The Duke Who Loved Me by Jane Ashford

Nineteen

“Well, I must say, you have never looked better,” said Lady Wilton to Cecelia when they arrived at her home for the promised ball. “That gown is splendid.”

Cecelia smoothed a hand over the froth of creamy silk and lace. She was pleased with her new ensemble. She’d judged that it was just the right combination of high fashion and elegance for a duchess, and she was glad Lady Wilton agreed.

“What about me?” asked James.

His grandmother waved this away. “You always look well. It is easier for gentlemen.”

“If you think so, you know nothing about it,” he replied with a rueful smile.

“Well, I certainly care nothing about it,” said the old lady. “Have you any news from your agent about Ferrington?”

“I’ve been rather busy. Getting married and so on.”

“Always thinking first of yourself. You haven’t even thanked me for putting on this ball, you know.”

“Thank you very much for setting us up on display to the ton, Grandmamma. And increasing your own consequence by issuing a coveted invitation, which will draw a great crush even so late in the season.”

Lady Wilton sputtered. “Rogue.”

“I suppose people will begin arriving soon,” mused Cecelia, to distract them.

“They will,” said James’s grandmother. “Come along and display yourselves.”

And so the Duke and Duchess of Tereford took their places beside Lady Wilton to greet a burgeoning stream of guests.

It was soon apparent that the ball would be very well attended. Many were curious or pleased about the new couple and eager to look them over. Some were undoubtedly envious and hoping to see cracks in their facade. Cecelia’s swooping changes of reputation over the last few weeks added interest. People offered their congratulations and took in every detail of the Terefords’ appearance as they passed along into the ballroom.

She and James opened the dancing with a waltz, and Cecelia couldn’t help comparing it with the same dance at the beginning of the season, which seemed so long ago now. Outwardly, all was the same—his hand at her waist, his fingers warm on hers, the whirl across the floor. Their steps were still well matched, and it was still a delight, floating across the floor with him. But inwardly, all was different. The waltz was no longer the thing that brought them closest. The warmth in his blue eyes as he looked down at her spoke of bare skin and tumbled sheets. She felt her cheeks warm with thoughts of those caresses.

She danced with others and then with James again. They spent the supper interval together, sitting with Sarah, Charlotte, Harriet, and their partners, and then resumed dancing. The room grew very warm despite long windows that opened on the night. The scent of the flowers that decorated the ballroom was heavy on the air. James had just gone to fetch Cecelia a glass of lemonade when there was a flurry at the doorway. The murmur of the crowd rose in volume, and people started to stir like water being parted by the prow of a rushing boat.

A tall man moved aside, and Cecelia saw Prince Karl striding into the room, actually pushing people out of his way if they did not move fast enough for him, furiously scowling. He had, of course, not been invited. But he ignored the rising tide of comments and disapproving glances. He was aimed at someone, and when Cecelia met his eyes, she understood that she was his target.

He shouldered past Harriet Finch, nearly knocking her down, and came to stop a few feet from Cecelia. “You!” he said.

Cecelia wondered if he’d lurked at the door until he saw James leave her. She suspected it. The prince was tall enough to see over the heads of most of the crowd.

“I have come to confront you, you see,” he said.

Though her heart beat fast, she was not afraid.

“To make you take back your scurrilous lies in the hearing of all.” His hazel eyes burned with anger. “Tell the truth!” he snarled.

Cecelia took a breath to steady her voice and then let it ring out. He was practically shouting, and she wished to be as easily heard. “Are you suggesting that I have spread a false story about you, as you had done about me?” she asked.

“Natürlich!” snapped the prince. “What else?”

“So you admit that the things you said about me were untrue,” Cecelia answered.

“Is this your cowardly plot? To force me to admit it?”

“Do you?”

He made a savage gesture. “I have no time for trivialities.”

“Do you?” Cecelia repeated in a tone he could not ignore.

“Yes, yes. They were not true. And now you will say the same. This falsehood has sullied my honor!”

“As your lies did mine?”

“Women have no honor,” Prince Karl said. “Not in the same way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are made for dalliance and pleasure. The rest is all nonsense.” He came a step closer. He looked as if he longed to shake her. “Now you will tell the truth!”

