Page 8 of Trusting Her Duke
The library at Ravensworth Hall held a different atmosphere in the afternoon light. Dust motes danced in golden shafts that streamed through tall windows, creating patterns that shifted and changed as clouds passed overhead. The scent of leather bindings mixed with beeswax and wood smoke from the banked fire, while beneath these familiar library smells lurked something distinctly masculine – a distinctly male cologne scent, and leather, which suggested that the Duke spent considerable time here.
Penelope sat cross-legged on the floor near a bottom shelf, surrounded by estate records and agricultural texts, her borrowed morning dress spread around her like a sage-green pool. The cloth rustled softly with each movement as she turned pages, the sound accompanied by the gentle tick of the long-case clock in the corner. She had retreated here after luncheon, determined to understand more about the woodland dispute. If Sir Lionel meant to challenge both estates, she refused to be caught unprepared. The Duke’s extensive collection of legal volumes had proved surprisingly helpful, though some required careful interpretation.
The leather-bound volume currently occupying her attention contained records dating back three generations. The precise handwriting spoke of careful documentation - first in an older hand that must have been the previous Duke’s, then in writing she recognised from current estate papers as belonging to Alexander himself.
The methodical nature of the records shouldn’t have surprised her, given what she now knew of him, yet somehow these pages revealed something more personal than his rigid public manner suggested. Here was a man who cared enough to document every detail that might affect his estate’s welfare. Not from cold duty alone - the careful notes in the margins showed genuine concern for how changes might impact tenant farmers and local families. It forced her to reconsider her initial impression of him as merely cold and controlling.
So absorbed was she in this revelation and the dense legal text before her that she didn’t hear the library door open. Her first awareness of company came as a deep voice addressed her.
“I’m not certain that my mother would approve of a lady sitting on the floor, but I must admit your dedication to research is... impressive.”
Penelope started, nearly dropping the heavy volume in her lap. The Duke stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame in a way that made the room feel suddenly smaller. Afternoon light caught the few subtle threads of grey at his temples, and made his green eyes appear almost golden. His expression held something that might have been amusement, though as usual, he kept it carefully controlled.
“Your Grace!”
She moved to rise, acutely conscious of her undignified position and the way that her borrowed dress had wrinkled. He waved her back down with a gesture that somehow managed to be both commanding and courteous.
“Please, don’t disturb yourself.” He crossed to where she sat, his movements holding that fluid grace which she was beginning to find dangerously fascinating. After a moment’s hesitation that suggested internal debate, he lowered himself to sit on a nearby chair. “Though I confess myself curious about what captures your attention so thoroughly.”
Heat crept into her cheeks as she displayed the volume’s spine.
“I thought... well, given Sir Lionel’s threats, it seemed wise to understand the legal precedents regarding established land usage.”
His eyebrows rose slightly, and something that might have been approval flickered in his eyes.
“Most young ladies would be reading poetry or novels.”
“Most young ladies,” she replied with more spirit than wisdom, “have not had their family estates threatened by manipulative neighbours.”
To her surprise, that almost-smile touched his lips again, softening his severe features in a way that made her heart beat faster.
“Touché, Lady Penelope.” He leaned forward to examine the books spread around her, and the scent of his cologne grew stronger. “Though I notice that you’ve also been studying our agricultural records.”
The leather of his boots creaked softly as he shifted, and Penelope found herself acutely aware of how his presence seemed to fill the space around her. The afternoon sun caught reddish highlights in his dark hair, and this close, she could see the tiny lines around his eyes that suggested he hadn’t always been so serious.
“Yes.” She touched one of the leather-bound volumes carefully, trying to focus on the matter at hand rather than her uncomfortable awareness of him. “I was curious about the woodland’s historical usage. Your records are remarkably thorough.”
“My grandfather began the practice of detailed documentation,” he said, reaching past her to select a particular volume. His sleeve brushed her shoulder, sending an unexpected shiver down her spine, and the warmth of his arm near her face made it difficult to concentrate on his words. “Though I suspect that he never imagined his records might be needed for such a purpose.”
“The tenant farming records are particularly interesting.” She indicated several pages she had marked with thin ribbons, conscious of how his shadow fell across the pages as he leaned closer. “They show consistent shared usage of the woodland paths for at least three generations.”
The Duke’s eyes sharpened with interest, and she noticed how the afternoon light brought out flecks of gold in the green.
“You noticed that?”
