The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever

Chapter 13

Out of all the trying things she had encountered in the last several weeks, this was by far the one that frightened her the most.

Della was to have tea with a viscountess.

The invitation had come the day following that disastrous dinner, and according to her sister-in-law Eliza, this was not a viscountess to ignore. The lady was held in high regard by members of the ton, and she came from a family with an old and weighty legacy. Not at all someone to be trifled with.

Andrew received the news of her invitation with gusto while Della wanted nothing more than to consume an entire batch of shortbread. She tried to listen to Andrew. This invitation would go further to solidify her place as the Duchess of Ravenwood and present a greater challenge should her father appear to refute her marriage.

She had hoped her father would never reappear, but after Andrew told her of what he’d learned, she now feared her father lurked at every corner in London, waiting to jump out at her and snatch her away from this life she had stumbled into. A life so full of wonder she could hardly believe it.

A life that was too good for her as her continued failings served to remind her. But she had hoped she would be worthy of it. With enough practice perhaps she could.

But every time she attempted to bolster her courage, she could only remember the faces of those who stared at her when she’d unknowingly stepped out of the receiving line that night. They knew her for the fraud she was, and she was doomed to fail as the Duchess of Ravenwood. She was going to let Andrew down. Had let him down in fact.

And then how could he ever love her?

She shoved the thought away. She hadn’t even been able to talk to him of her fears, and now she wished for him to love her. Preposterous. Love intimated a level of relationship of which she would never be capable if she continued to let her insecurities get the better of her.

She hadn’t even been able to tell Andrew what it was that had plagued her that night. When faced with the incredible confidence that her husband seemed to carry so naturally, the words to mark her insecurities had simply stuck in her throat. How could she explain to him how swiftly she compared herself to every other woman in a room? How could she tell him how easy it was to find fault with everything she did?

He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t.

And this had stopped her from speaking.

She slumped against the bench as the Ravenwood carriage carried her to tea with the viscountess. She was beginning to suspect that being the best duchess possible would not be enough to win Andrew’s affections if she couldn’t even speak to him.

The viscountess lived in a stately home fashioned in the Federal style along a small square in Mayfair. It was an appallingly short distance from Ravenwood House, and she could have very easily walked, but Andrew did not want her traveling on the streets without him. The coachman, St. John, was attentive and alert, she had come to find, and she did feel better having him with her, she could admit.

But still. Andrew was being rather overprotective she thought. What did Andrew expect her father to do after all?

Her earlier thoughts of him jumping out at her from around a street corner returned, and she swallowed, slumping farther into her seat.

But the tiger soon threw open the door and offered her the step down. It was best to get this over with. Perhaps this time she could prove herself up to the task of being the Duchess of Ravenwood.

The interior of the viscountess’s home was just as finely appointed as the exterior, and Della followed a footman to the drawing room where she was to take tea. The viscountess was already seated at the table by the window, her finger skimming the page of a book open on her lap when Della entered.

Della could admit her heart sped up at the sight of the book and wondered perhaps if they may speak of novels they had in common. That would make this entire thing far more palatable.

The viscountess set aside the book and rose at Della’s entrance.

“Della, I’m so glad you could come,” she said, striding toward her.

The viscountess was older, and several gray hairs perforated her dark hair and fine lines spread out from the corners of her eyes. The woman was slender and several inches shorter than Della. She also wore a plain muslin gown of the palest blue that highlighted her warm eyes. In all, the woman was remarkably beautiful, and Della sucked in a breath and hunched her shoulders.

“Lady—”

The viscountess waved her off before taking her hands. “Please. You must call me V. I shan’t have us standing on titles. It’s rather clunky.” She squeezed Della’s hands and smiled. “You look lovely today. I trust you’re settling in well.”

Della wore another of Madame Beauchamp’s creations. This gown was of the brightest pink Della had ever seen outside the confines of a candy shop, and the bodice sported lines of small bows marching up her front as if they were signposts pointing to the location of her breasts.

She’d never felt more ridiculous in her life.

The gown, while sized properly, was not constructed for a woman of her height, and she had to remember not to lift her arms too far or she would surely split the thing down the back.