Cecelia was so angry that she was trembling, but she managed to speak clearly. “I had nothing to do with the rumors about you. I have been out of town and only heard them when I returned. I know nothing about your background and would never presume to comment upon it.”

“You cunning jade,” he growled. “You planned this.”

“Planned for you to intrude where you were not invited and make more false accusations. How could I?”

He clenched his fists.

“I do sympathize,” Cecelia added. “I know how difficult it is to correct false stories. People aren’t easily convinced, are they?”

Prince Karl raised a hand as if to strike her. Cecelia moved back. At the same time, in the corner of her eye, she saw James shove a glass of lemonade at a surprised young gentleman and rush toward her.

He would see this as a contest between two men. And it was not. She could defend herself. “I give you my word that I did not malign you,” she said to the prince before James could reach them. “I do not know who did. I don’t believe it was any of my friends.”

“The word of a woman,” sneered Prince Karl.

He really was a loathsome creature. “Do we not take oaths and sign legal documents?” Cecelia asked. “You can trust me to tell the truth.” If her tone implied that the same could not be said for him, she couldn’t help it.

James came to stand beside her. He looked thunderous. Whether because of this ally or some other factor, Prince Karl seemed to become conscious of the hostile murmur of the crowd around him. He looked, saw no sympathetic faces, and appeared suddenly bewildered.

A young man came through the crowd and went to touch Prince Karl’s arm. Cecelia recognized him as one of the prince’s entourage. Searching her memory, she came up with a name—Stephan Kandler.

The newcomer bent close to murmur to the prince. Prince Karl turned to him, seeming about to argue. There was a brief muttered colloquy. Then Kandler pulled at the prince’s sleeve to urge him out. After another scan of the room, the prince yielded, and they went.

“Like a dog herding a willful ram,” said James.

Cecelia choked back a laugh. She would not gloat. “If he had horns, he would have butted me,” she said quietly.

“Undoubtedly.”

“There was a moment when I thought he would hit me.”

“And you evaded him.”

James sounded irritated, and Cecelia didn’t understand why. She thought she’d done rather well.

“I would have appreciated an excuse to strike him,” he added.

Now she saw. “I could not provide it.”

“Of course not. You had no need for protection. Clearly you don’t need my help for anything at all. You are supremely competent.” He turned away from her and addressed the guests. “A small contretemps, which should not stop our dancing.” He signaled the musicians to resume and went to ask another woman to dance.

Cecelia stood alone as others slowly joined in, and couples began to form up around her. She felt reprimanded and did not see why she should have been. At last she was saved by Henry Deeping, who solicited her hand for the set. “That was very well done,” he said when they were dancing.

“I thought so.”

He nodded. “You were composed and reasonable. You routed your opponent. I wouldn’t be surprised if Prince Karl decided to continue his tour elsewhere.”

“James seemed annoyed though.” The words slipped out, because she was perplexed and a bit disappointed.

“He prefers to flatten his problems with his fists. Those that can’t be tipped a leveler are a challenge for him.”

“What problems can you punch?”

Mr. Deeping smiled down at her. “That is a difficulty. Beyond the boxing ring, not too many at all.”

She knew that James turned most things into a contest. He saw life as a series of battles to be waged, opponents to be vanquished. But that would not do for a marriage! “You’ve known him even longer than I have,” she said to Mr. Deeping.

“Since we were grubby schoolboys.”

“And he was always that way?”

“I think he was born combative. I’ve often imagined James as a pugnacious baby, flailing at his nursemaid.” He smiled in fond amusement.

Cecelia did not find the picture comforting. She hoped for fewer disputes, not more.

When the dance ended Mr. Deeping took her to his sister, and they were soon joined by Sarah and Harriet. Her friends were full of admiration and told Cecelia that she’d been magnificent against Prince Karl. Cecelia appreciated the praise, but she noticed that James did not dance with her for the rest of the evening. And in the carriage going home, he merely said the event had been tiring and leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“But you seem…”

“Merely tired.” His tone was flat, and he did not open his eyes.

She sat back, chilled. She knew how to argue with James. She’d won, and lost, any number of disputes with him. But this coolness was not familiar. It seemed designed to repel and silence her, and she didn’t understand why he would wish to do that. “Are you angry?” she finally asked, just before they reached the hotel.

