Читать книгу The Duke's Suspicion - Susanna Craig - Страница 14

Chapter 5

Only vaguely aware of his movements, Tristan stepped forward, once more wondering which posed the greater danger: letting Erica walk away, or going after her.

His stepmother settled the question by taking his hands in her own. “Tris! Thank God you’re home.”

Her words and the gentle pressure of her fingers drew his attention to her face. People could be forgiven for wondering whether his father had married his second wife late in life solely because she was young and pretty. Others no doubt assumed that her inheritance, in both property and funds, had been the particular point of interest. But Tristan had always suspected her name.

He bowed over their clasped hands. “Guin.”

The former Miss Guinevere Shepherd, now the Duchess of Raynham, turned her head obligingly to receive his kiss on her cheek. But even after he had straightened, she continued looking over her shoulder.

“Miss Burke seems rather a wild thing. Is it possible you stumbled upon a brownie?”

Tristan gave a small smile. Brownies were domestic spirits, helpers around hearth and home. The creature in this case seemed more likely to cause mischief and mayhem. “A will o’ the wisp, I’d say. Or perhaps a leprechaun.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I caught an Irish lilt.”

“You did.” He fought the impulse to free one hand to fidget with his collar. Had his uniform always been this uncomfortable? “I hope you did not think it was necessary to invite her to dine with us for my sake.”

“For her own, rather. She cannot stay locked in her room, worrying herself into a shadow.” She swiveled her gaze back to him. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that a stranded traveler is beneath a duchess’ notice?” she asked, one eyebrow bent in a scold.

He knew better to suggest any such thing. Guin had never been one to pride herself on rank, contrary to the gossips’ assumption that she had married a man twice her age solely for the elevation of status that had come with it.

As she studied Tristan, the flash of defensiveness in her eyes was quickly replaced by a flicker of curiosity. “She certainly seems to have caught yours…”

He pushed aside the memory of a vibrant curl caressing a curve of pale skin. No, no. It was her journal that had piqued his curiosity. I am not in the habit of reading young ladies’ secret diaries. Not quite a lie, far easier to tell than the truth. And in fact he’d not succumbed to the temptation to read it, though it was impossible not to wonder what the leather-bound book contained. Something that had possessed her to go searching for it wearing…well, very little at all.

Rather than attempt to deny his interest, he led Guin to a chair. “You are well?”

The abrupt turn in the conversation seemed to draw attention rather than divert it. Eyes narrowed, Guin watched him for a long moment before answering. “Well enough.”

Tristan sat facing her and crossed one booted leg over the other knee. “And my sister?”

“Vivi is…” Guin paused to arrange her inky skirts around her, her eyes following the restless movement of her own fingers. “Vivi.”

“She hinted at some difficulty with her governess.”

“I do not believe Viviane is the first child to sneak away from her lessons for an hour,” his stepmother said with a shrug, though the gesture conveyed defeat more than indifference. “She’s bored, Tris. I cannot find a governess whom the girl cannot outwit. Miss Chatham came with impeccable references, and yet…” Her shoulders rose and fell again. “I have thought of hiring a tutor…”

A young man teaching a girl, the two of them closeted alone together for hours? And not just any girl, but the daughter of a duke, who would one day be a wealthy young woman? No, not even for the sake of Viviane’s bright mind would he countenance such a risk. “Next you’ll be talking of sending her off to Harrow,” he said, hoping the retort would pass for teasing. Truth be told, sometimes he feared that even the esteemed boys’ school would be an insufficient challenge for his sister.

“Nonsense. The public schools exist for the sole purpose of beating the creativity out of children.” If she also teased, the edge in her voice undercut the humor.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Quite literally, I’m afraid. And in any case, you couldn’t bear to be parted from your daughter.”

“No,” she confessed and smiled weakly. “You know me too well.”

“I will speak to her,” he said, leaning forward to pat his stepmother’s hand.

“Thank you. She is not quite old enough for a formal dinner, so I did not ask for her to join us tonight.” Perfectly proper, of course. He hid his disappointment with a nod of understanding. “But Vivi hopes to see you upstairs for breakfast, I know.”

