The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (10 page)

He handed the reins to the groom who came running when he stopped in front of the cottage. The front door stood open, and he found Barnes in the sitting room supervising a handful of servants, all dusting and sweeping and polishing. Charlie gave him a brief nod and walked through the rest of the house. It was small, dark, and sparsely furnished, but isolated and private, and there were no neighbors to argue loudly at nights. And he only had to endure it for a few days, so it was perfect.

Barnes found him in the main bedroom, looking out over the ruins of the mill on the nearby stream. “Will it do, my lord?” he asked.

“Perfectly.” Charlie nodded. “Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Carry out a table and chair over there,” Charlie added, indicating a sunny spot near the old mill. “And fetch something to eat and drink. No, I don’t need that anymore,” he added as Barnes made a motion toward the cane, propped in the corner. His valet nodded and slipped from the room.

Charlie flexed his foot, stretching his healing leg. It was a bit stiff from driving back and forth to Mells, but not beyond what he could bear. He was done with the cane, just as he was done avoiding his duty. With one last deep breath, he turned. The leather dispatch case Edward had given him was sitting on the dressing table, waiting. It had been waiting for a while now, and finally he was ready to face it. Confronting Hiram Scott had revealed nothing—yet. It was time to read the Fleet minister’s wedding registers.

Chapter 8

T
he next few days seemed to drag by. Tessa was normally quite capable of occupying herself, but for some reason she felt out of sorts and restless. It might be Frome itself; the village was small and dull, with only a few shops and a lone, rather dismal coffeehouse. She wrote to William, took her usual brisk morning walks for exercise, and found herself with nothing to do by midday. Even Eugenie had a novel to savor.

She wished Mr. Scott had gathered the materials she wanted in good time. The day after her trip to Mells, he sent a brief note, apologizing for not having the books ready but explaining he had to make a trip to Poole and would be away for a day or two. Since he wanted to be at hand to answer any questions she might have, he hoped she would forgive him another delay. There was nothing Tessa could reply but that she understood completely, even though she wanted to browbeat him. Really, how hard was it to bring out the canal company account books and let her read them? He was the treasurer of the company and as such maintained the accounts himself. They were probably kept in his very own factory. He professed complete understanding of her desire to see them, but he certainly wasn’t making it quick or easy for her to do so. If she were a man, Scott wouldn’t be so cavalier about putting her off repeatedly. Tessa wondered in aggravation if she’d have more luck getting to see the books if she persuaded Lord Gresham to ask for them.

Well—there was no question she would. Scott would trip over himself to fetch the books for the earl. If only there were a way to ask Lord Gresham without seeming too forward and presumptuous. Or even any way at all to ask him, because after he accompanied her to the ironworks, His Lordship hadn’t called on them once.

Eugenie blamed her for this, Tessa knew. When he didn’t call the day after their visit to Mells, Eugenie asked timidly if there had been any disagreements between them. She said no, but rather too quickly, and saw the disappointment on her companion’s face. She tried to tell herself it was the truth, but as another day dragged on without him, she began to wonder, uncomfortably, if he’d been more offended than he appeared to be. She had apologized for calling him indolent, and invited him to come along on her tour, but there was no question Lord Gresham had come away in a dark temper, and hadn’t spoken half as much on the drive home as on the drive out. It made her uneasy and annoyed all at once. She knew she had less social grace than everyone else, and that she was often too blunt for her own good. But Lord Gresham, with his provoking little smiles and devil-may-care laugh, hardly seemed the sort of take deep offense so easily. If he had put on some easygoing pose just to lure her into greater indiscretion . . .

She caught herself and wondered what had come over her. She was too insignificant to have such an effect on Lord Gresham. He claimed he’d only wanted an introduction to Mr. Scott, which he had duly gotten, so perhaps he was just done with her—and with Eugenie by extension. It would decimate her opinion of him if that were true, but she didn’t know him, and heaven knew, most aristocrats wouldn’t hesitate to act that way. In fact, it would only confirm her original feeling about him, which ought to have added the prospect of some vindication, but somehow she felt more betrayed than anything. She had wanted to hate him, and now that he’d made her like him instead, she didn’t want to hate him again.

This tortured thought sent her to her feet. It was a warm, sunny day, and she was going mad in this small inn. “I shall go for a walk,” she told Eugenie, who was embroidering listlessly by the window. “Would you like to come along?”

“No, dear,” sighed her companion. She poked her needle through the cloth again and glanced out into the street. “I shall stay here. My ankle is feeling very tender again.”