“I am tired, Cecelia,” he replied in a voice that indeed sounded weary. “It is time for sleep. May we do that?”

She wasn’t certain whether he took his own advice. But it was a long time, lying beside him, before she found rest.

***

The next morning James rose early and took himself off to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, where he spent a satisfying half hour pummeling the bag and then another in a sparring session with an acquaintance who was also looking for an opportunity to hit something. James was aware, as he perhaps hadn’t been in the past, that these sessions made no difference to his current perplexities. But the hard physical exertion was a relief, even taking some blows that rattled his bones. It was like the steam that jetted from a boiling kettle, reducing the pressure. He welcomed the fatigue that came after as well and, more sheepishly, the fact that he’d clearly bested his opponent in the ring.

This was far better than the muddle in his mind, a hash of all the disputes he’d had with Cecelia over the last thirteen years. He’d been accused of laziness, extravagance, selfishness, excessive complaining, being too combative, and probably of other things that he couldn’t recall at the moment. He didn’t think these criticisms were true—at least, not lately. He’d felt like a changed man in the last several weeks. But how was he to convince anyone? Rather, how was he to show Cecelia, the only one who mattered? He remembered her struggles to counter false accusations. He could say he was different, but he wondered resentfully, who would believe?

And did she care? She’d faced Prince Karl without a glance at him. There hadn’t been the vestige of an appeal. She was shouldering responsibilities right and left. She was taking over everything. Exactly as he’d asked her to do in his original proposal, suggested a dry inner voice.

James grimaced in the mirror as he made a final adjustment to his neckcloth. The James who had first offered for her had been such an arrogant, paltry creature! Puffed up with his own imagined consequence. He couldn’t bear the fellow.

Nor could he blame Cecelia for doing as he’d asked. Or for being better than he was at nearly every task. Hadn’t he admitted it? Didn’t he want her to manage the ducal affairs? He put on his hat and left Gentleman Jackson’s.

Generally he wanted that, James acknowledged. Mostly. Except for the important, interesting bits, suggested a sneaking inner voice. He wanted to decide those. And he’d rather thought that she would consult him more often. James struck a lamppost with his cane as he walked along the pavement.

A picture filled James’s brain—Cecelia soliciting his opinion, praising his ideas, begging for his approval. Part of him found it disturbingly attractive.

No, that was not what he’d expected! He’d meant them to… He didn’t know what. The man who’d requested her skills and the man who was married to her today were not in agreement. And so it was easier to hit things.

He turned a corner and walked toward Tereford House. They had an appointment to meet a representative from an auction house about the mass of items there. He’d snapped at Cecelia when she said she could receive him on her own. She hadn’t sorted a single pile so far! Was his work to be dismissed?

He found her in the kitchen with the Gardener family, including Ned who’d come along to see his family and a stranger. Their vociferous welcome salved his feelings a bit. He was also glad to see that they all looked much less anxious and better fed. “This is my brother, Will Ferris, milord,” said Mrs. Gardener.

The thin man with a wooden left leg below the knee gave him a half bow. “Milord,” he said. “I thank you for the chance to work.”

“Trooper, were you?” James asked him.

“Ninety-Fifth Foot, sir. Until Salamanca.” He gestured at the artificial leg.

“A rifleman!”

He stood straighter. “Yessir.”

Knowing the man had been a member of a crack regiment, chosen for special training, made James glad he’d moved him in. He nodded acknowledgment and vowed to make Will Ferris’s employment more formal in the near future. He noticed Cecelia’s inquiring look. Here was something she knew nothing about.

“Ned’s been telling us about his valeting,” said Mrs. Gardener.

“He looks so grand,” declared little Effie.

“Puffed up like a croaky bullfrog,” said their sister Jen.

“You’re just jealous.” Ned fingered the lapel of his new coat.

Cecelia took a step nearer the center of the group. “We have been thinking of introducing Ned to a tailor who wants an apprentice.”

Was this the royal we? James was unaware of these thoughts. Well, they had mentioned such a plan, but that was long ago. Days ago?

“I have talked to Ned about it…”

“You have?” James interrupted.

“Yes, and he is quite interested. We would pay the fees, of course.”

Shouldn’t he have been consulted about this? “Ned wishes to leave my service?”

