The Duke Who Loved Me by Jane Ashford

Three

James pulled a small inlaid table from a towering pile of furnishings in the left-hand parlor of his ruinous town house. He had to jump back as a cascade of furniture threatened to tumble down around his ears. A small, glittering object bounced twice and came to rest near his right foot. He bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The silver sugar bowl was tarnished but richly embellished; it looked antique as well. This had to be worth a good deal, and it was one of the reasons that his first impulse—just to have everything cleared out and taken away—was impossible. The mess was seeded with valuable items, and he’d noticed documents stuffed into some crevices, too. His great-uncle had had no system whatsoever, meaning that James couldn’t leave this task to just anyone. Someone needed to evaluate each item and make a decision about its fate.

“The devil!” he said, pushing the sugar bowl back into the pile. This task was colossal and unbearable. He’d tried to begin several times over the last week, and he could not tolerate the teetering chaos. Today, once again, he retreated, locking up the house to continue moldering, for now.

A household was a woman’s job, he thought as he walked down the street and away. A chatelaine was the person to separate the wheat from the vast pile of chaff the previous duke had left behind. James felt certain of this even though he’d never experienced such a regime himself. His mother had died when he was three. He didn’t remember her. His father had remarried a year later and then lost his second wife in childbirth, along with James’s infant half brother. After that, they’d made do with a housekeeper. But she’d been a woman. Perhaps he could hire a supremely competent housekeeper? Where did one find such people? James employed a valet, but he had no other servants, and he’d found Hobbs through a friend’s recommendation.

James shook his head. No, for this incredible labor he needed someone like Cecelia, an expert at organization and managing and an intelligent judge of what should be kept and what discarded. She would not be daunted by Uncle Percival’s detritus. She was tenacious as a bulldog. However, she’d made it clear that she did not intend to help him. He knew her; she would not be cajoled into it.

The conversation from their waltz came back to him. It had been a relief. There was no other female he could talk to like Cecelia, no other that he knew so well. And with that observation came a startling idea. What if he married Cecelia? As his duchess, she would be obliged to set his house to rights. Ha!

Immediately, he rejected the thought. He didn’t wish to be married! Oh, he would tie the knot someday to provide an heir for the title, but there was plenty of time for that. Years. Also he’d known Cecelia since she was a child. He’d never thought of her in that way. True at twenty-eight and twenty-two the disparity in their ages was effectively gone. But she was…Cecelia.

And yet. Marriage to her would solve so many of his current problems. It would end the pursuit of the ambitious mamas. It would put a person of supreme competence in charge of his chaotic town house. And other properties. There were quite a few of them. James stopped walking, suddenly filled with horror. What if all the ducal estates were like the London house? A picture of decrepit, refuse-filled houses dotted over England rose in his mind. Clearly, Uncle Percival had done nothing for many years. It was all too likely that he had left such a nightmare behind. But Cecelia would plunge into managing them. She reveled in that sort of tedium. If experience was a guide, she would put all in order so quickly it made one’s head spin.

Moreover, Cecelia knew his habits, and they had already established a way of dealing together during the years of his trust. A somewhat acrimonious method, but still… It was almost as if their youth had prepared them for this partnership. And finally, perhaps most of all, she wouldn’t expect him to make sickly protestations or constantly dance attendance on her. Had they not agreed as they waltzed that love was a silly illusion? Another—eventual—bride might look for all sorts of wearisome declarations and services. There was a dismal prospect.

James walked on, nearly decided on offering for Cecelia. But, no. Marriage was such an irrevocable step. He wasn’t ready. He would think of some other solution. He turned to his club and the prospect of sporting talk or a game of cards instead.

The following day, James received a formal letter from his great-uncle’s man of business resigning his position. The fellow claimed that he was retiring from active service, but James suspected that he simply didn’t wish to deal with the tangle Uncle Percival had left behind. Which he had allowed Uncle Percival to leave behind! Admittedly, James had shouted at him at their first meeting. And the second. But that was no reason to shirk his responsibilities.

“Where shall I put the boxes?” asked his valet as James crumpled the letter in his fist.