Left unspoken was Eugenie’s lingering hope Lord Gresham might call. It hadn’t escaped Tessa’s notice that Eugenie stationed herself by the window overlooking the street every day, with her book or her sewing in hand. It only increased her own guilt, that she had driven the earl away without even knowing how.

She put on her lightest pelisse and went out, determined to quiet her nerves with vigorous exercise. She struck out away from town, wanting more peace than the streets of Frome offered. The Somerset countryside lacked the idyllic serenity of Wiltshire, where she had grown up, but there was a kind of beauty in the wildness of the land, and she occupied herself with studying the unfamiliar flora as she strode briskly along the rutted roads. Anything to get Lord Gresham’s wicked grin out of her mind . . .

After a while she began to feel more herself. It was the inactivity, she decided; at home she had plenty to do and therefore little time for her mind to wander to inconsequential questions, like why Lord Gresham had paid her any attention in the first place or why he had abruptly stopped. Tessa preferred things that way. She didn’t want to be cross and bewildered over the actions of that man, or any man. In a few days she would be done here in Frome and would go on to London, returning to her family, where everything was normal and no handsome earls would bedevil her sensible, well-ordered life.

Of course, London would hold a new host of trials. It wouldn’t be so bad if only William and his wife, Emily, would be there. William respected her desire to forge her own way, and Emily would never dream of coercing her into attending balls and soirees where the ladies would discuss nothing more important than how one was ever to learn the latest fashions from Paris, given the rude impositions of war. But this time Louise would be there, full of determination to establish herself among the ton. Louise would insist that she go to balls and masquerades and Venetian breakfasts; her sister couldn’t fathom how any female could be utterly indifferent to fashions and gossip. Tessa had tried to explain that she chose her clothing based on what appealed to her own eye, not what other women were wearing, and that she only cared about gossip if the scandals involved would impinge on her life, but she might as well have been speaking some African tongue. Louise waved her hands and said she understood perfectly, and then went right on trying to coax her into new dresses and hinting that certain gentlemen didn’t mind a lady well past her youth.

That last thought always made Tessa scowl. A patch of bluebells caught her eye and she waded into the field to pick some. She didn’t feel old, except when Louise started with her hints. Why must a woman be old when she wasn’t yet thirty? It wasn’t even half of her life, most likely. Her great-grandmother had lived to the glorious age of eighty-three, hardly allowing that she was old then. Tessa picked her flowers, tugging firmly to get them up by the roots so they would stay fresher longer when she put them in water. And what did it matter to Louise if she married or not? It would be one thing, she supposed, if Louise had been happily married and merely wanted the same joy for her sister, but no; rarely had a day gone by during Lord Woodall’s life when Louise didn’t complain about him in some way. Tessa thought many of her sister’s complaints were valid, but then, that was also Louise’s fault for marrying a boring, unintelligent man whose main interest in life was shooting whatever bird happened to be in season. Far better to be unmarried than wed to someone wretchedly dull, in Tessa’s opinion. At times, in her darker humors, she thought Louise wanted her to get married just so she wouldn’t be the only one unhappy.

But now Louise
was
happy. She was moving her family to London, free at last of Lord Woodall’s parsimonious drudgery and away from William’s rather nervous oversight. She was a widow with a plump jointure, still attractive and relatively young. She would have all the fashions she could afford and all the gossip she could stand, and Tessa hoped she enjoyed every minute of both. She was only sorry Louise had decreed she must go, too. The one true disadvantage of being unwed was her dependence on her family. Louise usually managed to wear William down when she set her mind to something, which meant he had eventually agreed that Tessa
could
be spared from Rushwood for a few months; that Tessa
ought
to make an effort to widen her circle of acquaintances beyond their small village in Wiltshire; and that Tessa
would
find a husband if she only made herself look for one, preferably in London where she might have a clean slate with eligible gentlemen and no one would remember that terrible business with Richard Wilbur. With no money of her own, Tessa had little choice but to give in, just as she’d had to give in and bring Eugenie with her to Somerset, even though Eugenie didn’t want to come. In many ways she and Eugenie were in much the same boat. They were both dependent on William’s support, and both of them must abide by his wishes. The fact that she was his sister, while Eugenie was only a distant cousin, didn’t change the fact that William’s word was the final one.

She stood and stretched her back, clutching her wild bouquet in one dirty glove. The sunlight was beginning to slant; it was growing late in the afternoon, time to return to the inn. She looked around to get her bearings, and realized with a start she was just down the road from Mill Cottage, where Lord Gresham had said he was staying.