Cecelia looked at the lad. When he said nothing, she replied, “He thought tailoring would give him…scope for his ideas.”

James turned to Ned. “I gave you no scope?”

With an anxious frown, Ned said, “Yes, milord. I mean, no. You did. But you need a regular trained valet, which I know I ain…am not.”

It was true. James had been wondering how to break it to the lad that he couldn’t keep on. But that didn’t mean he should be left out of this entire process. “I thought we were rubbing along well enough.” His voice sounded sulky to his own ears.

Ned winced. “You said—about the shine on your boots. And the shirt.”

A moment’s impatience was not important. Everyone knew that. Then James noticed that the entire Gardener family looked worried. Even the former rifleman. He’d forgotten their lingering fears of retribution. Cecelia was frowning at him, too, probably adding to his faults on the list she kept. “Splendid,” James said, taking care to speak heartily. “Apprentice tailor it is then. I’m sure you’ll be all the rage in a few years, Ned. Probably refuse to make my coats because you’re so fashionable.”

“I would never do that!” Ned declared. “I’ll make ’em for free.”

“No, no, you must charge all the market will bear,” replied James. “That is what cements your reputation as a top-of-the-trees tailor.”

The sound of the front door knocker came down the hallway. “I’ll go, milord,” said Will Ferris.

“Never mind,” said Cecelia. “We’re expecting someone. We will let him in.”

“I can do it, milady” was the gruff reply.

“Please do,” said James. He observed Cecelia’s raised eyebrows and questioning gaze as Ferris stumped out. Later he would explain to her about a man’s pride. Another thing he might know more about!

They followed and thus got to see the visitor’s surprise when a somewhat battered ex-soldier opened the door.

“Name?” asked Ferris, in the crisp tone of a sentry on duty.

“Reginald Nordling,” replied the newcomer, handing over his card even though his eyes were on James and Cecelia at the back of the entryway.

Ferris turned, holding it. “Mr. Reginald Nordling of Drellinger’s Auction House,” he read out at parade-ground volume.

Perhaps he would appoint Ferris butler, James thought.

They moved forward to meet the visitor, who bowed low and said, “Your Graces.” He seemed inordinately pleased to be in the presence of a duke and duchess.

James stepped over to the right-hand parlor doorway and pushed it open as far as the mass of furnishings inside would allow. When he turned, he saw that Cecelia had done the same with the left-hand parlor door.

Mr. Nordling dithered for a moment before hurrying over to peer in. Left, then right, James noticed. “Merciful heavens,” the man said.

“The whole house is like this,” replied Cecelia.

Mr. Nordling grew more and more wide-eyed as they conducted him about the place. “I had heard whispers of this,” he murmured. “But seeing it is…”

“Melancholy,” said James.

“Overwhelming,” said Cecelia at the same moment.

“No, Your Graces, it is fascinating. Who knows what treasures we might find in this?”

“Well, I have some idea,” said James. “I sorted out two rooms. Nearly.”

“With what result?”

“I found broken-down furniture, mostly, which I chucked out a window.”

Mr. Nordling looked distressed. “It will be far better to have everything evaluated by an expert eye, Your Grace. Valuable things might be salvaged. But we can look outdoors as well.”

“Much of it has since been stolen,” said Cecelia.

Were they blaming him? Was he now to add incompetent to his catalog of faults? Cecelia had urged him to work, and now his methods were to be criticized.

“It is just that… With a few repairs, a piece can often be made quite saleable.”

“Even when it has been thoroughly chewed by rats?” asked James.

“Rats?” Mr. Nordling looked around uneasily.

“Oh yes, we have quite a colony.”

“The cats have taken care of them,” said Cecelia. “Mrs. Gardener said they have not seen a single one in three days.”

It was obvious that Mr. Nordling had never dealt with a property such as this. He goggled, and his mouth opened and closed twice, making him resemble a goldfish, James thought.

“So as to your methods…” Cecelia began.

James had to make a push to deal with this fellow, show her he wasn’t useless. “I assume you will separate everything into categories,” he said.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We will discard the, er, chewed-over and worthless items, and then you may decide what to keep and what to sell from the remainder.”