“What boxes?”

“Seven large boxes were delivered along with the letter,” the man replied. “Containing documents, according to the carter.” Hobbs’s expression was neutral, but it was obvious he knew this was unwelcome news. The valet had worked for James for two years and was well acquainted with his moods.

“Damn the fellow,” said James. “He’s running like a coward.”

Hobbs said nothing.

“Have them sent over to the town house.” James remembered there was no one there to receive them. Stifling a curse, he got the key and handed it to Hobbs. “Hire a carrier. Ride along and have the boxes put in the entryway.”

The valet took the key without enthusiasm, but he did not go so far as to protest. However, James was aware that at some point, he probably would. Hobbs was not the sort of valet who gladly accepted tasks outside his area of expertise. He took superb care of James’s clothing, achieved an enviable shine on his boots, and dressed his hair in the latest mode. His skills had attracted attention, and more than one friend had tried to lure him away from James. Hobbs was not above hinting at this when asked to do more than he thought right. He would not be a help with Tereford House.

James sighed as the valet departed. He needed a staff. He needed a new man of business. He needed help. This couldn’t go on. He must face the fact that drastic measures were required. And sacrifices. One had to make sacrifices for one’s heritage. James fetched his hat and set off to call on Cecelia. He knew he would find her alone at this hour. Her aunt would not be pulled from the garden for anything less than torrential rain in the afternoons.

Cecelia received him in the drawing room of her father’s house, solitary as expected, a book open on her lap. James noticed that she looked exceedingly pretty in a blue cambric gown with a deep flounce at the hem. Her hair gleamed golden in the sunlight from the front windows, and her luminous blue eyes were soft when she greeted him. James realized that he hadn’t really been paying attention. Cecelia was lovely. He’d known that, and yet he hadn’t known it. He hadn’t fully appreciated the curves of the body beneath that smooth cambric. She was delectable. Marriage to her would hardly be a penance.

He took the seat she indicated and accepted the offer of a glass of wine. There was a soothing sense of peace and order in the room, the sort of atmosphere a man wanted in his own home when he returned to it.

“How is work going at the town house?” she asked him.

“It is not.”

“Have you come looking for sympathy then?”

Seeing no reason to delay, James said, “I have come to ask you to marry me.”

“What?”

“I would like you to be my duchess,” he said.

It was one of the few times in their long association that he’d managed to render her speechless. Indeed, she was gaping at him.

“I think it a sensible plan,” he explained. “Offering advantages for both of us.”

She still seemed unready to speak.

Recognizing that he had surprised her, James went on. “You would be established with a respected position in society. That must be an important consideration for you. When your father is gone, your circumstances will be much reduced.”

“Papa is quite healthy,” she replied in an odd tone.

“For now. He is prone to overindulgence.”

Cecelia bent her head so that he couldn’t see her face.

James acknowledged that his last remark had been tactless. Yes, it was true. But a proposal should probably not dwell on a father’s death. Certainly it should not. What was wrong with him? He turned to another tack. “You enjoy having estates to run.”

She raised her head and gazed at him, her eyes wide and unreadable. “Would you really go this far to have me do your work for you?”

“You are practically trained to be a duchess already.”

“Trained! Like a performing animal?”

“What? Nothing of the sort. You are speaking as if I’ve insulted you.”

“I’m astounded, rather.” She looked down again. “I–I had no notion you were contemplating marriage at this time.”

“Well, I wasn’t, but this would thwart the ambitious mamas. And, you know, the dukedom requires an heir and so on.” James faltered as his mind was suddenly full of the process of gaining said heir. How had he failed to appreciate Cecelia’s lithe, lovely curves? They were right there, an arm’s length away.

“So on,” repeated Cecelia with parted lips.

They were quite enticing lips. Was she too thinking of marital embraces? The idea sent a flush of heat over his skin.

She blinked and sat straighter. “But chiefly I would set the estate in order for you,” she said. “That is why you are here.”

“I know you like to be useful.”

“Is that what you know about me?”

He couldn’t understand why she was being so prickly. “One thing. Do you deny it?”