For a moment she stood there, the wind ruffling the grass and wildflowers around her. She had no reason to go to Mill Cottage, and it was improper for a lady to call on a gentleman anyway. Not that she wanted to call on him; no, she wanted him out of her mind. She repeated this to herself as she tramped out of the field, climbed up the bank to the road, and headed back toward Frome . . . past Mill Cottage. It was the most direct route, after all, and merely walking past his house meant nothing.

In spite of herself, she couldn’t help slowing for a cautious look at the house as she passed. It was a rustic but charming cottage, built of weathered stone with a gravel drive leading to it. As she walked, an old mill came into view, set behind the house on the stream that burbled along parallel to the road. It was peaceful and quaint, and for a moment she envied Lord Gresham his retreat. Being able to sit in the sunshine by the stream must be very pleasant on a day like this.

Which, she told herself a moment later in embarrassment, was probably why he was doing just that. A slight rise had blocked her view, but out on the sun-drenched lawn by the old mill sat the Earl of Gresham. He was lounging in a chair, one booted foot propped on another chair as he read a book. He wore no coat or hat, and as she watched, he ran one hand through the dark waves of his hair and tossed his book on the table beside him. He put up both his feet, and reclined even farther in his chair, letting his head drop back as if he wanted the sun on his face. Tessa stood rooted to the spot. He was blindingly handsome even when being arrogant and proper; lounging in his chair, relaxed and easy, he was irresistible. Even she, who was never blinded by men’s looks, couldn’t look away. And some small part of her heart wondered again, with a pang, what she’d done that ended his interest and attentions.

Another man came from the house, carrying a tray with a pitcher. A servant, she guessed. He placed the tray on the table and stacked up several books alongside it. He must have said something to Lord Gresham, because Tessa caught the impression of a grin on the earl’s face, and a whisper of his laugh drifted to her on the breeze. But then Gresham lifted his head and looked right at her, and she jerked around, flushing at being caught staring. She started walking again, clutching her bluebells and fixing her eyes on the road in front of her.

“Mrs. Neville,” he called. “Mrs. Neville!”

She stole a sideways glance from under her eyelashes and grimaced. He was coming toward her, striding across the grass at such a clip, he’d be upon her before she could scurry around the spinney of trees ahead. She was caught. She forced herself to stop instead of breaking into a run, as her instinct urged. “Lord Gresham. How do you do?”

“Very well, now.” He grinned at her and made a brief bow. “Are you out walking?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have circled Frome three times and finally needed a new vista.”

He laughed. “How delightful you came this way! Won’t you sit down and rest a moment? My man Barnes has just brought out some fresh lemonade.”

Tessa hesitated. Louise would probably say it was improper, but Eugenie would say the earl could do no wrong. Sitting outdoors in full view of the road was hardly a scandalous tête-à-tête. And she was very fond of lemonade, which was quite a luxury in so rustic an area. “Thank you, sir. Fresh lemonade is too tempting to refuse.”

“I knew I would find something,” he murmured. “Come—Barnes, fetch another glass,” he called to the servant, who had followed him halfway across the drive. Barnes nodded and went back into the house.

Tessa ignored his comment and walked beside him, a careful distance apart. “A very peaceful spot,” she said. “And such a lovely day to enjoy it.”

“Indeed. If only I were free to indulge in a walk, as you did.” Tessa snuck a glance at the books on the table as they reached it—rather musty looking journals of some sort—but he didn’t mention them. “I see you are taking some of Nature home with you.”

“Oh.” Tessa looked down at her bluebells, already beginning to wilt. “Mrs. Bates is fond of bluebells.”

“Is she well?” He pulled out the chair he’d been lounging in and gestured to it. Tessa sat, feeling awkward and self-conscious. She really oughtn’t to be here. Now she would have to talk to him.

“She is well,” she replied to his question. “Frome doesn’t offer many entertainments, though. I fear we are both beginning to languish.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve found
any
entertainments in Frome?”

Tessa smiled ruefully. “I didn’t expect to.”

“Ah, yes; you came on business.” The servant brought out a tray with glasses, and Lord Gresham said nothing while the man poured lemonade for them. “Has Mr. Scott answered your questions?”

“No.” Tessa ran one finger down the side of her glass, then picked it up and took a small sip. It was bracingly tart and cool, exactly as she liked it. She closed her eyes and took another, longer sip. “Not yet.”