She forced a tremulous smile. “I’m quite well. Thank you, my…V,” she said, the smile faltering as she tried to affect casualness when addressing the revered woman by what seemed a familiar nickname.

“Oh, I do hope you’re not finding society matrons to be too vexing. I should think arriving here outside of the season has helped.” She squeezed Della’s hands a final time before releasing them and indicating she should take a seat at the small table in the alcove.

Holding her breath, Della sat, and miraculously, her bodice did not split in two. She eyed the tea settings as V poured and felt a loosening of the trepidation that gripped her. She had taken tea formally with her grandmother and her matronly friends several times at Bewcastle. Della had only to keep from upending the entire teapot on herself now. Surely, she could manage that.

She had to. This tea was far too important to mess up.

“I’m finding London to be rather a big change from what I am used to,” Della ventured.

V dropped a cube of sugar into her cup and looked up. “I can imagine. You’re from Cumbria if I recall. That’s quite a journey. I’m sure you miss your family.”

Della pictured her grandmother’s pinched face and forced a smile around the rim of her teacup. She took a small sip to give herself time to swallow the sudden unpleasantness in her throat and finally said, “Yes, it’s been a challenge.”

She wasn’t sure of what she spoke, but she thought her words covered all manner of tribulations.

V offered her a plate of small sandwiches, and Della was careful to select the ones she thought wouldn’t completely fall apart in her hands. They were so delicate and filled with even more delicate things like watercress, which was sure to just fall everywhere the moment she took a bite. Shortbread would never betray her like that.

“That is to be expected. And how are you finding the Darby sisters? I can assure you the ton was quite surprised to hear His Grace had taken a wife. After all, he had not earned the name the Unwanted Duke without reason.”

Della dropped the sandwich to her plate, her eyes flying up to meet V’s.

V’s smile was knowing. “I had thought no one told you of your husband’s epitaph. I should think it a remarkable woman who has married the only Darby brother.”

Della straightened, forgetting entirely about the delicacy of her attire. “The Unwanted Duke?”

She couldn’t possibly be speaking of Andrew. He was…well, he was everything she had ever hoped a husband might be and never dreamed actually existed. He had his faults. Of that, she was not blind. He was rather overprotective, and he enjoyed kippers with his breakfast, which she was still attempting to come to terms with, but in all, he was more than she could have ever hoped for.

V nodded. “Oh yes. Hadn’t you wondered why he was still unattached? The Ravenwood title is old and respectable. Any father with a daughter to marry off would have pounced on him years ago.” V leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard a rumor you have Scottish ancestors. Perhaps that is where you’ve acquired your bravery.” She winked and her smile was slightly humorous.

It was then that Della burst into tears.

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by the sudden display of emotion, but without hesitation and heedless of the tea service, V reached across the table and took Della’s hand, squeezing it comfortingly.

“Oh Della, I had a suspicion all was not as it seemed. I know only too well what it’s like to have one’s life scrutinized with such lethal exactness as the ton is capable of. Please, dear, know that you can tell me anything. That is, after all, why I invited you here today. I thought you may be in need of a friend. One who is not related to your husband.” There it was again. That friendly, humorous smile that suggested warmth and camaraderie.

Della had never really understood how alone she was until she saw that smile. Sure, she had Andrew, but as she had proven the night after her introductory dinner, she couldn’t even speak to him about things of a delicate nature.

She squeezed V’s hand in return. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”

“Surely not everything. You’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

Della laughed through her tears, the tightness in her chest easing when she thought it never could.

“Give me time then. I’m sure I will get to the rest of it.”

V laughed now. “I’m sure you will. You seem like a capable girl.” She squeezed her hand a final time and released it. “Did you know I was once a confirmed spinster?”

Della blinked. “I’m sorry?”

The night of the dinner everyone had asked after V’s several children, and while her husband had not been in attendance, Della had assumed V was happily wed.

V nodded and took a sip of her tea. “I was quite on the shelf when his lordship appeared and swept me off my feet. But do you wish to know the worst of it?”

Della could only blink.

V set down her cup and leaned forward. “I was not the one to put myself on that shelf. The ton did that for me. So trust me when I say I know only too well what they can be like.”

