The Perfect Duke (4 page)

Rachel fidgeted. Cara shook her head. She was as bad as everyone else. She’d, momentarily, forgotten about the girl. “Well, Lady Rachel. Let’s not waste any of our hour.”

The child gave Cara an impish grin, which added an elfin appearance to her pert features. “I’ll show you the way. Do you know the name of the horse with the wings? He’s my favorite.” She bolted out of the room, glancing back on occasion to make sure Cara followed.

Her headlong flight would never be deemed ‘ladylike,’ but Cara wasn’t about to quell the girl’s spirit. It had been her experience that every child had different needs. She didn’t hold with the current practice of discipline and learning by rote. But perhaps she shouldn’t let the duke know that yet.

Somehow, she doubted he’d understand.

The Beast was angry with her, but his roar didn’t frighten Belle as much as the pain in his eyes.

Beauty and the Beast

Garret strode across the stone verandah and into the ballroom. The place reeked of beeswax, a smell he detested. There were times when Timmons took his duties too seriously.

He glanced around the room and spotted his butler bent over a freshly polished Chippendale table, his long nose nearly touching the surface. Timmons looked up from his inspection as Garret approached, took a step backward, then reached up to steady his tall blue wig, an expression of disbelief on his face.

At his butler’s startled visage, Garret slowed to his customary reserved walk, his grandfather’s voice ringing in his head.
A Duke never hurries; he is above the need for haste. Furthermore, the Duke of Kendal never exhibits excessive emotion in word or action.
He thought he’d learned his lessons well—until Cara.

He stopped near the table and attempted to control his annoyance. “Timmons, where is Miss McClure?”

“She was to meet Lady Rachel in the nursery after she visited the gardener’s wife.”

“The gardener’s wife?”

“She’s taken ill. This last week, Miss McClure has been seeing to the welfare of the servants.” The harsh lines on Timmons’ face softened and Garret could have sworn he started to smile. But that was impossible. The man never smiled.

“In future, Miss McClure is not to be made aware of anything other than the household duties.” He pinned his butler with a look he’d discovered to be very effective with errant servants. “Is that understood?”

The servant drew himself up to his normal rigid stance, although a red flush stained his papery cheeks. “Perfectly, Your Grace.” He executed a small bow, refusing to meet his gaze.

Garret left the room, heading for the nursery. He should have expected Cara to become a nursemaid to the servants. He’d noticed her compassion for everyone, regardless of their rank. That attitude would never be tolerated by society, even though he found it secretly admirable. Yet another reason he should end this deception.

In a few short days Cara had managed to disrupt his life. He winced as his stride tightened the muscles of the bruised area across his thigh. He had his new “hostess” to thank for his injury. That table had been in the same spot for hundreds of years. Constancy was admirable. Even the stars in the heavens traveled the same path in the sky. What could have possessed Cara to order the furniture moved?

Mallory would never have done such a thing. Although, to be fair, his sister knew he often wandered the halls at night without the aid of a lamp.

Still, he would not tolerate Cara’s interference. She’d ordered the gardener to leave weeds in his garden.
Weeds!
He shook his head. Even if the flowers were a startling blue, they had no place in his ordered landscape. Next, she’d want to remove the portraits of his ancestors from the walls.

Rachel’s voice floated through the open nursery door as he approached. “Why must I be nice to Uncle? He’s never nice to me.”

He stopped outside the entrance, curious as to Cara’s reply.

His niece’s voice lowered so he had to strain to hear it. “Sometimes, I’m afraid of him.”

Confusion and hurt swirled in Garret’s chest. Rachel feared him? Why? Children used to like him. Hell, there was a time when his younger cousins had vied for his attention.

“You shouldn’t say such things.” The reprimand in Cara’s reply made him feel a little better. “Lady Rachel”—Cara’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper—“have you ever heard the tale of the Sun and the Wind?”

“No.” Rachel didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

“Sit here.”

Garret heard the creek of ropes. They must have climbed up onto the bed.

Cara continued. “One day the Sun and Wind observed a man trudging down a lane. Now the Wind was always trying to prove his superiority, so he said to the Sun, ‘I’ll wager I can make the man remove his coat before you do.’ The Sun wasn’t really concerned with the man, but he knew the Wind would keep at him until he agreed. So he nodded and allowed the Wind to try first.”

