Page 3 of Trusting Her Duke

Penelope pondered her father’s words as she prepared for bed that evening.

The soft glow of candlelight filled her chamber, creating dancing shadows on the pale blue walls.

Mary moved quietly about the room, laying out clothes for the next day.

“The blue riding habit for tomorrow, my Lady?” Mary held up the garment in question. “You mentioned visiting the Williams family at the north farm.”

“Yes, I think so.” Penelope turned from her mirror, where she had been absently brushing her hair. The golden curls tumbled about her shoulders, catching the candlelight. “Though perhaps we should pack a spare skirt. Mrs. Williams mentioned showing me her new method of planting root vegetables.”

“Very wise, my Lady.” Mary’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the incident with the Carter family’s piglets.”

“That was hardly my fault!” Penelope protested, laughing despite herself. “How was I to know the little creatures would escape just as I was examining their pen?”

“Indeed, my Lady.” Mary’s dry tone spoke volumes. “Though I notice that such incidents occur with remarkable frequency when you visit tenant farms.”

“Well, one can hardly understand their challenges without experiencing them firsthand.” Penelope settled into the window seat, drawing her knees up beneath her nightrail. The spring night was clear, stars scattered like diamonds across the velvet darkness. “Though I suppose the Duke of Ravensworth would consider such involvement beneath the dignity of a Lady.”

“The Duke of Ravensworth,” Mary observed as she turned down the bed, “seems to occupy rather a lot of your thoughts for someone whose opinion matters so little to you.”

“Mary!” Penelope turned from the window, scandalised. “That is not... I mean, I merely...”

“Of course, my Lady.” Mary’s face was the picture of innocence as she gathered up the discarded day dress. “Shall I leave the second candle burning?”

“No, thank you.” Penelope rose from the window seat, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks. “I believe that I shall read a while, but one candle will suffice.”

As Mary bid her goodnight and quietly left the room, Penelope tried to focus on the book of poetry she had been reading. But her thoughts kept straying to green eyes and a deep voice that could somehow be both commanding and cold at once. It was most vexing that such an arrogant man should be so handsome. Not that his looks mattered in the slightest, of course. His attitude more than counterbalanced any physical appeal he might possess.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window casement, making her start. The spring weather had been unusually volatile lately, with storms appearing seemingly from nowhere. Tomorrow’s ride to the north farm might prove interesting if the weather turned.

Penelope marked her place in the book and set it aside, unread. She had more important things to think about than the Duke of Ravensworth and his disapproving manner. Tomorrow would bring new challenges and opportunities, and she needed her rest.

As she blew out the candle and settled into bed, a last thought drifted through her mind.

What would the Duke make of her expanding charitable network? Would news of today’s meeting reach him?

The wind gusted again, stronger this time, and somewhere in the darkness, a door slammed.

*****

The morning dawned grey and blustery, with heavy clouds scudding across the sky like ships before a gale. Penelope stood at her chamber window, watching the trees bend in the strengthening wind. Perhaps she should delay her visit to the north farm.

“The weather looks rather threatening, my Lady.” Mary’s voice echoed her thoughts as the maid entered, carrying a breakfast tray. “Cook insisted on sending up hot chocolate this morning - she says it’s far too cold for tea.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Penelope turned from the window, smiling at this evidence of the household’s care for her. The rich scent of chocolate filled the room as Mary poured. “Though I begin to wonder if I should postpone my visit.”

“The Williams family are expecting you, my Lady.” Mary’s practical tone held a note of understanding. “And Mrs Williams was particularly eager to show you her new planting methods. Perhaps if we left early, we might return before any weather breaks.”

Penelope wrapped her hands around the warm chocolate cup, considering. The Williams family were one of their most industrious tenant families, always willing to try new methods of farming. Their success could encourage others to adopt similar improvements.

“You’re right, of course.” She moved to where her riding habit lay ready. “We’ll go, but make haste about it – we’ll take the small gig, rather than riding, I think, for that will allow us to perhaps stay a little drier, and make it easier to take some things to the Williams family. The clouds do look rather ominous, and I do hate riding in soaked clothes, so the gig it is.”

Within the hour, they were on their way, Penelope and Mary seated on the narrow driver’s box of the gig, with Mary driving. The wind whipped at their clothes, and Penelope was grateful for the warm spencer jacket she wore beneath her pelisse. They had covered perhaps half the distance to the north farm when the first spots of rain began to fall. Penelope hesitated, signalling Mary to rein the mare to a halt. The horse shifted nervously, ears back, as the wind gusted around them.

“Perhaps we should turn back, my Lady?”

Mary’s voice carried a hint of worry. Before Penelope could respond, a stronger gust of wind brought more rain.

“There’s a shorter route through Ravensworth land,” Penelope said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “If we use that narrow lane that cuts across their south pasture, we could reach the Williams farm in half the time.”