Della shook her head. “But you’re so…beautiful,” she blurted out.

V laughed, and Della realized for the first time how beautiful the sound was. Of course it was. A beautiful laugh to match a beautiful woman.

“Thank you. But looks hardly matter when one’s reputation is the cause for such banishment.”

“Reputation?” Della sat up at this, but V suddenly tilted her head as if studying Della more closely.

“Would you like to know a secret?”

Della could only nod.

“I think I only captured his lordship’s attention when I started being myself and stopped being the woman the ton had made me out to be.”

“And who were you?”

V’s smile was secretive, and a strange glint came to her eye. “That, my dear, is a story for another day.” She reached across the table again and patted Della’s hand before moving to pick up the plate of petit fours still on the teacart next to the table. She offered it to Della. “First we must speak of that horrid gown you’re wearing. Do you know I’ve seen several debutantes in similar ensembles this year, and they all appeared just as atrocious? Do you ever wonder if those who deem things fashionable have any sense at all?”

Della laughed for the first time in what seemed like forever. “I would rather wear a gown that doesn’t showcase so much of my private bits.”

V laughed and took several petit fours for herself. “Then we must do something about it, shan’t we?”

Della wrapped both of her hands around her teacup. “You make it sound so easy.”

V’s eyes flashed to Della’s face. “Oh, but it is. That’s what no one tells you.” She picked up a petit four and used it to gesture at Della. “You’re told you must live up to certain standards. You must perform the duties required of your title. But such a notion has several flaws.”

“It does?”

V nodded. “First, who is it that created these rules? I am never one to follow standards set by those from whom I would not accept advice, and so I eye such standards with a critical bent. And second, I refuse to follow standards that would require me to be less than myself. That’s what put me on the shelf, and I will never make that mistake again.”

Della blinked. “Are you saying I should…rebel?”

V laughed. “Hardly. You don’t deserve the criticism that such a thing would entail. What I am saying is you should be more yourself. I suspect His Grace didn’t marry you because you were like every other debutante, did he?”

Della picked up a petit four and took a very large bite.

It was more than an hour later when Della emerged from V’s townhouse, and when she entered the carriage, she instructed St. John not to return to Ravenwood House. She directed him to Beauchamp’s Boutique instead.

* * *

She drewa full breath simply because she could.

She was not in danger of losing a button or splitting her bodice completely down the back.

When she had stepped into Madame Beauchamp’s, the modiste had turned from where she was helping a very young woman select fabrics, a knowing smile coming to her lips.

Apparently the talented seamstress had known Della would be back and had taken it upon herself to fashion a couple of gowns in preparation. Della wore one of them now, only Madame Beauchamp had been forced to add a couple of darts to the design.

“You have lost weight, ma cherie,” the modiste had mumbled around a mouthful of pins. “Is London not to your liking?”

Della had been unable to remove her gaze from her reflection in the mirror. Madame Beauchamp had been pulling in the waist of the gown, and for the first time in nearly her entire life, Della had a silhouetted waist. And hips. Gorgeous hips over which the sapphire skirts of her gown fell like a waterfall.

It wouldn’t take very much for Della to believe herself to be pretty.

To me you are perfect in every way just by being yourself.

Andrew’s words came back to her. She had wanted to dismiss them as nothing more than heated words spoken in a moment of passion. But standing there before Madame Beauchamp’s looking glass, Della might have begun to believe them.

She had turned gently from side to side as Madame Beauchamp had finished pinning up the hem. Della had lost weight. She could see that now that she wore a properly fitted gown. She wasn’t thin by any stretch of the imagination. It was more that a burden she hadn’t known she had been carrying had been lifted from her person.

She was lighter now. That was it. And it spread through her with the beauty and promise of sunshine after a rainstorm.

She couldn’t be sure what it was, likely a culmination of things, but when she returned to Ravenwood House hours later, she felt different. While V had instructed her to be herself, Della couldn’t help but think that was easier in theory rather than in practice, but there was some truth to the matter.

Andrew had married her, hadn’t he? And that was when she was simply the neglected, sheltered daughter of a mad Scotsman and a selfish mother.