Guilt prickled along his spine, forcing him to sit up straighter. How could he have forgotten their schoolroom tête-à-têtes, mornings of toast and marmalade and giggling schoolgirl confidences? “Of course.”

“The sight of your trunk had her in raptures—the fortnight between its arrival and yours was agony. I ordered the servants not to open it until you gave orders, but I learned later that she was so eager to imagine you here, she saw to its unpacking herself. Truth to tell, I could not fault her enthusiasm. Oh, it is good to have you back.” With a sigh of relief, she looked him up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance, lingering over the showy trimmings of his uniform. “And home to stay.”

The last words rose on a questioning note, but he made no answer to them. Though the matter of the trunk suggested she knew something of the secretive nature of his mission, as had his father, his stepmother could not be expected to understand his current dilemma. His disdain for the role that had been thrust upon him, as opposed to the one he’d chosen for himself. The irresolvable tension between society’s expectation that an officer would of course resign his commission in favor of his obligations as a gentleman, and what Tristan had come to see as his greater duty.

The Duke of Raynham safeguarded the well-being of hundreds of tenants.

Major Laurens, however, safeguarded the nation.

And from the moment he had set foot on Hawesdale lands, he had felt the difference like a weight. While his father had buried himself beneath weighty tomes of Arthurian legends, other men had managed Hawesdale Chase admirably. Doubtless they could continue to do so. To replace an intelligence officer’s unique knowledge of the French army’s movements and intentions would be considerably more difficult. Perhaps impossible. Considerably more was at stake than Tristan’s family could ever know.

He had come home, yes. Duty—and his commanding officer—had demanded it.

But he could not promise to stay.

“I hope you are not angry with me?” she ventured.

“For what cause?”

Once more, she cast her eyes downward. “It is no longer my place to invite guests to this house.”

“Into which house ought you to invite them, then?” he asked dismissively. “Hawesdale is your home, and Vivi’s, for as long as you wish it to be.”

“Your future bride may have her own ideas.” She glanced up. Wondering, he supposed, whether he knew of Lord Easton’s plan to marry him to his daughter. Worry clouded her bright eyes.

His first reaction to Vivi’s announcement had been a huff of laughter. As a second son with a proclivity for finding himself in dangerous situations, he had adopted a philosophy of detachment where women were concerned. Lust was an inconvenience to be dealt with in the most efficient manner possible. Love—messy, unpredictable, unnecessary—was to be avoided. Marriage had never entered into his mind.

“Why do you suppose Percy never came to the point with Miss Pilkington?” he asked, skirting, but not entirely avoiding, the subject.

“Oh, you know Percy,” she demurred, although truth be told, neither of them had known his brother especially well. Percy had always kept a rigidly respectful distance from his stepmother, refusing even her suggestion that he use her given name within the family. An attempt to punish their father for marrying a woman younger than his elder son, perhaps. But the shadow of pain that crossed Guin’s expression as she spoke now made it clear she had also felt the slight. “He always was set in his ways.”

A less charitable analysis would suggest that his brother had simply been too much like his father—focused on gratifying his own desires rather than fulfilling his responsibilities, despite the rapid approach of his fortieth year. But surely Percy had known that marriage would not require a duke’s heir to give up the comforts of town life, his clubs, his mistress. “Perhaps he came into the country in the spring intending to propose,” Tristan ventured.

The merest hint of skepticism played around her lips. “Perhaps.”

“Did you ever hear him express any dissatisfaction with the match?”

“No, never. Anyone would say she is an ideal choice for a man in his position. She comes from ancient and impressive families on both her mother’s and her father’s side.”

“And a substantial dowry, I suppose.” Percy would have made sure of everything.

Guin nodded. “I believe so. She’s also quite lovely,” she added, not meeting his eye. Clearly, she did not relish the task of matchmaking, yet she plowed bravely on. “Both in temperament and, er, form.”

He could not call Miss Pilkington’s face to mind, nor anything else about her, but his brother had been nothing if not particular. He doubted Caroline would disappoint.

Upon reflection, he could really think of no rational objection to Lord Easton’s scheme. Percy was gone; no need to wax sentimental upon that point. A woman of Caroline Pilkington’s impeccable breeding and upbringing could prove a useful addition to the corps that managed Hawesdale. In practical terms, a duke needed a duchess. And an heir.