“No, but…”

“There! I am offering a task you enjoy. And we are familiar with each other’s ideas and habits.”

“Do you mean that I am accustomed to dealing with a vain, indolent man?” Cecelia asked. “Two of them actually.”

“That is not the way I would put it,” James replied, nettled.

“No, of course you would not.”

“You are being tiresome.”

“Am I? Perhaps it’s fortunate then that I am not going to marry you.”

“What?” Taken up with his own doubts about this momentous step, James hadn’t considered that she might refuse. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “Why not?”

“You’ve treated me like an annoyance nearly all my life, James. Why would I shackle myself to you?”

“Nonsense.”

She shook her head. “The very way you say that word. So certain. And condescending. Allowing no possibility of another view.”

“Non—” James bit off the word. “Nothing of the sort.”

“And now you come and say you want me to be your drudge.”

“Drudge! Are you out of your senses? I am proposing to make you my duchess.”

“So that I will be under your thumb. You’ve always delighted in tormenting me.”

“Tormenting?” James didn’t know whether he was more angry or incredulous. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“When I was ten, you hid my essay on Shakespeare and told my governess that I’d been shirking. And that I’d said she was a fubsy-faced prune.”

“How do you remember…?” James shook his head. “I was a sulky stripling. I meant it as a joke.”

“I didn’t find it amusing. When I was sixteen, you told Reginald Quentin that I was mad about him.”

James laughed. “That spotty toadeater!”

“He followed me about for weeks trying to steal a kiss. I had to be quite cruel to make him stop. Which I do not like to be!”

“Did he? I’m sorry. I apologize for all my youthful follies. But I can’t believe you’ve been holding grudges all this time.”

“They are not grudges, James. They are…evidence that we would not suit.” Cecelia frowned. “Though I never did find my essay.” She looked around the drawing room. “I don’t suppose you remember where you hid it?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course you don’t,” she echoed.

“What is the matter with you? You are always such a sensible creature.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, Cecelia, you are. You argue for curtailed expenditures and considered decisions. You are an excellent manager and a master of accounts.”

In the face of these compliments, she looked chagrined. Perhaps even distressed? But why should that be? Thinking he must be mistaken, James pressed on. “As we have both decided that we are not going to fall in love…”

“That is not precisely true.”

“You said that love never came along,” James pointed out.

“Yet,” Cecelia said, seeming to bite off the word.

“And declared that you are on the shelf, so you must not be expecting it any longer.”

“It is very irritating to have my words thrown back in my face in this way.”

“I know,” said James. “You’ve done the same to me on many occasions.”

“There you have it. We don’t get along. Haven’t you often called me the bane of your existence?”

“That was another joke. I thought you had a better sense of humor.”

Her blue eyes blazed at him. “And so you discover that you are wrong. Again.”

James had never seen her so animated, or so beautiful. Cecelia had been a fixture in his life for years, useful or frustrating, tolerable or irrelevant. But in this moment he realized that she was a woman of passion as well as intelligence. The fire in her gaze, the taut challenge of her body, made his senses flare with desire. “I am not wrong,” he said. He hadn’t seen it until now.

“You never think so.” The flame in Cecelia’s eyes died. She turned her head away. “You should go now, James. We have no more to say to each other.”

“I’ll show you,” he said.

She sighed. “You know you’re persisting just because you’ve been refused. We’ve spoken of this before. You don’t need to fight every time you’re thwarted. Some matters are best forgotten. I wager you’ll be very glad, in an hour or so, that I rejected your offer. It will be an immense relief.” Her voice trembled slightly on the last word.

James brushed this irrelevance aside. He would convince her. He knew how to frame pretty compliments and send bouquets and play the suitor, even if he’d never bothered before. He would show her that she was mistaken and have her for his duchess. And then she would see… He would see that fire in her eyes again. For him. James found he wanted that very much indeed. And he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

There was no more to be done here today, however. This step of the campaign had not gone well. It was time to withdraw and prepare for the next. He stood, offered a polite bow, and walked out.

Cecelia sat on when he’d gone, stunned and shaken. She never would have imagined… But that wasn’t true. A year or so ago, she had imagined him on one knee, his heart in his eyes, asking for her hand. She’d simply never thought that dream would come true.