She stopped in the foyer of Ravenwood House as a footman took her cloak and gloves.

When had she begun to think of her mother as selfish?

She had very few memories of her mother. Della had always been left at Bewcastle while her mother claimed to be attending to duties required by her title. Even at a young age, Della had known this meant her mother was attending house parties where Della would not be wanted.

Funny how now she would think of it for what it really was. Her mother abandoning her to pursue her own pleasure.

Della pressed a hand to her stomach, one thought tumbling over another in her mind. She would never neglect her child like that, should she be blessed to have children.

Her eyes traveled up the central staircase before her as she wondered where Andrew was. It was time she told him of her misgivings. Perhaps if she spoke of them, they wouldn’t seem so daunting.

But when she inquired of Mallard where His Grace might be, she was informed he was not at home. This gave her pause as the hour was late, considerably later than she had expected to be, and mistakenly, she had believed he would be home from the day’s business and worrying over her whereabouts.

She asked Mallard to let her know when His Grace should return and asked that Parker be sent up to the duchess’s rooms. The maid arrived as Della pulled the gowns she had ordered from Madame Beauchamp from her dressing room and piled them on the bed.

In short order, they had sorted the gowns and those with fabric that would not cause fresh cut blooms to shiver in comparison were sent below stairs for Parker to determine if she might fashion something useful from them.

Della informed Parker to expect a new order of gowns in the next week, and that they would make do with the two gowns Madame Beauchamp had sent home that day with Della and two of the gowns in the original order that were not entirely repulsive.

It would be enough to see her through until the new gowns arrived. She was only grateful they were outside the season. Otherwise, four gowns would not at all do for the societal engagements she would be required to complete as the Duchess of Ravenwood.

The thought had her pausing as she bundled up the ribbons she had been sorting at her dressing table. A new stool had been acquired by Parker, but Della couldn’t help but wonder if the old stool would return at some point, freshly repaired.

Della suspected Ravenwood House might have a library to rival that of Ravenwood Park, and she had yet to find a book that might instruct her on the duties of a duchess. She rose, putting away the ribbons, with the intention of summoning Mallard to ask for his help in locating the library when a different thought struck her.

She changed direction and instead settled at the rosewood desk by the window. She dashed off two identical notes and pulled the bell pull to summon a footman.

“Please have these delivered as quickly as possible,” she instructed the young man.

He gave a quick nod and was off to find a messenger boy to deliver her letters.

Still Andrew had not returned, and she found herself staring out the window of her bedchamber expectantly. Her window faced the street, and she thought she might be able to see him arrive. But then she had taken the carriage that day and the coachman. Had he taken a hackney then?

Something didn’t seem quite right, and she left her perch on the window seat and ventured out into the corridor.

Ravenwood House was a spectacular example of old English wealth built in the latter part of the previous century. It had been updated after the Napoleonic War, but in all, much of the original Federalist style had been maintained. This was fortunate as it made it easier for her to follow the corridors without getting lost in twisted passageways and cramped Jacobean chambers littered with tapestries and opulent carpets.

In the weeks she had been there, she had learned the location of the formal dining room, the breakfast room, and Andrew’s study and had learned the names of the seven different drawing rooms. And those were just the ones for guests. There were also the four family drawing rooms. What a family required four drawing rooms for was beyond Della’s comprehension.

She had no idea where she might wander to until she found herself making her way down the servants’ stairs in the direction of the kitchen. Perhaps she would see if Cook had made any of her sticky toffee pudding. She hadn’t eaten much at tea with V, and it was still hours until dinner. A bit of pudding would be just the thing.

She had thought her presence in the kitchens would not be so unusual now, but when she turned the corner, all activity ceased as though her appearance there were more shocking than a bolt of lightning striking in the middle of the room.

She tried a smile. “Hello,” she said to Cook and the scullery maids who were filling their scrub pails at the water pump. “I was wondering if…” Her voice trailed away.

They weren’t looking at her.

Their eyes had drifted to the left of Della. She turned and spotted a corridor off the kitchens. She had never been down there, and she wondered where it might lead. Perhaps there was a commotion she couldn’t see from where she stood at the bottom of the stairs.

