Page 15 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ONE MONTH LATER

D ear Lord Montague,

I write to inform you that there is no need to marry in haste; the result of our mutual experiment in Cavalier Cove was null. You may pursue your duchess in peace.

-Clarissa Penfirth.

Dearest Clarissa,

I am devastated that you believe me capable of pursuing any lady other than yourself. If nature will not force the issue, may I pay a call upon you in London when I return there next?

-Lord Jude Montague

My Lord Montague,

I regret that I will not be in London next Season. I am traveling with my cousin Nathaniel to chaperone his new ward back to Cavalier Cove. Though I doubt our paths will cross again, I do wish you well.

-Clarissa Penfirth

* * *

Later that summer…

“We are passing near Acton Heath,” Nathaniel broke hours of companionable silence to inform her. “Would you like to see it while we’re in the area? I see no reason to come all this way and not do a bit of sightseeing.”

“I doubt Lord Montague wishes for me to trespass upon his property uninvited.” She hadn’t told her cousin what had happened with the duke, though she suspected he had guessed.

“Nonsense. The estate is open to the public. He won’t even know you are there. I would bet Miss Estelle would enjoy a visit, too.”

“She is but eleven, is she not?”

He scrubbed his face. “What am I going to do with a little girl? I know nothing about them.”

Clarissa shrugged. “Feed her, clothe her, educate her. Her father has provided a decent dowry for her. When the time comes, help her choose a suitable husband, assuming she wants one.”

“Strange that the Wayward Dukes wanted me, of all people, to take responsibility for her. She is his natural daughter, but born on the wrong side of the blanket. Why not a relative?”

“I’m sure we’ll get the story about that when we arrive.”

“Last chance to stop at Acton Heath in this direction,” he said. “The turn is just ahead.”

A nervous buzzing like a swarm of angry bees erupted in Clarissa’s stomach. “Perhaps on the way back.”

* * *

The swarm in her stomach had dissipated sufficiently on the return trip that when Estelle, a bright eleven-year-old girl, pleaded to visit Acton Heath, Clarissa couldn’t say no. She was taking the transition in stride—better than Nathaniel was. Estelle befuddled and charmed Nathaniel with her antics, but it was her governess, Miss Lydia Shaw, who confounded him.

“Please, Shaw, can we?” Estelle begged.

“Ask Lord Prescott. It is his decision, my star.”

The girl all but threw herself into his lap, her gloved fingers folded in a pantomime of prayer, and gazed up at him like a puppy yearning for a scrap of supper from the table. Clarissa bit back a smile. She needed minding, but Miss Shaw—whom Estelle addressed exclusively by her surname—had laid a foundation of good manners that made her antics more winsome than annoying.

Mostly. After a single afternoon together, Estelle’s increasing wiggles and Nathaniel’s impatience colliding with growing frequency, Clarissa was forced to admit that a break from the coach was in order. When her cousin cast a look of exasperation at her, she immediately acquiesced.

“A brief visit to the renowned ducal estate would be a welcome reprieve for all of us.”

“Yay!” Estelle sat back, bouncing on the seat and clapping. Miss Shaw pressed one hand to her knee. The governess bore an unusually close similarity to her charge. Both had red-gold hair, snub noses, and green eyes. Clarissa was waiting for the right moment to broach whether there was a closer relationship between the two of them than teacher and pupil. Perhaps she would find it during their visit to Acton Heath.

They rolled down the long drive beneath a canopy of enormous oaks. Light dappled the road. The sun carried no warmth despite the lateness of the season. Clarissa had read that farmers were suffering crop failures due to the excessive cold, yet such worldly cares felt far away from this peaceful, prosperous place.

For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe.

“I have never seen such a grand mansion,” murmured Miss Shaw. Clarissa sat straighter, twisting in her seat to get a better view.

“Regretting your decision?” Nathaniel asked. She smacked his arm lightly and sighed.

“To quote Austen, ‘Of this place, I might have been mistress.’” She sagged against the squabs. “It’s no use, Nathaniel. I would have been a terrible duchess.”

“Are you acquainted with the duke?” asked Miss Shaw.

“Slightly,” she mumbled as heat rushed to her cheeks. She fanned herself. “It’s rather close in here. I shall be grateful for a breath of fresh air.”

To her relief, the governess did not press the issue.

Inside the enormous mansion, they were greeted by the housekeeper who offered to give them a tour.

“Are you certain Lord Montague is not at home?” Clarissa asked apprehensively.

“He is inspecting the pottery factory and is not expected to return until tomorrow.”

A bolt of disappointment shot through her before she could guard against it. She had closed the door on any possible relationship with Jude, and she was not reopening it for a house, no matter how magnificent it was. Even if it did have beautiful ancient oak trees.

“What pottery factory?”