“What about sentimental value?” James actually could not imagine feeling tender about any of his great-uncle’s leavings, but it seemed a responsible thing to say. “I suppose some family relics might appear worthless,” he added, as much to himself as the others.

“We will take care to set such things aside,” replied Mr. Nordling.

“I came across some odd bits in the sorting.”

Their visitor perked up. “What sorts of things, Your Grace?”

James struggled to remember. “Some old flint knives.”

“Indeed. We count collectors of ancient artifacts among our clients.”

“There were powder horns for muzzle-loading muskets,” James recalled.

“A rotating bookstand carved with miniature gargoyles,” said Cecelia. Was she laughing at him?

“And many knives,” said James. “Daggers, poniards, dirks, a stiletto, just in one room.”

“Perhaps it was the knife room,” suggested Cecelia. Her eyes were certainly laughing. Part of James shared her amusement. Another part felt ridiculed.

Mr. Nordling seemed to be searching for a polite response to this catalog.

James was afflicted by a wave of stubbornness. “I find some of the stranger things interesting,” he said to Nordling. “I should like them kept out for me to look over.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Would you wish to come every day?”

When one put it that way, he didn’t really wish to.

“So much of it is rather strange,” said Cecelia.

She thought she knew what he was thinking. Blast it, she probably did know. But that didn’t mean he had to confirm her conclusions. “I will call here each day at six,” he declared. “And you may show me what you have found.”

Cecelia looked surprised, which was gratifying.

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Nordling. “I will bring my people in first thing tomorrow to begin the work.”

“Agreed.” The word sounded official. James liked that. “I will see you out.” As he herded the fellow toward the stairs, he turned to say to Cecelia, “I will see you back in the kitchen.”

“My proper place, Your Grace?” she murmured.

James wasn’t certain whether Nordling heard this, or understood the sarcasm if he did. But he hustled the man out, thinking that it was quite unfair of her to mock his efforts when she had been urging him to do more for years. In fact, it seemed she didn’t care to give up an ounce of control. She was too accustomed to managing him.

Returning to the kitchen, James found the entire household there, digging into a pan of scones fresh from the oven. He couldn’t blame them. There was nowhere else to sit in the house. He’d be glad when that was remedied. The hotel was feeling cramped as well.

“I’m going on to look over two houses for rent that might do for us,” Cecelia said, as if she’d heard his thoughts.

It annoyed James that she could do that when he usually had no idea what she was thinking.

“I don’t suppose you wish to come along?” she added.

“I do,” he answered, clipping the phrase.

Cecelia could tell this was a lie. Or perhaps that was too strong a word. But he certainly did not wish to view houses for rent. That was plain in his face. Why not just say so? James was behaving very strangely. “I am happy to manage this alone,” she tried.

He frowned as if she’d said something irritating. “That will not be necessary.”

She couldn’t ask what was wrong before the entire Gardener clan, and she was in no mood to suggest a retreat to the previous duke’s bedchamber for private conversation.

“Now?” he asked, gazing at the scone in her hand as if it was a personal failing.

And with that, Cecelia realized he’d set up another contest, this one between the two of them. That explained his pushing forward with Mr. Nordling. As always, James was intent on winning, and he couldn’t evade the house visits because that would be some twisted sort of defeat. So very typical. What she didn’t understand was why James saw it so. He’d bargained for someone—a wife—to take on his work. He’d even admitted that she was more skilled at it. Hadn’t he? Surely she hadn’t imagined that?

In any case, she was playing her part. It was quite unfair of him to be contentious when she was trying to do as he’d asked. Also irritated now, Cecelia put aside her scone and rose. “We will need a hack.”

James hailed one not far from Tereford House, and they rode in silence to the first address Cecelia had been given. It was a compact wooden edifice that looked newly painted.

“Not a fashionable neighborhood,” James commented as they stepped down from the cab.

“It is quite temporary,” replied Cecelia.

“But so out of the way.”

“The season is nearly over.”

“Indeed. So why stay in London?”

“Where do you propose to go?” Cecelia asked. If he wanted to be snappish, she could match him.

He had no answer. She knew he’d often visited his bachelor friends in the summer months. Before he could suggest Brighton, she added, “And what about your daily visits to Tereford House? At six sharp.”

He frowned. “It is some distance away.”