“Why did the Wind get to go first?”

“I’m not sure. I imagine the Sun was being polite. At any rate, the Wind blew and blew, but instead of removing his coat, the man drew it tightly against his body. Finally, exhausted, the Wind allowed the Sun to try. The Sun smiled at the man and shone with such brightness that, after a time, the man removed his coat in deference to the warmth. Now”—Cara’s voice lost its theatrical quality—“what did you learn from the story?”

“I think Uncle’s like the Wind. He’s always forcing people to do things.” Rachel’s serious reply caused Garret to suck in his breath.

“No.” Cara sounded frazzled. “That’s not what—”

Garret entered the room. “Miss McClure, I wish to speak with you.” Color streaked across both their faces. Fear shown in his niece’s eyes, though Cara raised her chin a bit and met his stare.

Rachel scrambled off the bed and stood between Garret and Cara. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean it. I’ll be nice. I promise.”

“Rachel, attend to your music.” His gaze locked on Cara as she attempted to swing the yards of material in her skirt off the mattress. How delicate she appeared. He wanted to help her from the bed—or perhaps back into it.

His niece still stood in front of him. He glanced down at her. “Rachel, do as I say.” His impatient demand hung in the air. But instead of doing as he asked, the girl’s mouth thinned and she held his gaze. Surprise mixed with his annoyance. She’d never defied him before.

This was Cara’s fault. He gave Rachel a look that had intimidated many a nobleman and her bravado failed her like a flower wilted by the sun. After a worried glance at Cara, she darted from the room.

When his attention returned to Cara, she stood with her shoulders back and a challenge in her eyes that had replaced the guilt in her expression. Anyone would have thought she was the one who’d been hurt. Not that Rachel’s comments had hurt him. A duke needed to keep a certain distance—even from his family. One day his niece would understand. His grandfather had been the monster of Garret’s childhood. Now it seemed he played the role for her.

He gave Cara what he hoped was a quelling stare. “You will stop telling my niece stories.”

“Why? Because Rachel likened you to the Wind?” Cara moved to the inlaid, wooden table strewn with writing implements, replaced the ink stopper, then turned to face him. “If you’d listened a little longer, I was about to explain. I wanted her to understand you get further with kindness. She needs to learn to make allowances for your behavior.”

“And what is wrong with my behavior?” Garret struggled to keep his composure. He never should have brought Cara here. She was making his relationship with Rachel difficult, but even worse she dredged up feelings he’d thought long buried.

He’d been mistaken in thinking she would know how to conduct herself. She knew nothing of the choices he’d had to make, or what they had cost him.

Cara noted the tightening around his mouth and thought she may have gone too far. “I’m sure your behavior is exemplary.

For a duke.”

“But?” Garret tilted his head slightly, one winged brow raised.

“If you expect your niece to like you, then stop treating her as if she doesn’t exist, or worse is a servant in this house.” She moved to within a foot of the duke, willing him to understand, trying to find some spark of warmth when she searched his eyes. “No wonder the poor girl fades into the background. Do you know
anything
about her?”

The duke’s gaze darkened with an emotion she didn’t recognize. He lifted his hand in slow increments until he cupped her cheek, as if compelled by a force beyond his control. His thumb rubbed feathery strokes at the corner of her mouth. “I admit to a certain amount of ignorance.” His voice dropped to silky persuasion. “Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

She couldn’t breathe. His voice washed over her like dark velvet. Her heart pounded and she had the absurd impulse to step forward, eliminating the space between them. What would he think of her boldness?

Instead, she closed her eyes and turned her face into the warmth of his hand. The moment felt magical, as if his touch awakened her. Perhaps it had. She’d never experienced this kind of attraction for a man.

When she dared a glance at him, he shook his head as if he didn’t understand what had just happened, then dropped his hand. The moment faded, leaving her empty and confused. His eyes were once again light and cold as he rubbed his hand over his jaw. He was probably trying to decide what to do with her.

Dear Lord, he was the duke, yet she’d dared to criticize him. Why couldn’t she have kept quiet? She dropped her gaze and stepped back on unsteady legs as warmth spread through her body. What she wouldn’t give to be able to disappear like the fairies in her stories.

If she hadn’t stood closer than decorum allowed, he would never have dared to caress her cheek. She’d wanted him to touch her, had wanted it since the first day on the stairs.

