Luncheon consisted of cold meats and an assortment of breads and fresh greens, which were followed by an offering of cheeses. In the formal dining room and seated at the other end of the long table from the duke, Yancey remained quiet as she ate her fill. A need to be fortified for her upcoming jaunt into town with him accompanying her lay behind her behavior. She couldn’t believe this twist. Shopping for gowns had only been her excuse and certainly not her intention when she’d come downstairs and knocked on his study door. As it stood now, though, she would actually have to engage in the tiring activity. Damn. How the devil would she pay for a wardrobe of gowns? Mr. Pinkerton would not be amused should she be forced to put them on her expense account.
All she’d wanted from the duke, when she’d knocked on his study’s closed door, was his cooperation in ordering a vehicle, or at least a saddled horse, to be placed at her disposal. Only he could give such an order. Then, once she had her conveyance, she’d meant to slip away to the village and post a letter—a formal report she’d written this morning and so couldn’t possibly send from the manor because it was addressed to the famous Mr. Pinkerton.
Even now, the letter to her employer was tucked into her skirt pocket. Though not heavy in its own right, it held the emotional weight of a good-sized stone weighing her down. She had created it and now had the responsibility of it. A very incriminating thing it would indeed be too should it be discovered by anyone here. She’d have a lot of explaining to do. Still, despite that risk, she was glad she had composed it. The very act of writing it had put her firmly back on track with her mission here. She’d of course left out her embarrassing faint and then the kiss. A very complicating kiss from a very complicated man.
Stealing a glance at the duke as he spoke patiently to Her Grace Nana, also in attendance at table with them, Yancey exhaled her distress. The handsome, arresting man was a craving she could not satisfy. Around him, she had no sense of objectivity, much less decorum. She wanted only to run her hands over his body, tear her hands through his hair, and pull him to her.
Such heated thoughts, accompanied by sensual visions, had Yancey inadvertently tightening her hand around the warm, buttered bun she’d all but forgotten she held. Melted butter ran between her fingers. Shocked and dismayed, but undetected, she surreptitiously plopped the mess onto her plate and wiped her hands clean on the linen napkin in her lap.
Imbecile, she admonished herself. Around him, you behave more the harlot than the seasoned detective. You could be swimming in murderers and you wouldn’t even know it. Pay attention to your job and not your … heart.
Easily said, but it wasn’t her heart that was throbbing at the moment. Yancey fidgeted in her chair, trying her best to subjugate her desire to her will. She worked to convince herself that she was suffering only a momentary weakness and she had only herself to blame. But the truth was she was angry with him. Did he really intend to pretend that he hadn’t kissed her? As a duke, had he thought nothing of taking whatever lay under his roof—or atop one of his beds? Well, she couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. Still, should he try it again, now that she wasn’t recovering from a swoon, he’d have a big surprise coming. She knew a thing or two about disabling a man, whether he be amorous or murderous.
Thus fortified, Yancey took her last swallow of a white wine they’d been served. As she did, she again eyed her handsome and enigmatic host at the other end of the long table. He was pointedly ignoring her. Evil man. Yancey’s grip tightened on her wine glass. Fearing it would go the way of the bun, she carefully set it down and lowered her gaze until she stared at her plate. She needed to remember that she was a woman of twenty-six years with six years of undercover detective experience behind her. Why, she even had a notch on her gun. Not that she was proud of the life she had taken, and not that it was the first one … but there it was, nonetheless.
And regarding this duke her body so yearned for? She needed to remember that, despite her not wanting it to be so, he could prove yet to be the enemy here. She must focus on that and nothing else. Along those lines, how, with the duke in attendance, was she going to post her letter? And again, how would she pay for those gowns? Well, she’d just pray the dressmaker had no ready-mades. Suddenly it occurred to Yancey that she didn’t have to buy a thing. A lady could simply not like what was shown her. There. Solved. She felt better for that. But other problems remained.
Namely, she hadn’t counted on—and she didn’t think the duke had, either—the general excitement the announcement of a trip into town had caused. Her Grace Nana had insisted on forgoing her nap and going along into town. Absolutely insisted. And won. That meant, as it turned out as lunch proceeded, that Mrs. Convers, Nana’s nurse, would also have to go.
Then Mr. Marples, perhaps sensing the excitement in the air, had chased around and yapped until, in the interest of sanity, the terrier had won a place in the carriage, as well. And that meant someone would have to go along to watch the dog. As it turned out, Scotty was awarded that office as he was the only two-legged creature the dog would obey. Yancey amused herself envisioning the sight that huge man would make with a tiny dog on a lead held by him.
But petitions to go along to town hadn’t stopped there. Over fruit and cheese, Mrs. Edgars, the dour housekeeper, had presented a very lengthy list of needed household goods that the duke had read and grown testy over, finally telling her it would be simpler if she came along and purchased them herself. And then that sober lady had asked His Grace for Robin’s addition to the party since she was now a lady’s maid and needed to observe how to choose personal items for “my lady.”