She tried again. “I was just wondering if…”

Their eyes darted to her and back down the corridor, and it was then that realization dawned on her with a sickening tightness around her throat. The air was sucked from her lungs, and her stomach heaved.

Andrew.

Andrew emerging from the servants’ staircase. In the dead of night.

Andrew.

She didn’t bother speaking again. Instead, she picked up her skirts and marched across the kitchen and down the opposite corridor.

“Your Grace!” Cook shouted after her, but she ignored the woman.

Halfway down the corridor she suddenly wondered what she was going to do. What was she looking for? Was she hoping to find the room in which Andrew met his lover? Had she been thinking, she would have realized how odd it would be. To have a room below stairs in which to carry out clandestine assignations with one’s mistress.

But she wasn’t familiar with how such things worked. Perhaps Andrew preferred it this way. He could very well think it kept matters discreet and in his control. Della knew only too well how much Andrew liked to stay in control.

She passed two empty rooms, one appeared to be an office of some kind and the other was a washroom. It struck her then that she hardly had any right to confront Andrew. If he should have a mistress then so be it. There was nothing she could do about it. Pain spiked through her, so intense she stopped and pressed a hand to her chest.

But she couldn’t stop now. So much had changed in the last several hours, and if she stopped now, if she allowed Andrew to continue to lie to her, to keep secrets from her, then she was choosing to remain the neglected and unwanted Della she had been.

While she may have been neglected and unwanted, she didn’t have to accept it. She could like herself even if no one else did.

She plunged ahead. There was a door ahead of her, closed tight against the corridor, and as she approached, she heard noises coming from within. At first, they didn’t make sense to her, but then a soft thumping noise became distinct. Bile rose in her throat. She knew only too well what that noise could be.

She took the last several strides across the corridor and without hesitating threw open the door.

She had underestimated the strength of her anger, and the door bounced against the wall behind it. She caught it as it swung back to her, her hand closing around the wooden panel in confusion.

Andrew stood before her as she had suspected. He wore only his trousers, boots, and his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held a large wooden mallet in one hand and in the other…

“That’s my dressing table stool,” she whispered, unable to comprehend the sight before her.

Andrew’s lips were parted in surprise, his eyes riveted to hers.

“It is,” he said, his voice equally as quiet.

She stood there, her hand still wrapped about the door, suddenly unsure of herself. The room was larger than she had anticipated for a room below stairs, and several windows were set high in the walls opposite and adjacent to the wall with the door. A work bench ran underneath one set of windows while bins of what appeared to be various pieces, sizes, and colors of wood ran under the other set.

Andrew stood in the middle at a worktable on which the dressing table stool rested. The table’s surface was scarred with knicks and blemishes and bits of paint and stain. In fact, the entire room carried an air of repeated and intentional use as though Andrew came here often.

“You repair furniture.” She spoke the words even as the idea formed in her mind.

He didn’t have a lover. He had a hobby. A hobby which he apparently wished to keep secret.

She stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her. She held the doorknob between both of her hands behind her back as she continued to study her husband.

“I do,” he said, setting down the wooden mallet he had been using to pound a slim dowel of wood into the base of the stool where the leg had snapped off.

She realized now what the soft pounding sound was and felt foolish.

“And you do not wish for people to know of this?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

She couldn’t understand what might be untoward about the repair of furniture, but then Andrew picked up a rag on which he wiped his hands, averting his gaze.

“Dukes are not expected to engage in such manual labor.”

She thought of the dressing table at Ravenwood Park and the bedside table.

“It’s not manual labor. It’s art.” She didn’t know where those words came from, but she realized it was the truth. She let go of the doorknob to step forward, placing her hands softly on the edge of the worn worktable. “Besides, who would dishonor manual labor with such rubbish? I have it on good authority that one must not accept standards set by those from whom one would not accept advice.” She smiled as she repeated V’s words from earlier.

Andrew’s expression was almost sheepish. “Is that so?” He set aside the rag, and placing both palms on the worktable, leaned toward her. “And just where did you hear this?”

“From someone of authority. Trust me.” She smiled and straightened so she could meander about the room.

It was neat, surprisingly so, but then it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Andrew had proven time and again that he liked things to be a certain way. His workshop should prove no different.

