The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke (12 page)

He tried not to think again that he was the brother least likely to solve this tangle. Perhaps he should hand it back to Edward or Gerard, or at least show them how weak their clues were. Grinding his teeth, he went to the writing table and drew out a piece of paper. He wrote a summary of his meetings with Hiram Scott, detailing how blithely unaware the man seemed to be. He wrote of the canal and the ironworks, looking again for any connection to Durham; Edward would know if their father had ever dealt with Scott financially. He asked how likely it was that the postal clerk in Bath had remembered the right man who sent the blackmail letters after so many months. And he inquired how the legal proceedings in London were faring.

That last point made him hesitate. Edward had claimed he gave Charlie everything about it. He could probably read for himself how strong his case was and how well the solicitor had prepared it. All those documents were also in the leather satchel, but he hadn’t read them. He hadn’t finished reading the marriage registers, not even after the last two days of rather conscientious work. They still sat on the side of the writing desk, taunting him.

Charlie looked at his letter. He was the heir. He shouldn’t need his younger brothers’ help—and for the first time, he realized he didn’t want it. He wished he understood Scott’s connection to Durham, and he wished the man had acted in a more illuminating manner, but these were his riddles to solve. How could he ask Edward, who was in London, and Gerard, who was in Bath, to know and do more than he himself, when he was the one in Frome, able to face down Scott at any time? Decisively, he scooped up the letter and tore it in half, then again. He hadn’t achieved anything; therefore, there was nothing to tell his brothers. He would write to them later, once he knew something definite. Whenever that might be.

His good spirits flattened, he debated not going into Frome after all. He wouldn’t be good company. But then he spied the bluebells Mrs. Neville had picked, and remembered how she’d looked at him when he put them in water, and he sent for the gig to be hitched up and brought around.

He knew he was avoiding those infernal registers yet again, but he needed to think of something else, and thinking of Tessa Neville unquestionably raised his spirits. He kept picturing her face as he drove into Frome, her pale green eyes soft and unguarded as she thanked him for a glass of lemonade. As certain as he was that she was warming to him, he knew even more that he was warming to her. He’d never met such a direct woman. When she talked of canals and investment, all wariness and distance dropped from her face. Her eyes grew bright and her voice grew confident and warm. Charlie found himself thinking furiously about canal bills, and wondered what had come over him; he was Charles de Lacey, devil-may-care, good-for-nothing, indolent rake and scoundrel . . . wishing madly he already had his writ to sit in Parliament just so he could tell Tessa Neville with certainty what bills were being promoted this session. His father would be shocked. His brothers wouldn’t recognize him.

He stopped in front of the inn where she was staying and jumped down, taking with him the revived bluebells. His heart skipped as he tossed a coin to the boy who came out to hold his horse and he went inside.

The ladies greeted him with pleasure, and in Mrs. Bates’s case, a glad cry of welcome. Even Mrs. Neville was pleased to see him, giving him her sparkling, direct smile, which had an unwarranted effect on his mood. He handed her the earthen pot with a small flourish.

She shook her head, looking surprised and impressed. “You saved them. Thank you, sir.” She brushed her fingertips over the small blue-violet flowers, setting them swaying on the stalk. “I hope you didn’t go to much trouble.”

Out of nowhere, Charlie wondered how she’d thank him if he ever did her a true service. Something about her bare fingers running through the wildflowers caught his attention and struck him almost dumb. “It was well worth it, for a thing of such beauty,” he said in belated answer to her question. “And not much effort at all. A pot, some dirt . . .” He made a bored face, and after a moment she smiled back, her lips trembling.

“What is this?” chimed in Mrs. Bates, who had watched the exchange with alert, lively eyes. “Oh my, what lovely flowers, Tessa dear!”

It broke the spell. “Yes,” said Mrs. Neville, turning to carry them to the windowsill. “I picked them yesterday and Lord Gresham was kind enough to save them from wilting.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Bates. “How very kind of you, my lord.”

Charlie grinned. He heard the thread of disappointment in her words. Unless he misread everything about her, Mrs. Bates was encouraging his interest in her young friend.