As it had not, commented a ruthless part of her brain. He hadn’t shown the slightest sign of kneeling. And hearts had not been mentioned. Still less love. With a sinking sensation, she heard his description of her again: “You argue for curtailed expenditures and considered decisions. You are an excellent manager and a master of accounts.” What a cold and distant picture. He might have been describing a competent estate agent he wished to engage. He didn’t think of her with love. She’d known that.

And she’d known that she must be the same—indifferent.

She’d tried, in the last few years. Whenever he was heedless or infuriating, she’d consigned her feelings to perdition. But before they could wither away, James would do something that belied his careless surface. He’d once spent two days searching the streets for her lost dog, and found him, too, after others had given up. He’d taught her to play cutthroat whist when she asked—partly as an amusement, she knew, but he’d seemed to take real pleasure in it. How they’d laughed when she demonstrated her new skills at a card party.

He’d stayed by her side at her court presentation, a polished, devastatingly handsome young man of twenty-four. His attentiveness had eased her nerves and increased her consequence among the ton. Last year, when her father had taken ill, James had actually called every day to ask about his health and showered Papa with fruit and the confections he particularly liked.

Whenever they attended the same gatherings, which was often, James talked with her and danced with her. No occasion passed without some interplay. He’d even defended her after she’d gone to that ball alone, despite his private criticism. She’d heard as much.

“But none of those are love,” Cecelia said to the empty drawing room. She’d concluded that James viewed her as a sort of possession, a connection who was not to be condemned, except by himself. But not as a woman he might truly care for. She’d accepted the disappointment, hidden her affections so thoroughly that she was certain no one suspected, and resigned herself to distance. She was no languishing miss to sigh over an unrequited passion. She got on with life.

And then he’d come here and asked her to marry him as a convenience, to…hire her in effect to take his work off his shoulders. It was like one of those fairy tales where granted wishes come in a form that makes them horrid. The fates had fulfilled her dream in a way that she could not want it. Cecelia laughed. When the laugh threatened to turn into something else, she ruthlessly cut it off.

She was certain James would come to his senses and be glad she’d refused. In fact, she would be surprised if he hadn’t already, now that he was well away. How sorry he would be if they’d become engaged! That would have added the final unbearable straw to this fiasco—to see him regretting his impulsive proposal even as he stood by his word. No, James would get over his pique and move on. He never lacked female company when he wanted it. Cecelia had become aware of that when she passed out of her first youth. There would be some awkwardness between them perhaps, and then this episode would be forgotten. Or, not forgotten. That was too much to ask. Unmentioned, rather. Receding with time until it began to seem fictional.

Her aunt Valeria strode into the room, bringing with her the sweet scent of honey. “Are you sitting here doing nothing?” she asked.

Nothing but shoring up the shattered fragments of my heart, Cecelia thought, and scoffed at her inner dramatics. “I suppose I am,” she answered.

“You might have come and helped me put the caps on the hives then.”

“We agreed that the bees and I do not get on, Aunt.”

“They don’t sting if you’re not afraid of them.”

“That is why you wear long gloves and a coat and a veil whenever you go near?”

Her aunt snorted a laugh. “Insolent girl. I do have extras of all those things.”

“Thank you, Aunt Valeria, but I shall leave the bees to you.”

Taking her customary chair at the table by the front window, her aunt said, “Very well, but you ought to develop some interests of your own.” She opened her notebook and reached for a quill.

Did she mean that Cecelia was on the road to spinsterhood? With a future resembling her aunt’s? The idea was unnerving. She did not have her aunt’s intellectual rigor or her lack of interest in people. But if she could not accept James’s chilly offer—of course not!—and she could not care so much for any other man, what was to become of her?

One of the footmen entered. “Several young ladies have called to see you, miss,” he said to Cecelia.

“Oh good,” said Cecelia, glad to have her thoughts interrupted.

“Oh blast,” said Aunt Valeria at the same moment.

Inured to the older lady’s manner, the footman did not even blink.