“Of course.” She met his gaze steadily, though her pulse quickened at his proximity. “Just as I noticed that Sir Lionel’s family records, at least as presented to you, show suspicious gaps during the period he claims the boundaries were altered.”
For a moment, he simply looked at her, and Penelope found herself holding her breath. The quality of his attention was almost physical - as if all that contained power and intelligence was focused solely on her. Then he did something completely unexpected - he smiled. A real smile, not the slight softening she had seen before, and it transformed his severe features entirely. The effect was devastating. The smile reached his eyes, crinkling their corners and warming their colour to summer-leaf green. It softened the commanding line of his jaw and revealed a small dimple in his right cheek that she immediately wished she hadn’t noticed. This, she realised with a jolt, was the man Rosalind had described - the brother who had existed before duty and tragedy had weighted him with armour.
“You continue to surprise me, Lady Penelope.”
“Because I can read account books?” She lifted her chin, trying to hide how his smile had affected her. “Or because I understand their implications?”
“Both.” He shifted to sit more comfortably, apparently forgetting his earlier concern about proper behaviour. The movement brought him slightly closer, and Penelope caught herself watching how the sun played across the fine wool of his coat, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders. “Though I begin to think I should not be surprised at all. Your own charitable network shows considerable organisational skill.”
It was Penelope’s turn to raise her eyebrows, her fingers nervously smoothing the pages before her.
“You’ve studied our records?”
“Those available to me, yes, thoroughly.” His tone held no apology, though something in his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely comfortable admitting this. “When one’s neighbour begins a project that might affect estate stability, one investigates.”
“And what did your investigation reveal, Your Grace?”
She tried to keep her voice steady, though her heart had begun to race. The thought of him studying her work so carefully, even if from suspicion, made her uncomfortably aware of how much his opinion had come to matter.
His eyes met hers with unexpected warmth.
“That I may have been... hasty in my initial judgement of your methods.”
Coming from him, it was practically an apology. Penelope felt warmth bloom in her chest at this admission.
“Hasty, Your Grace? How unlike you.”
That almost earned her another smile, and she found herself watching his mouth with perhaps more attention than proper.
“Even I am occasionally capable of error, Lady Penelope. Though I would appreciate if you did not spread that information too widely.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” She found herself smiling back at him, the tension which had marked their earlier interactions somehow transformed into something warmer, more dangerous. “Though in return, perhaps you might explain these drainage records to me? I confess they’re rather beyond my current understanding.”
He reached for the volume in question, and for the next hour, Penelope found herself absorbed in a detailed discussion of estate management that ranged far beyond mere drainage. The Duke proved to be an excellent teacher when he chose, his explanations clear and his manner surprisingly patient. More than once, she caught herself watching his hands as he traced patterns on the maps - strong, capable hands that somehow managed to handle the fragile old papers with exceptional gentleness.
“You see,” he said, indicating a particular set of figures, his finger brushing against hers as they both pointed to the same line, “the initial investment may seem excessive, but over time...”
“The savings in reduced flood damage more than compensate,” Penelope finished, trying to ignore how that brief touch seemed to burn against her skin. “Just as our grain purchasing network requires significant initial outlay but ultimately saves money.”
“Precisely.” His voice held approval that made her pulse quicken, and he shifted the book slightly so she could see better, bringing him close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Though I would be interested to hear more about how you structure your purchases.”
The genuine interest in his tone made her brave. She reached for another volume, explaining her methods with growing confidence. Their heads bent together over the papers, and Penelope found herself increasingly aware of every small movement he made - the brush of his sleeve against her arm, the way his breath stirred a loose curl near her ear, the subtle scent of his cologne that seemed to wrap around her.
Their discussion flowed naturally, each building on the other’s points, and Penelope realised with surprise that they worked well together. His methodical approach complemented her more intuitive one, and more than once their different perspectives combined to reveal solutions neither might have seen alone.
A sharp knock shattered their absorbed conversation.
Sir Lionel entered without waiting for acknowledgment, his practiced smile faltering slightly at finding them seated so companionably among the books.
Penelope felt the Duke tense beside her, his entire manner shifting from warm engagement to cold authority in an instant. In the doorway, Jameson appeared, looking chagrined that Sir Lionel had managed to barge past him and interrupt them so rudely.
“Ah, Ravensworth! Lady Penelope! How... cozy.” Sir Lionel’s tone made the word an insult, and his eyes moved between them with calculated insinuation. “I had hoped to discuss those documents further...”