Good God. Interest? The thought had slid through his mind without any preamble or warning, and now Charlie found it impossible to dislodge. He admitted he found Mrs. Neville fascinating and unusual. And beautiful. And . . . very appealing. She leaned over in front of the window to set the pot in a sunny spot, and the reflected light illuminated her face for a moment. Charlie’s gaze moved helplessly over the glossy chestnut curl that had escaped its knot and teased the nape of her neck, over the firm but delicate line of her jaw, over the ripe curves of her bosom. She stood straighter, and the sunlight streamed in around her, limning her figure in sharp, clear relief. She gave the pot a little push and glanced up, spearing him with that clear green gaze. “They should do well here.”

He cleared his throat, which had gone rather dry. “Yes.”

“I expect they’ll thrive,” said Mrs. Bates softly, with an adoring smile. “Tessa will see to it.”

Mrs. Neville waved one hand as she came back to sit beside her on the small settee. “I’ll water them. They are wild bluebells, Eugenie, and will fade in a few days no matter what I do.”

“Nonsense,” cried the older lady, blushing pink. “They will last as long as you tend them!”

She shot her companion an odd look. “You know I’m hopeless with plants.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Neville is correct, ma’am,” said Charlie. “The bluebells will be gone in a few days.” Mrs. Bates’s face fell. “Of course, they are wild, and will bloom again next spring. Plant them in your garden and they will eventually spread to cover the whole garden.”

This time she looked almost proud. “You have a gardener’s soul, my lord.”

He chuckled. “I am a gardener’s son. My mother was very keen on roses, in particular. My earliest memories, in fact, are of digging in the garden with her.” He paused. “I wonder if I ever dug a hole in the right place, though . . .”

“Likely not,” said Mrs. Neville with a smile. “Boys tend to dig with abandon, if my nephew is any guide.”

“All the better to create a mountain,” he replied. “I remember one enterprise, when another boy and I tried to build a mountain so high we could jump from it into the horse chestnut tree by the pasture . . .” He shook his head and sighed as Mrs. Neville laughed. “We were both thrashed and sent to read the story of the Tower of Babel, after we filled in the giant pit we’d dug.”

“Punishment, indeed,” murmured Mrs. Neville.

“Filling in that hole was
cruel
punishment,” he replied, and she laughed, as he’d intended, but Charlie still found himself unprepared for its effect on him. He was more than interested. To tell the truth, he was well on his way to being entranced.

He cleared his throat. “Mr. Scott called upon me,” he said, not caring that he was changing the subject abruptly and almost crassly. “Have you spoken to him?”

Her expression grew serious and alert. “No. Why?”

Charlie made a careless gesture. “There is to be a meeting of the canal company, and he invited me to dine with them.” Pique flashed across her face for a moment, before he added, “He said he would issue the same invitation to you. Since the dinner is to be held in Frome, I would be pleased to escort you.”

“That is very kind of you, sir,” said Mrs. Bates quickly.

“Yes.” Mrs. Neville smiled at him, without any trace of her former prickliness. As if she were pleased he had offered, and pleased to accept. “Thank you.”

God help me, thought Charlie, even as his own grin threatened to split his face. “It will be my pleasure.”

Chapter 10

W
hen Lord Gresham was gone, Tessa felt lighter than she had in days. She told herself it was a relief that his goodwill hadn’t faded, removing any fear that Eugenie, or worse, Louise, would hold her accountable for losing it. And he had brought undeniably interesting tidings of the canal committee dinner. But every time she caught sight of the pot of cheerful bluebells, her lips turned up of their own accord and she had to find something else to occupy her thoughts before she devolved into too deep a contemplation of the man who’d brought them.

“It was ever so lovely of His Lordship to care so tenderly for your flowers,” Eugenie said unhelpfully.

Tessa wiped her smile away, knowing the impression it would give. “Yes, but they are your flowers. I picked them for you.”

“Pish,” the other woman declared. “You picked them, and he brought them to you. They are yours.”