“Across Ravensworth land?” Mary’s tone held distinct disapproval. “My Lady, considering the Duke’s feelings about your charitable work...”

“We hardly need his permission to use an established right of way.” Penelope waved for Mary to proceed. “The lane has been used by tenants for generations. Come along, before this rain becomes worse.”

They turned onto a narrow track that led through a small copse of trees near the edge of the Ravensworth south pasture. The branches above them creaked ominously in the wind, and the growing gloom made it seem much later than mid-morning. They had nearly reached the edge of Ravensworth land when it happened. A sudden crack of thunder startled the mare. She reared slightly in the traces, surging forward, and as Mary brought her under control, Penelope heard an ominous sound from the wheel of the gig.

“My Lady!” Mary’s voice held real alarm now. “Something’s wrong with the wheel!”

Penelope peered cautiously over the side of the cart as Mary brought them to a halt. Even to her inexperienced eye, the wheel looked decidedly unstable. The recent rains had made the track treacherous, and it appeared that, when the mare had half-reared and surged forward, they had gone over a large stone, which had damaged the already worn wheel.

“We can’t continue like this. The wheel might shatter completely at any moment.” She looked around, trying to get her bearings through the increasingly heavy rain. “We’re closer to Ravensworth Hall than to home now.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting...”

Mary’s eyes widened with horror. Another crack of thunder cut off her words. The mare shifted nervously, and the damaged wheel creaked alarmingly.

“We have no choice.” Penelope tried to sound more confident than she felt. “We cannot risk the wheel failing completely, and this storm is worsening by the moment.”

As if to emphasise her words, lightning split the sky, followed almost immediately by thunderous crash. The wind drove the rain nearly sideways now, and Penelope could feel it seeping through her supposedly waterproof pelisse.

“The Duke will be absolutely furious.”

Mary muttered the words, but she gathered the reins, urged the mare into motion, and carefully guided the cart towards Ravensworth Hall. The great house appeared through the gloom like a grey ghost, its imposing facade made more dramatic by the storm-darkened sky. As they approached, Penelope’s heart began to pound. What sort of welcome would they receive? Would the Duke himself be in residence?

A groom appeared as they reached the stable yard, his eyes widening as he recognised them.

“Lady Penelope! Here, let me help you down.” He hurried forward, then caught sight of the cart’s wheel. “Oh, that’s properly done for, that is. We’ll need Mr Featherstone to look at it, and he’s away in the village today.”

“Thank you, Tom.” Penelope was grateful to recognise the young groom - he was cousin to one of their own stable boys. “I’m afraid we must impose upon the Duke’s hospitality until the weather clears and the wheel can be repaired.”

“Of course, my Lady. Here, let me help Miss Harper down, and then I’ll deal with getting the cart to the stables, and the mare out of the rain. You’d best get inside - you’re soaked through!”

Indeed, Penelope could feel water running down her neck despite her hood. Her boots squelched as she crossed the yard, and her skirts were thoroughly muddied. The butler who opened the door managed to combine perfect correctness with distinct disapproval in his expression.

“Lady Penelope Whitmore,” he intoned, as if her bedraggled appearance might make her identity uncertain. “If you will follow me, I shall inform His Grace of your arrival.”

“His Grace is in residence then?”

Penelope fought to keep her voice steady as she followed the butler’s rigid back through the hall.

“Indeed, my Lady. If you will wait here.”

He showed them into a small parlour, clearly not one used for honoured guests, and departed with frigid dignity. Mary immediately began fussing over Penelope’s wet clothes.

“You’ll catch your death, my Lady. Here, let me at least wring out your pelisse.”

But before Penelope could remove the sodden garment, the door opened again. She turned, her heart jumping into her throat, to find herself facing the Duke of Ravensworth himself. Alexander Cavendish filled the space with his presence even more thoroughly than she remembered. His severe black coat emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, and his cravat was tied with military precision.

Those striking green eyes swept over her bedraggled form, his expression unreadable.

“Lady Penelope.” His deep voice seemed to resonate in her bones. “This is... unexpected.”

Penelope lifted her chin, despite being acutely aware of her dishevelled state.

“Your Grace. I apologise for this intrusion. Our cart wheel was damaged, and the storm...”

“So Jameson informed me.” He stepped fully into the room, and Penelope fought the urge to step back. “Though I confess myself curious as to why you were traversing my land at all.”

Heat crept into Penelope’s cheeks, but she kept her voice steady.

“We were taking the tenant’s lane to the north farm, Your Grace. A route that has been established for generations.”

“Ah yes.” His tone could have frozen hot water. “No doubt another of your charitable visits.” Before Penelope could frame a suitably cutting reply, Mary sneezed violently. The Duke’s attention shifted to her maid, and something like resignation crossed his severe features. “Jameson,” he called, and the butler appeared as if conjured. “Please have Mrs Thackeray prepare rooms for Lady Penelope and her maid. And send someone to assist...”

He paused, clearly waiting for the maid’s name.