“Had you?” The Duke’s voice had returned to its usual arctic temperature, though Penelope noticed that he didn’t move away from her. If anything, he seemed to shift slightly closer, as if shielding her from Sir Lionel’s predatory gaze. “I believe that I made my position quite clear this morning.”
“Oh, but surely Lady Penelope would like to know more about how her father’s management choices might have... compromised certain legal positions?”
The threat in his voice was unmistakable, and Penelope felt cold fury rise in her chest. Before she could speak, however, another figure appeared in the doorway, bringing with her a breath of fresh air that seemed to clear some of Sir Lionel’s poisonous atmosphere.
“Sir Lionel!” Lady Rosalind’s voice held perfectly pitched surprise, though Penelope caught the sharp intelligence behind her wide-eyed expression. “I thought that you had departed. I was so disappointed - I particularly wished to speak with you about that unfortunate incident at Lady Ashworth’s card party – my Aunt was there, you know. But now that I discover you still here…”
The change in Sir Lionel’s demeanour was immediate and fascinating. His confident smile faltered noticeably, colour draining from his face as though he’d seen a ghost.
“Lady Rosalind, I... that is... perhaps another time...”
“Oh, but I must be most insistent.” Rosalind advanced into the room with the air of someone herding an unwanted cat towards a door, her morning dress rustling with determined purpose. “Something about certain markers being presented rather precipitously in the game?”
“I really must be going.” Sir Lionel backed towards the door with rather unseemly haste, his carefully cultivated charm completely abandoned. “Another time, Ravensworth. Lady Penelope.”
The moment that he disappeared, Rosalind’s innocent expression melted into satisfaction. Penelope noticed how she shared her brother’s tendency to lift one eyebrow when pleased with herself.
“Well, that’s dealt with him for today at least. Though I suspect Mama would have completely disapproved of me doing that.”
“Our mother isn’t here to see it – and she did approve of getting results…,” the Duke observed dryly, though Penelope caught the flash of approval in his eyes as he looked at his sister.
“Sir Lionel just doesn’t want to risk it being revealed exactly how much he lost at that card party. Or to whom.” Rosalind grinned impishly, dropping onto a nearby sofa with casual grace. “Sometimes Aunt Margaret’s gossip is useful.”
Penelope looked between the siblings with growing understanding, noting how their obvious affection for each other showed in subtle ways - the slight softening around the Duke’s eyes, the way Rosalind unconsciously mimicked his posture.
“He’s in debt?”
“Extensively.” The Duke’s voice held grim satisfaction, though he seemed to suddenly remember their close proximity. He rose smoothly to his feet, offering Penelope his hand. “Though proving it is another matter entirely.”
His palm was warm against hers as he helped her up, and Penelope found herself standing rather closer to him than strictly necessary. This near, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, and the way that his severe expression softened almost imperceptibly when he looked at her. For a moment, neither of them moved, and Penelope felt as though the very air between them had grown thick with unspoken possibilities.
“I should...” Penelope gestured vaguely at the books scattered around them, very aware that he hadn’t immediately released her hand. The afternoon light caught the fine wool of his coat, emphasising how close they stood, and she found herself fighting the urge to smooth the fabric where it had wrinkled slightly from sitting.
“Allow me.” He finally stepped back, though his eyes held hers for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in their depths. “Rosalind, perhaps you could show Lady Penelope the rose garden while I deal with these?”
“Of course!” Rosalind’s tone held barely suppressed glee that made Penelope’s cheeks warm. “Though I think the evening dew will be falling soon. Perhaps we should wait for tomorrow? Or do both?”
“Indeed.” The Duke began gathering books with precise movements, though Penelope noticed that his usually efficient actions seemed slightly less coordinated than normal. “Lady Penelope, would you honour us with your company at dinner again this evening? I believe that the bridge will not be safe until tomorrow.”
“I...” Penelope struggled to find her usual composure, still feeling the phantom warmth of his hand on hers. “Thank you, Your Grace. You are very kind.”
“Not at all.” He straightened, his arms full of leather-bound volumes, and something in his stance reminded her of how he’d moved to shield her from Sir Lionel’s presence. “I find your perspective on estate management quite... illuminating.”
As they left the library, Rosalind’s knowing smile made Penelope wish she could hide behind one of the massive tapestries that lined the corridor. Her friend’s dark eyes, so like her brother’s in shape though warmer in expression, missed nothing.