“They are ours, then.” Tessa couldn’t believe she was arguing over a pot of weeds. “Have you got a new nib? Mine broke, and I must write to William.”

“You’ve been writing too many letters to him. What news have you got to report since yesterday?”

Tessa glared at her. The answer was nothing, since she was just cooling her heels until Scott provided the account books. But she needed something to save her from Eugenie’s hints about Lord Gresham. “I didn’t finish my letter of yesterday. The nib broke, you see.”

“He’s likely left for London already,” said Eugenie, sorting through her embroidery silks. “I believe he only cares to hear your final opinion on the canal in any event: yea, or nay. If he had any sort of head for the details you send him, he would be here himself.”

That was true. Tessa fidgeted in her chair, unable to argue even though she wanted to. “It cannot hurt to give him a full view of the project.”

Eugenie snipped a length of bright blue silk. “Nor can it hurt to encourage Lord Gresham’s good opinion of you.”

Tessa froze in place. “Of course not. I never disagreed with that.”

“He seems determined to cultivate
your
good opinion.” Eugenie didn’t look up as she threaded her needle.

“He’s been very kind,” she said stiffly. “But I think he’s mostly fond of you.”

Now Eugenie looked up with an expression of open incredulity. “My dear, you are far more intelligent than that. Handsome young men don’t call on elderly ladies unless there is a lovely young lady to be found nearby.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Eugenie raised her eyebrows. “I’m not the one suggesting Lord Gresham is blind.”

Tessa shot out of her chair, tucking her hands under her elbows to hide the way they clenched into fists. “I don’t know what he wants, Eugenie, but it isn’t me,” she said harshly. It
couldn’t
be. Could it? No, it could not, and even if he did want her, he certainly wouldn’t if he ever heard her history. “You’re imagining things because you feel sorry for me. Don’t. I’m perfectly happy without a husband, and you know why.”

Her companion didn’t buckle and apologize, as expected. She lowered her embroidery to her lap and gave Tessa a long searching look. “Oh my dear,” she said gently, even sadly. “I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re one of the strongest people I know! But can you really be happy as your brother’s steward for the rest of your life? You’re still young enough to marry, to know the joy of loving someone and being loved.” Her lip trembled, and Tessa remembered that Eugenie’s husband had died after only a few years of marriage. “And Lord Gresham is nothing like
that vile man
. Will you really punish yourself for the rest of your life over him?”

She wasn’t punishing herself. She was guarding herself. Once she had fallen all-too-easily for a man’s charm and attention, and she was bound and determined that it would never happen again. Richard had also seemed to want her. When she discovered his true intentions, she lashed out in anger and revenge, damaging her family’s and her own reputation. Only by devoting herself to the family estate had she repaired their trust in her. Being William’s steward, as Eugenie put it, was safe; it calmed her parents’ fears that she was mad, it relieved William’s worries that supporting her would be a burden, and it offered an excuse for why she had never married. The only men she met were tradesmen and merchants, bankers and solicitors, none of whom were suitable matches for a viscount’s sister. Louise was the only one who ever suggested that she might find a husband, and Tessa was sure that desire was solely rooted in Louise’s passion for shopping and spectacle. Planning a wedding for anyone would make Louise ecstatic, and Tessa was the only unwed person of marriage age in the family.

And as long as Lord Gresham was someone to be wary of, she was still safe. As long as he thought of her as a shrew, she was safe from his laughing dark eyes and devilish little smile and chivalrous concern for wilted bluebells. As long as he only wanted an introduction to Hiram Scott from her, she could ignore the little jump in her pulse when he grinned at her, and the way he looked lounging in the sunlight without his coat on. He was an earl—too good for a country viscount’s sister. He was a London gentleman, too elegant for a blunt-spoken, managing female. He might tease her now, marooned in the wilds of Somerset for a few weeks, but when he went back to his real life, he wouldn’t notice her among the beautiful women who must surround him in town.

“He’s not like that vile man,” she agreed at last. Even saying her former fiancé’s name would set Eugenie into a fluttering temper. “I never said he was.”