She stopped at the bins of various wood. “You’ve repaired a great many pieces. I’m particularly impressed with the dressing table in the duchess’s rooms at Ravenwood Park.”

She heard the sharp intake of breath behind her.

“You knew that was repaired?”

She nodded and turned. “You have a room like this at Ravenwood Park, don’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

She smiled mischievously. “Because I discovered you lurking in the corridors there in the middle of the night as well.”

He smiled and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “I suppose I have been discovered. Will you tell my sisters now?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Is that your greatest fear? That your sisters should find out you have a hobby?”

“They will torment me endlessly with the knowledge.”

Her frown deepened. “The viscountess told me at tea that you’ve earned the name the Unwanted Duke thanks to your sisters.”

His smile turned chagrinned. “Is that so? I think you discovered a great deal at this tea. What else did the viscountess say?”

Della shrugged. “Not much.”

“Oh?” Andrew turned away as he made his way to the opposite side of the worktable and around to the door. He reached over and flicked the bolt home, the sound echoing in the room.

Della swallowed, a sudden anticipation building inside her.

“And did the viscountess tell you to get this gown?” He approached her the way she imagined a cat would stalk its prey through the grass. She backed up but the workbench was just behind her, and there was nowhere to retreat.

He stopped in front of her and raised a single finger. She watched it as he lowered his hand to the edge of her bodice, tracing the delicate skin there. Suddenly she realized why his hands were so callused, and she arched into his touch, wanting to feel his rough hands on her.

“Because you weren’t wearing this gown when you left this morning.”

She closed her eyes, and while she wanted to say it was in embarrassment for the pink monstrosity she had worn earlier, she knew it was because of the sensual onslaught he was now waging against her. And he’d only touched her with a single finger.

“I wasn’t,” she managed, but any more words were beyond her.

His finger trailed up to her shoulder where the cap sleeve left much of her exposed. The finger kept going until it caught under her chin and lifted her face to his. She readied herself for his kiss, her toes curling in her slippers as she prepared herself for the slow, consuming burn of it.

But it never came. Instead, his lips pressed to her ear, “And what do you suggest should be your punishment for discovering my secrets?”

Her body clenched in her most private place. “Punishment?”

He flicked out his tongue to lick her ear. “Yes, punishment.”

She tried to find words, but she couldn’t even draw a breath.

And then suddenly he was gone, and her eyes flew open.

“I think I shall have your dessert at dinner tonight.” He rolled his sleeves back down as he took his jacket from where he’d hung it on a hook behind the door. “I think that will be punishment enough. I do believe Cook has made her famous sticky toffee pudding.”

“You wouldn’t?”

His grin was devilish. “Of course I would.”

He went to open the door, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Andrew, do you only repair broken furniture?”

He looked at her quizzically. “Yes. Why?”

She shrugged. “It’s only…well, you’re obviously talented. It seems like a loss that you shouldn’t make any of your own.”

He let go of the bolt he’d been about to open and turned to her fully. “I have a feeling you may be able to understand this better than most, Della. A duke is not expected to engage in things such as commerce and manufacturing. It is often seen as beneath a member of the peerage.” He shrugged. “Besides that, I haven’t the time for more than tinkering.” He moved to open the door again, and she stalled him.

“So, you keep it a secret? This hobby of yours. Because you don’t wish for others to know the Duke of Ravenwood would engage in such an unseemly activity?”

“Yes, there’s that.” He cast his gaze around the workshop. “But it’s more that this is mine.” He brought his attention back to her. “While I was growing up, there were always sisters underfoot. The only place I could get away from them was in this workshop. My father employed a gardener at the time who enjoyed working with wood. He taught me what he knew, and I took over when he left to be closer to his wife’s family in Surrey.”

It was something so simple, and yet, having met most of the Darby sisters, Della could understand why it would be so important to him to have a place to call his own.

“And building your own furniture?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Designing a piece of furniture would take the focus and time that I do not have to give it.”

“Why?” she probed, but he was already shaking his head.

“I must take care of my family as you know. I can’t let my attention stray.”

She recognized the determined look in his eye and asked nothing further as he opened the door.