“You can get a horse.”

“I have a horse, Cecelia. You’ve seen me riding in the park.”

“Oh yes. So that’s settled then.” She went to knock on the door.

Mr. Dalton was inside, having procured the keys from the owner. Being an extremely efficient man of business, he’d also acquired details about the property, which he reviewed as they walked through. “Only one sizable reception room,” he said. “The furnishing are new, however, and the kitchen has been brought up to date with a closed stove.”

She would have to find a cook to make use of it, Cecelia thought as they walked up the stairs. As well as other staff.

“Two decent bedrooms,” continued Mr. Dalton. “And two that are…”

“Small and shabby,” said James, having barely glanced into them.

Mr. Dalton bowed his head in acknowledgment. He was familiar with James’s dilatory manner from years of assisting with the trust. Still, Cecelia felt that James wasn’t giving him enough credit. Mr. Dalton had gone to some effort to find possibilities for them. “It is very clean,” she said.

James shot her a sardonic look. “There is another, I believe? Cecelia said two houses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Let us go on to that then.” James turned to the stairs.

The second candidate was a short walk away, further from the hub of fashionable London. It was larger, however, built of red brick with ornate stone lintels.

“Some merchant had aspirations,” James commented.

Mr. Dalton had these keys as well, and they entered to look over two spacious parlors at the front of the house, a dining room and smaller one at the back. “There is a garden,” Mr. Dalton pointed out.

Cecelia examined it through a window. The plantings were nothing special, but it was a pleasant walled space.

“Kitchen below, quite tolerable,” Mr. Dalton continued. “There are four good bedchambers here and servants quarters on the third floor.”

They went up to survey all of these. “I think this would do,” said Cecelia as they returned to the entry.

“The furnishings are dowdy,” James replied.

“But endurable until we get our own new things.”

“Oh, if you are to be satisfied with the mediocre.”

This was too much. He was deliberately provoking. “You know very well I am not!” said Cecelia. “But if you are concerned, we can go around all the warehouses together.”

James couldn’t quite hide a wince.

“I know of one that has hundreds of fabric samples for draperies and chair coverings,” Cecelia added.

James looked queasy, and she felt a flash of triumph. The only sort of purchasing he cared for was at his tailor. And, she supposed, when he had bought his horse. All else had been provided by his landlady.

“There will be so very many things to choose from,” she said.

One of James’s hands jerked as if to ward off a curse. He closed it into a fist.

Mr. Dalton had moved a few paces away. During the years when Cecelia and James argued over trust business, he’d cultivated a sort of motionless invisibility.

“We will take this house,” Cecelia told him.

“I have not made up my mind,” replied James.

She glared at him. Silently. Challenging, not reproachful. Certainly not apologetic. She knew from long experience that she could outwait him.

After a time James looked away. “I suppose it will do,” he muttered.

Mr. Dalton waited a moment, then said, “I will make the arrangements. The cost is quite reasonable.”

James started to speak. But he seemed to think better of it. His jaw tightened, and he turned to the door.

“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Dalton,” said Cecelia.

“Shall we go?” asked James, impatient now.

“I will stay a little longer,” she answered, feeling contrary. “In case there is anything we need, I want to—”

“Make a list,” interrupted her new husband, the phrase an accusation.

“Precisely so, James. A thorough and intelligent list.”

With a sound rather like pfft, he swept out.

Mr. Dalton of course said nothing. And he had, of course, brought paper and pen, including a clever portable ink bottle. He arranged them on a table in one of the parlors, and then was good enough to sit there and note down items Cecelia called out to him as she paced about the house. Gradually, shouting mundane requirements up or down the stairwell—more saucepans, three proper vases, a larger wardrobe, and some oil lamps—she recovered her temper. James was undoubtedly using whatever method he’d created to do the same. The process was familiar.

But the circumstances were not. This was not the past. They were man and wife. She didn’t want to contend with him. She certainly didn’t want him to see her as an adversary. He looked at life as a continual battle—very well. She might not be able to alter his outlook. But she should be an exception. Surely he wished her to be?

Cecelia stood at the linen press, smoothing a pile of bedsheets with pensive melancholy. The pleasures of physical passion were entrancing, shattering, but they were not all of life. And apparently they did not change everything.