“There is a section of land on the far end of the estate that was naught but scrub land until fine-quality clay was discovered there. One of his first acts as a new duke was to open a clay pit and ceramics factory near the site. Today it employs over two hundred miners, artisans, and staff.”

Nathaniel cast her a sidelong smirk. She narrowed her eyes at him and stuck out her tongue.

“Miss Penfirth!” exclaimed Estelle. “That was very rude!”

“My darling star,” Miss Shaw admonished gently, through clenched teeth, “we do not chide our elders.”

“But she stuck out her tongue at Lord?—”

“Miss Shaw is a bit of a spoilsport,” Nathaniel said easily. The governess glared.

“Up the stairs on this landing you will see a portrait of the late duke’s family,” interrupted the housekeeper. Everyone fell into hushed attentiveness. “The Dowager Duchess of Montague resides near His Grace’s nephews, the sons of the girl in the yellow dress. Until His Grace marries and produces an heir, Lady Pamela’s four sons are next in line to inherit.”

Clarissa studied the portrait. So this was Harriet’s mother, albeit at a very young age. She estimated the girl to be around eight years old in the picture.

“Who are the other children?”

“Those are Lord Montague’s three brothers and two sisters. None of them remain among the living, sadly. One died of measles, one of scarlet fever, the other sister in childbirth, and the eldest son passed in a tragic carriage accident, leaving the second son to inherit the title.”

Clarissa gazed at the portrait solemnly. Not even immense wealth could protect children from deadly diseases or the vagaries of fate. Four children from one family, all dead.

A son who had never expected to hold the title left to shoulder all that grief and responsibility, tasked with cleaning up an irresponsible sister’s mess.

She followed the tour with a heaviness in her heart that she simply couldn’t shake. Despite so many personal losses, Jude remained a caring and thoughtful man, if generally suspicious of the world. She had been a fool to refuse him simply because she was scared of social censure.

Yes, she had experienced her share of cutting remarks from strangers and supposed friends who put a knife in her back. She, too, had allowed the world to make her cower in fear, but her personal losses had been mere trifles compared to what he had suffered.

Little wonder that he was so fiercely protective of his niece. His stubbornness was born of wanting the best for Harriet, and in his world, a French smuggler was not anywhere close to acceptable. His intransigence was born of a deep-seated fear of losing someone he loved. In trying to remedy his only living sister’s error, he had lost Harriet, too.

Yet instead of offering sympathy, Clarissa had chided him for not letting her go sooner.

She tried to swallow but emotion clogged her throat. Love. That was what she felt for the man who stared solemnly back at her from an oil painting. The rest of him had changed from childhood to an adult, but his eyes remained the same. She’d thrown away the one thing she wanted because she was afraid.

Now who was the fool?

“Clarissa.” Nathaniel’s touch on her arm brought her back to the present. “We’re moving on.”

They toured a grand ballroom, a dining room that could seat fifty people comfortably, and a library that made Nathaniel’s look paltry in comparison.

“I could live in here,” she whispered to him.

“You could have,” he chuckled. “But you wouldn’t lower your standards to marry a mere duke. No, my exacting cousin held out for a prince.”

“Pfft. As if I’d even consider a prince.” She waved a hand. “You’re not going to let me live it down, are you?”

“Never. It’s far too entertaining to tease you about it.”

“Wait until your turn comes.” She grinned sweetly. “I vow to be positively merciless when you cock things up with Miss Shaw.”

All humor fled his face, which twisted into a scowl. “I’m not marrying a governess. I don’t even like the confounding woman.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Thaniel.”

He ignored her interruption. “Besides, I need an heiress. I should have gotten it over with years ago.”

“With that attitude I can hardly understand how you failed to attract a wealthy debutante.”

“I attracted them just fine, I’ll have you know. I simply didn’t want to marry any of them.”

They continued their friendly bickering as the housekeeper turned their group over to the groundsman for a tour of the gardens. Clouds darkened the sky overhead.

“We’d best make this a short visit. You’ll want to get to town before that storm breaks. To the pavilion and back.”

They wandered the well-cultivated rose garden and toured the garden maze, where Clarissa got so turned around she found herself separated from the rest of the group.

“Drat,” she muttered, contemplating how scratched up she would get if she tried to push through the hawthorn. Deciding against it, she took a turn, another turn, and suddenly burst out into an open field. This must be the opposite end of the maze from where she’d begun.

“Double drat.”

A fat raindrop landed on her cheek, somehow evading the brim of her bonnet to splash squarely onto her face. More followed it. Clarissa picked up her skirt and ran, skidding around the corner and darting as fast as she could to the end. Panting, she pushed onward, rounded the final corner and smacked into a wall of muscle. Strong hands gripped her upper arms.

“Miss Penfirth? What are you doing here?”

Thunder rolled overhead as she lifted her gaze and found Lord Montague scowling down at her.