banged, but she forced herself not to wince as he helped her to stand.

Through everything she was feeling, she would maintain some pretense of gentility and remain seemingly unflustered as her brother, father, and mother had always expected of her no matter how difficult, unpleasant, or embarrassing the circumstances may be. “ Decorum is more important than anything ,” her father used to say. And of course he was right.

So, after inhaling a deep breath, she straightened her dress and smoothed her hair, and then drew back her hand and slapped him.