Cecelia had been expecting her new friends. It was fortunate that their visit hadn’t coincided with James’s. “Send them up,” she said to the footman. “And fetch tea and cakes.”

“Honey cakes?” asked her aunt.

“Of course.”

“Well, I will stay a little while. But I shan’t speak.”

“You never do, Aunt.” The words came out sharp after their previous exchange, but her aunt didn’t seem to notice.

Sarah Moran, Charlotte Deeping, Harriet Finch, and Ada Grandison entered in a chattering mass. It appeared that they had taken advantage of numbers to dispense with duennas. Cecelia welcomed them as a happy diversion until their first words to her. “We passed the handsome duke in the street as we were coming here,” said Ada.

“He looked out of sorts,” said Sarah.

“He was glowering,” said Charlotte. “I was so pleased to see it.”

“Why would you say that?” asked Harriet.

“I like knowing that very handsome people have troubles. Men in particular.”

“Oh, Charlotte, everyone has trials and tribulations,” said Sarah.

“Tribulations? What a word. He was scowling. There was no plague of frogs raining from the sky. He’d probably mussed his neckcloth or scuffed his boot.”

Cecelia didn’t wish to discuss the causes of James’s frown. She turned to Harriet. “Your note said you had something particular to talk about.”

“We’ve received some invitations,” Harriet replied.

“Harriet had the most, of course,” put in Charlotte. “As she is so grand now.” She and Harriet made faces at each other. “Ada is next because of her ducal fiancé.”

“My charming personality,” argued Ada.

“Or your frightening eyebrows,” Charlotte teased. “Sarah and I are neck and neck in last place with only a few.”

“There seem to be so many different kinds of parties,” said Sarah. “We wanted to ask you how to choose.”

“And how to go on at each sort,” said Ada.

“I have begun a chart.” Charlotte took a sheet of paper from her reticule, unfolded it, and held it up. A grid had been drawn on it.

This attracted the attention of Cecelia’s aunt, who peered over at the page.

“I’ve put the types of events across the top,” Charlotte continued. “Then there is a space for each of us down the side with our strengths and weaknesses. Well, not Ada. She is finished with all this nonsense.”

“What nonsense?” asked Cecelia.

“Husband hunting,” replied Charlotte with distaste. “Or at least seeing if we wish to acquire a husband.”

“What other choice do we have?” asked Sarah.

“That is the trouble.” Charlotte’s scowl deepened.

“You will meet someone and fall in love,” said Ada. “All of you.”

“Because you did? Not convincing evidence,” replied Charlotte.

“The bees have a much better system,” said Aunt Valeria.

The girls all turned to look at her.

“The queen manages reproduction, and the rest of the hive has important work to do. Very fulfilling, I would think. They are all female, you know.”

“I thought you could not…” began Charlotte.

“Except for the drones. But they are thrown out after they do their job. They are useless otherwise. They don’t even have stingers.” She noticed the stares. “There is no need to gape at me like a school of goldfish.”

“We thought you said… That is, indicated that you could not hear us,” said Sarah.

Aunt Valeria made a dismissive gesture. “If I am deaf, I don’t have to take part in empty chatter.”

The four visitors looked at Cecelia, then back at her aunt.

“But you hear perfectly well?” asked Harriet.

“I would hardly call it a perfection,” scoffed the older lady.

“Aren’t you afraid people will find out?” wondered Sarah.

“I think a good many people suspect,” said Cecelia. She had mentioned this to Aunt Valeria in the past.

Her aunt’s response was the same this time, an indifferent shrug. “What if they do? I don’t care what the vast majority of people think. But you seem like sensible girls. I don’t mind speaking to you. A chart is an efficient tool.” She held out an imperious hand.

Charlotte hesitated, then passed her grid over.

“Balls are obvious, of course,” said Aunt Valeria, reading. “Dancing. I like this.” She set a finger on one corner of the page. “Opportunities for a scant bit of private conversation to judge a man’s character. Well put.” Her finger moved to the right. “Ah, rout parties.”

“Isn’t a rout a great defeat?” asked Sarah.

“The name makes one think of hordes of people running away in panic,” said Ada.