“High praise indeed from my brother,” Rosalind commented as they moved towards the stairs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him willingly discuss estate matters with anyone but Albert. And certainly never while sitting on the floor with their heads together like a pair of consulting scholars.”
“He did not sit on the floor – although I did!” Penelope protested, though the memory of his proximity made her pulse quicken. “And he was merely being helpful.”
“Oh, certainly.” Rosalind’s voice dripped with amused disbelief. “That’s absolutely why he spent an hour explaining drainage patterns to you with such dedicated attention. I’m sure it had nothing to do with how your eyes light up when you’re discussing estate improvements.”
“Rosalind!”
“What? I’m merely observing that my usually rather rigid brother seems quite... comfortable with you. I haven’t seen him so engaged with anyone since before the war.” Rosalind’s teasing tone softened to something more serious. “It’s rather wonderful, actually.”
Before Penelope could frame a suitable response to this observation, they heard voices from the drawing room ahead - one of them unmistakably Sir Lionel’s silken tones. The sound was like a bucket of cold water after the warm atmosphere of the library.
“I thought he’d left!” Penelope whispered as they paused in the corridor. The thick carpet muffled their footsteps, allowing them to hear more clearly.
“Apparently not.” Rosalind’s face had lost its teasing expression, her features settling into lines that reminded Penelope strongly of her brother’s more severe moments. “And he’s speaking with Featherstone - our estate manager.”
They couldn’t quite make out the words, but Sir Lionel’s tone held something smooth and persuasive that made Penelope’s skin crawl. Featherstone’s responses seemed hesitant, uncertain - very unlike the confident estate manager she’d observed earlier.
“We should...” Penelope began, but Rosalind was already moving forward with determined stride, her silk skirts swishing with purpose.
“Mr Featherstone!” Her voice rang out clearly as she entered the drawing room, every inch the Duke’s sister in her commanding tone. “Just the person I hoped to find. His Grace requires your immediate attention in the library regarding those drainage records you discussed last week.”
Featherstone, a weathered man in his fifties whose practical manner usually matched his working clothes, looked almost pathetically relieved at this interruption.
“Of course, my Lady. If you’ll excuse me, Sir Lionel...”
“Now really,” Sir Lionel began, but Featherstone was already hurrying past them, his usually measured pace nearly a run.
Rosalind fixed Sir Lionel with a look remarkably like her brother’s coldest stare. In that moment, the family resemblance was striking.
“I believe, Sir Lionel, that you were just leaving?”
His face worked for a moment, charm warring with fury, before settling into a bland smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The late afternoon light through the drawing room windows caught the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, betraying his discomfort despite his careful composure.
“Indeed.” His gaze shifted to Penelope, and something in it made her want to step back. “Though I do hope, Lady Penelope, that you’ll think carefully about what we discussed earlier. Family loyalty is so important, don’t you agree?”
The threat in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. Penelope lifted her chin, drawing on the quiet strength she’d felt while working with the Duke.
“I couldn’t agree more, Sir Lionel. Which is why I find it so surprising that you would attempt to damage two of the county’s oldest families for your own gain.”
His smile slipped for just a moment, revealing something ugly beneath. The mask of charm had cracked just enough to show real malice before he recovered, bowing with exaggerated courtesy that bordered on insult. Without another word, he swept from the room, his boots clicking sharply on the marble floor of the hall.
“Well,” Rosalind said into the ringing silence that followed, her usual animation subdued by concern, “I believe that my brother needs to know about this immediately.”
As they hurried towards the library, Penelope couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had just shifted. The game Sir Lionel was playing had suddenly become much more dangerous - not just a matter of land disputes and legal challenges, but something darker. His attempt to influence Featherstone suggested that he was willing to attack the estates from within.
They found the Duke still in the library, now standing at the table with several letters spread before him. The evening light slanting through the windows caught his profile, reminding Penelope of how he’d looked bent over the estate books with her just hours ago. He looked up as they entered, his face darkening as Rosalind rapidly explained what they’d overheard.
His eyes met Penelope’s with an intensity that made her breath catch. Something passed between them - an understanding, perhaps, or a recognition of shared purpose. The warmth she’d felt earlier transformed into something stronger, more determined.
“It seems,” he said quietly, his deep voice carrying the weight of decision, “that we all have rather more at stake than we realised.”
The setting sun cast long shadows across the library floor, and in that moment, Penelope knew with absolute certainty that none of their lives would be quite the same after today.