Eugenie turned her embroidery over a few times, as if debating something. “Would it be such a terrible thing if he did admire you? Because I assure you he does.”

Tessa longed to deny it, just to turn away Eugenie’s questions. But even she, who seemed to have been born without the usual feminine instincts regarding men, had to acknowledge that Lord Gresham paid her a great deal of attention. He was relentlessly polite and good-natured even when she was rude and short with him. He went to great lengths to make her smile, from laughing at himself to delivering wildflowers he planted himself. Tessa’s chest felt tight as she thought of all his actions and what they might mean.

“I’m going to buy a new nib,” she said abruptly, and went to get her pelisse and bonnet before Eugenie could protest.

But walking didn’t help. Tessa strode along as briskly as she could, until her shins burned and there was a stitch in her side, and still Eugenie’s words circled her brain, like smoke trapped in a room until it was suffocating.
He admires you . . . the joy of loving someone and being loved . . . he’s nothing like that vile man . . .
Finally she stopped, out of breath, when she got to the river, and tried to think logically.

Gresham was a handsome man. Excessively handsome, in fact. That was not a fault, or at least not one she could hate him for. Nor was being charming and well-mannered, even if it made her suspicious of his motives. So far, his motives were unexceptional, as far as she could tell. He had done nothing whatsoever to earn her enmity, and had gone out of his way to be charming and kind to her. Eugenie, who despite her frequent silliness was rather good at reading people, thought him the finest man of her acquaintance. And if Eugenie thought he was looking at her with more than mere polite interest . . . he probably was.

Tessa took an unsteady breath and allowed herself to think about it. He might well admire her, even find her attractive, but that didn’t mean he would act upon it. If he did, though . . . she wondered what he would do. In her one previous, disastrous experience with love, Richard had been direct; he told her she was lovely and he kissed her. She hadn’t had to say anything except yes, and then he guided her—right down the road to hell, as it turned out. Lord Gresham, on the other hand, was markedly different from Richard. She’d thought Richard was like her, deep down, while Gresham couldn’t be more different. Unlike Richard, there couldn’t be anything Gresham wanted from her except . . . her. When Richard courted her, she’d been a young lady of good reputation and modest dowry. Now she was older, with a clouded past, and all mention of her dowry had quietly faded. But she was also wiser now, confident of herself in everything except matters of the heart, and this time she would not be so foolishly swayed by a few pretty words. Not even from Lord Gresham.

She found a grassy place to sit, even though the day was cool and breezy. The bracing chill felt good on her face as she thought about the earl. She did like the way he cocked his head in sly amusement. His voice seemed to resonate in her blood, and his laugh made her want to smile even in her crossest temper. There had been that moment the other day in Frome, when he took her arm, and then his gentle words about bluebells. Tessa closed her eyes and shivered. It would be so easy to fall for a man like that, if she could let herself believe it real . . .

But there was the trouble. No matter how charming he seemed, or how attentive he was to her or to hapless wildflowers, Tessa could never get that nagging little voice out of her head. What if his interest sprang from boredom, or some sort of fascination with her unusual manner? What if he was merely a consummate rake and seducer, with a knack for finding every woman’s weakness? What if he was everything decent and honorable, but they were simply too unsuited to each other for any future together? It did little good—and even a great deal of harm—for her to fall in love with a man with whom she had no chance of lasting happiness. Tessa feared, deep down, this was the most likely problem. Lust would fade; fascination would dull; and all that would be left was her unfashionable interests, her lack of elegance, her tendency to speak too bluntly. This was the reason she hadn’t bothered looking at men in that light for several years; not looking was safe. Eugenie had made her look at the earl, but that didn’t mean she had to be foolish about it.

A while later she got to her feet and turned back toward the inn. She had considered the possibility, and found it more appealing than she should, but it was still just supposition on Eugenie’s part. Until Lord Gresham gave some inarguable sign of deeper interest, she would do best to keep on as she was. She could enjoy his company, and even welcome it, but absent anything else, she would guard herself just as carefully as always.