“Mary, Your Grace,” Penelope supplied, when Mary appeared too flustered to speak.

“To assist Mary in drying out. Lady Penelope will require something dry to wear as well.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Jameson bowed and disappeared. “My sister Rosalind is unfortunately away visiting relatives,” the Duke continued, his tone marginally less glacial. “But I’m sure we can find something suitable of hers for you to wear. Unless you prefer to remain in your wet things?”

The sardonic lift of his eyebrow made Penelope’s temper flare.

“Your Grace is too kind,” she managed, her voice sweet enough to cause toothache. “Though I would not wish to inconvenience you. Perhaps once the storm passes...”

A tremendous crack of thunder emphasised the impossibility of leaving any time soon. The Duke’s mouth twitched slightly, though whether with amusement or annoyance she couldn’t tell.

“I fear you must resign yourself to accepting my hospitality, Lady Penelope.” Was there a hint of mockery in how he emphasised her title? “Inadequate as you no doubt find it.”

“I would never presume to judge your hospitality, Your Grace.” Penelope matched his formal tone perfectly. “Though I confess, I had not thought to intrude upon it, given your well-known views on... interfering females.”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her reference to his previous comments. Before he could respond, however, the housekeeper appeared - a comfortable-looking woman whose calm presence immediately made Penelope feel less awkward.

“If you’ll come with me, my Lady,” she said warmly, “we’ll soon have you dry and comfortable. Mary, Sally will show you to your room.”

As Penelope followed Mrs Thackeray from the room, she was intensely aware of the Duke’s gaze following her. The weight of it seemed to press between her shoulder blades, making her spine stiffen further.

The housekeeper led her up a gracefully curving staircase, their footsteps muffled by rich carpeting. The house’s interior surprised Penelope - she had expected something as austere as its master, but instead found elegant decoration and obvious care in every detail.

“Here we are, my Lady.” Mrs Thackeray opened a door to reveal a charming bedroom decorated in soft blues and cream. “This was Lady Rosalind’s room before she moved to the other wing. I think some of her gowns might suit you - you’re of a similar height, though perhaps more...” she gestured vaguely, “blessed in certain areas.”

Penelope felt her cheeks warm at the housekeeper’s frank assessment, but couldn’t help smiling at the woman’s motherly manner.

“Thank you, Mrs Thackeray. You are very kind.”

“Not at all, my Lady. Now, let’s get you out of these wet things before you catch your death. His Grace would never forgive us if we let a guest fall ill.” Something in the housekeeper’s tone made Penelope look at her sharply, but the woman’s face showed nothing but practical concern as she helped Penelope out of her sodden pelisse and day dress.

“There now,” Mrs Thackeray said, holding up a lovely sage green day dress. “This should do nicely. Lady Rosalind hardly wore it - said the colour didn’t suit her dark colouring. But with your golden hair...”

As the housekeeper helped her change, Penelope found herself studying the room more closely. Unlike the rather impersonal parlour downstairs, this chamber held signs of real personality. Watercolour sketches decorated one wall - landscapes that showed considerable talent. A small shelf held books that surprised her - volumes of poetry mixed with serious works on estate management and agriculture.

“Did Lady Rosalind paint these?”

She gestured to the sketches as Mrs Thackeray deftly adjusted the dress’s fit.

“Oh yes, my Lady. She has quite a gift. His Grace encouraged it, you know, even when the old Duke thought it a waste of time. Insisted on proper materials and instruction for her.”

This glimpse of brotherly devotion seemed at odds with the cold man downstairs. Before Penelope could ask more, however, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of a maid with hot tea.

“His Grace thought you might need warming up, my Lady,” the girl said shyly. “And he asks if you would join him in the library once you’re settled. He says there’s something about tenant access he wishes to discuss.”

Penelope’s momentary softening towards the Duke vanished. Of course he would want to lecture her about proper procedures and protocols. Well, she was quite prepared to defend both her actions and the traditional rights of tenant access.

“Thank you,” she said to the maid. “Please inform His Grace that I shall join him shortly.”

As she sipped the excellent tea, Mrs Thackeray efficiently arranged her damp hair into a simple but elegant style. The sage green dress, though slightly loose in the waist, fitted well enough to be presentable. Its fine wool was far more practical for a country house than the silks Penelope knew many ladies preferred.

“There now, my Lady.” Mrs Thackeray stepped back with satisfaction. “Quite presentable. Though if you’ll pardon my saying so, you’d look well in anything. Rather like the late Duchess, if I may make so bold.”

“The late Duchess?” Penelope turned from the mirror in surprise. “Did you know her well?”

“Oh yes, my Lady. I was here when His Grace was just a boy. Such a lovely lady she was - always thinking of others, always trying to help where she could. Rather like...” The housekeeper stopped abruptly, looking somewhat flustered. “But there, I’m running on when His Grace is waiting for you. Shall I show you to the library?”