“If only they would,” said Aunt Valeria dryly. “That might be somewhat entertaining. Unlike the reality.”

“Routs are large gatherings,” Cecelia said in a bid to regain control of this visit. “The hostess hopes so, at any rate. And they do include a good deal of…milling about. People attend to pay their respects to the lady of the house and perhaps talk to friends. One stands, or walks from room to room.”

“Showing off one’s fine clothes,” said Ada.

“Yes, and observing others. There is no particular centerpiece, as at a concert. Many only stay a little while and then go on to another party.”

“That sounds quite tedious,” said Harriet.

“Exactly,” replied Aunt Valeria. “Which one are you?”

“Harriet Finch, ma’am.”

“Ah yes, the daughter of the old school friend.”

“Such an occasion might be pleasant if one sees friends,” said Sarah, returning to the ostensible subject.

“Much of the interest comes afterward,” said Cecelia. “In the gossip about who fainted from the heat or was snubbed in the crowd and so on.”

“So on,” mocked her aunt. “That would include the intrigues carried on in the crush. As if they would not be noticed. People in general are so very stupid.” She returned to the chart. “What next? Ah, conversaziones.”

“I’ve heard there are salons where serious topics are discussed,” said Sarah hopefully.

“Those are smaller,” said Cecelia. “With a much more limited guest list. Some are confined to established literary circles, along with people of rank and fortune who wish to patronize literature.”

“I don’t suppose they would invite us then,” said Charlotte.

Sarah sighed.

Cecelia started to mention a friend of her father who held select evenings devoted to spritely talk. Lady Tate’s soirees were known for interesting guests and competitive wit, as well as exquisite suppers. Then she hesitated. Perhaps it would be best to wait and see if the noble widow was willing to invite her young friends. Lady Tate might require some convincing. She wouldn’t want to disappoint them.

“Venetian breakfasts,” said Aunt Valeria in a contemptuous tone. “Such a ridiculous label.”

“An afternoon party that may last well into evening,” explained Cecelia.

“What is Venetian about that?” asked Harriet.

“Well, I don’t…” began Cecelia.

“Nothing whatsoever,” declared her aunt.

“I thought they might be on the water, with gondolas,” said Ada.

“That would entail logic,” said Aunt Valeria. “A trait that society lacks.”

“Perhaps Venetians prefer afternoon gatherings,” said Sarah. “I will…”

“Look for a book that explains the matter,” finished Charlotte.

“Well, I will.”

“Good for you,” said Cecelia’s aunt. “Research is never wasted.” She ran her finger along the chart. “Musicales. That is rather obvious.”

“Hostesses vie for well-known singers or musicians to entertain their guests,” said Cecelia.

“I’d like that,” said Harriet.

“Not I,” said Charlotte.

“Card parties,” read Aunt Valeria from the chart.

“Papa enjoys those,” offered Ada.

“Young ladies aren’t often invited,” said Cecelia.

“Because they require some skill?” asked Charlotte sarcastically. “And we are meant to stand about looking vapidly pretty. Well, as pretty as possible, which is easier for some than others.”

“You have a sharp tongue,” said Aunt Valeria. “I like you. What is your name again?”

“Charlotte Deeping. Ma’am.”

“I believe it’s more the gambling,” said Cecelia. “Some card parties set high stakes.”

“Young men gamble, young ladies amble,” said Charlotte.

Aunt Valeria gave a crack of laughter.

“Young men drink, young ladies shrink,” said Harriet.

Ada snorted. “Young men roister, young ladies cloister.”

Sarah thought for a moment. “Young men are educated, young ladies are rusticated.”

“Ha,” said Aunt Valeria. “I was right. Sensible young ladies indeed.”

The four visitors looked at Cecelia. “Your turn, Cecelia,” said Charlotte.

She surveyed their lively faces. “Young men roam, young ladies stay home.” Though she felt her contribution weak, she received a chorus of approving laughter.

“Or so they would have us believe,” said Charlotte when it died away. “I don’t care much for shrinking myself.”

Neither did she, Cecelia acknowledged. And she was happy to have found friends who felt the same way.