She needed to control her emotions and stop thinking of him as Prince Charming, or she’d end up as a nobleman’s plaything. She lifted her gaze and raised her chin. If only he didn’t remind her so much of the man she’d been waiting for.

A man who didn’t exist.

He crossed to a window and stared outside for several moments. “Miss McClure, allow me to know how best to handle my niece. I will not tolerate further meddling in my affairs.” His voice sounded strained, no longer smooth and cultured, but somehow more human. He faced her and his expression softened when he met her gaze. “I also want you to report any changes you make in the household.” Wry amusement lurked in his eyes. “Even down to the rearranging of furniture. Is that understood?”

“Of course.” Cara had no idea what amused him, but she thanked the Good Lord she still had employment.

“Now, please reassure my niece you will be staying.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

“And Miss McClure?”

“Yes?”

He took a step toward her, then stopped, his fingers curled into fists at his side. “I do not, as a rule, take liberties with women. But you are my . . .”

“What?” Amazed, she watched frustration flicker across his features before he relaxed his hands and gave a tiny shrug.

“You are unique.”

He turned from her, and Cara slipped from the room. He was the most confusing man she’d ever met.

At the moment, Cara didn’t feel at all ‘unique.’ The large portraits of the duke’s illustrious family seemed to watch her with disapproving eyes as she hurried down the hallway. To show them she didn’t care, she hummed a little tune Tess had taught her. It wasn’t that Belcraven frightened her, but the vastness of the mansion sometimes made her feel lonely. Perhaps she was trying too hard to fit in.

At least she’d had no difficulty in finding her way around. Papa’s lessons on architecture had proven useful at last. She smiled. As a child she’d looked forward to their daily jaunts to visit members of his parish. Eyes shining, Papa would point out the differences in the buildings they passed on the London streets. She could still hear the pride in his voice when he’d praised her for recognizing structures from various centuries.

She admired the ornate white marble floor and walls embellished with molding frames. This hallway had been constructed around the time of George the First. On impulse, she ran her finger along one of the gilt moldings, then examined her fingertip. No dust. She suppressed a chuckle. Thank heavens she wasn’t responsible for cleaning.

One of the many clocks chimed the hour. Five o’clock. She’d best stop dawdling. If she remembered correctly, this passage branched off the oldest part of the mansion. The original keep had been enveloped by red brick over the centuries, but the cool dampness of the gray stone, tucked in the heart of Belcraven, made admirable storage for wine. There should be an entrance on her right before too long.

At the end of the hall, a servant hurried toward her, hands laden with pieces of cloth. Cara recognized the girl, Isabel, who’d led her up the front stairs a fortnight ago. As she drew near, the girl averted her eyes and gave a slight curtsey.

The servant appeared to be uneasy around her, so Cara put on her brightest smile and spoke in a cheerful voice. “Isn’t your name Isabel?”

Startled, the servant met her gaze. “Yes, Miss McClure.”

“I wondered if you could direct me to the wine storage room? I need to inspect the selections for this evening’s meal and I seem to have lost my way.”

Isabel pointed to an entrance on the right, a short distance down the hall. “I could take you.” She blushed. “That is, if you’d be wanting me to.”

At her nod, the girl started toward the archway and Cara joined her. They had only gone a few steps before Isabel blurted, “I’m right sorry ‘bout what I done that first day. It weren’t you I was angry with. I shouldn’t ‘ave done it.”

“Everything turned out for the best.” Cara hoped her smile appeared reassuring. “We all do things we regret when we’re upset.” She chose her words with care. “Was there some reason you were annoyed with Mrs. Shaw?”

Papa would say she was meddling again, but it wasn’t meddling, really. Acting in Lady Mallory’s stead gave her an obligation to find out what was wrong.

Isabel nodded and hugged the cloth to her chest. “I was hired by Mr. Timmons, the butler, as a weaver’s apprentice, but when Mrs. Shaw heard about it she asked Lady Mallory to put me in the kitchen. Mrs. Shaw did need help, but that weren’t the reason. She just wanted to annoy Mr. Timmons.”

Cara had noted the tension between the two. Whenever they were in a room they’d watch each other, yet turn away if their gazes met. It hadn’t made sense until she’d discovered Mrs. Shaw was a widow and Timmons had never married.

What would happen if she forced them to work together? Anticipation at being able to help someone added a spring to her step.