But if today had shown him nothing else, even he could not always be practical.

“Not if she dares to suggest that you and my sister belong anywhere other than Hawesdale.”

Color burned into Guin’s cheeks and disappeared as she rose and moved toward the door. “She had suggested nothing of the sort, and I daresay she would not. You will—you must judge for yourself.” Almost over the threshold, she added, “You shall have ample opportunity to get to know one another—this infernal rain seems determined to hold us all prisoner here forever.”

Though his stepmother had given him much food for thought, her mention of the weather sent his mind straying once again to Miss Burke. Years of gathering information on behalf of the Crown had taught him to be curious. Even, at times, suspicious. No doubt the secrets she kept were perfectly mundane. Nevertheless, he should tell Mr. Armitage, the butler, to post a footman at the entrance to his rooms. He wanted no future intrusions. No surprises.

No tantalizing glimpses of soft linen and softer skin beneath.

With a sharp tug, he straightened a perfectly straight sleeve. If he needed a woman—and obviously he did if he was foolish enough to feel a surge of arousal not just at the sight of Erica’s bare shoulder but, earlier in the day, at even her muddy rump—perhaps he’d better focus his thoughts on Caroline Pilkington after all.

Half an hour later, he descended to dinner. Three steps from the bottom of the staircase, he heard a noise behind him and paused. A rustling sound, the irregular patter of hesitant footsteps, a quiet “oh, dear.” Erica emerged into the sconce’s light, looking over her shoulder as if fearful someone might be following her.

She was wearing a shimmering blue gown, something Guin must have put aside during her mourning. When compared to how Erica had looked in her mud-stained traveling dress, the transformation was extraordinary. And he’d been attracted enough—dangerously so—to the dirty, disheveled version.

He tried to shift out of her path, but too late. Another few steps and they collided.

“Oh. Your Grace. I’m dreadfully sorry. Sorry for bumping into you… Although…well, actually, I’m rather glad I bumped into someone.” As she shifted slightly from side to side, her skirts swayed and caught the light. “I wonder if you could…or rather, if you would, for of course you must know the way to the dining room in your own house…”

He fought the urge to mutter an imprecation against Guin’s generosity. Who was this woman in the garb of a duchess with titian curls tumbling down her back? Half lady, half…he hardly knew what. Siren, perhaps.

Erica caught him studying her. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”

Perhaps he ought to be grateful for the opportunity to keep an eye on his unpredictable guest. “It would be my pleasure to escort you,” he said, holding out an arm.

True to form, she did not take it. “I am sorry about this afternoon,” she said as they walked along the first-floor corridor toward the west wing. “It must have seemed as if I were snooping. You have every right to be angry with me—”

“Nonsense,” he said, a little more adamantly than he had intended. Many things in life were out of a man’s control. All the more reason to keep a tight rein on those things that were well within it. Anger was a reckless emotion that could be easily exploited by one’s enemies.

He was, however, frustrated. Frustrated with himself. He had laid out his life with the utmost care. He didn’t need any diversions. Any distractions. If only he hadn’t… Or she hadn’t… Damn this rain.

“Because of your stepmother’s invitation, then?” she prodded.

“Nonsense.” A surprisingly useful response where Miss Burke—and his interest in her—were concerned. He would repeat it until he was convinced of its truth.

“I have no wish to intrude on a family party. If you’ll make my excuse to the duchess, I’ll gladly return to my room,” she insisted. Panic flickered through her eyes as she cast a glance toward the footmen who stood ready to open the dining room doors. Despite the elegance of the gown, she looked like a wild creature caught in a trap.

Why subject her to the Lydgates’ stares or the tight-lipped disapproval of the rector’s wife? Why compare her side by side with Caroline just to remind himself of the sort of woman a man in his position ought to desire? It would be kinder just to let Erica go.

But he was a duke now. And if he’d learned anything at all from his father, he knew that dukes were rarely kind and sometimes—often—selfish.

“Nonsense,” he told her, his voice softer now. Draping her hand over his arm, he led her across the threshold.