That was when everyone had looked at Yancey, and she’d been reminded that she was “my lady.”
By this time, too, near the end of luncheon, the duke had been obliged to call for two vehicles to be readied. Which meant that both drivers and various pages would now also be in attendance. This had put the duke in a decidedly foul humor. He’d all but yelled that only in this most singular of households would a duke be taking his entire household on a jaunt into town. He certainly hoped they all realized that were this London, it would not be occurring, and as it was, this was a one-time event that would not be repeated in future.
Through all this, Yancey had kept her head down, her thoughts to herself, and pronounced herself glad she was isolated at the other end of the table … and apparently beneath the man’s notice.
* * *
“What? No cats?” the duke had roared when, about thirty minutes after luncheon ended, they’d all assembled in the grand foyer. The women had been pulling on gloves and hats and chatting amiably with each other up until that point, when they all froze, Yancey among them.
At that roared question, Nana had raised the lid on the basket she carried to reveal one of the cats. And so their parade … or “damned traveling circus complete with animals” as the duke had called their troupe … was completed.
And now, here they all were on the road to the nearest village and, no doubt, Yancey feared, high adventure on this warm and lovely spring afternoon. Around them birds sang happily and bees buzzed softly. A light breeze seemed to accompany them of its own accord, and the air smelled sweet with hay and the scent of wild flowers. Spirits were high.
And Yancey sat smashed against the duke in the crowded barouche that led the way to the village. Across from her and facing them sat Her Grace Nana and her silent nurse. Suddenly, to Yancey, this was an amusing turn of events, and she bit back a smile that surely would require explaining. She’d had the sudden thought that she could buy all the gowns she wanted. After all, she was—to everyone’s thinking—Her Grace, the Duchess of Somerset. So, then, could the man sitting next to her deny her anything? Would he dare? She was about to find out. And turnabout was fair play.
“You’re awfully quiet, my dear.”
My dear? Pulled back to the moment by the duke’s endearment, as much as by his comment to her, Yancey glared at the man behind whose shoulder she was all but stuffed in the thankfully open barouche. Her first instinct was to put him in his place, but then she caught his very pointed stare at her.
Yancey cocked her head in question. He angled his chin in the direction of their carriage companions. Realization dawned. He was playing his part as her husband. And she was the one who had foisted this masquerade on them both. So she must play her part … until he relieved her of it. “Am I that quiet, Your Gra—Mr. Trey—uh, Sam?” What the devil should she call him in public and in front of a servant? “Does my silence concern you?”
His amused expression surprised her. “Had I good sense it would.”
What a wonderful opening. Yancey smiled sweetly up at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “Well, then, thankfully, you have none to upset you.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “A well-aimed barb. Touché, madam.”
Pleased with herself, barely hiding her smirk of victory, Yancey looked away from the duke and caught the gaze of the nurse seated across from her. The woman’s florid complexion capped her round-eyed stare of evident confusion. No doubt, she found this exchange most interesting and would, in all probability, carry tales back to the manor about the duchess who didn’t seem to know what to call her husband. And how the two of them spent the ride into the village insulting each other.
But as for Her Grace Nana, that sweet little woman was cheerfully oblivious and occupied with holding on to her cat. Whichever one it was—Mary, Alice, or Jane—she held it up, allowing it to take in the rolling hills of the countryside. At every turn, respectful bows and curtsies were sent their way by people walking on the roadside or traveling past in wagons.
“Well, then, Sarah,” Sam, the duke, said into the quiet. He stretched his arm out to put it familiarly around her shoulders, knowing there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. “Perhaps I should instead fear your wit and quick tongue. I feel certain you could use both to weaken the kingdom. Or lighten my purse.”
Yancey sent him a look she hoped would fry him on the spot, but disappointingly didn’t. “You assign me great powers. Or capability for great treachery, I don’t know which.”
“Both, actually.” He ducked his chin and stared into her eyes, his own gaze bearing the bright gray sheen of pewter. “But am I off the mark in my assessment?”
Damning her own heart for pitter-pattering over the tantalizing feel of his thigh intimately brushing her leg and of his arm around her shoulders, Yancey smiled and lifted her chin, managing to look away from him. “It remains to be seen, doesn’t it”—she paused for effect—“my dear husband?”
The duke’s reply was a husky laugh, a knowing sound a lover would make in the privacy of his bed after lovemaking. Yancey felt a delicious shiver slip over her skin, one that awakened her anew to the dangers this man posed to her sensibilities. Just how far away was this village? she fussed irritably. How much longer must she suffer being so openly and intimately corralled by a man who had her pulse fluttering at just the sound of his voice?
Just then, as if her plaintive thought had conjured it up, the village appeared around a bend in the road that passed between two hills dotted with cattle and horses.
“And here we are, my sweet,” the duke announced with a sweep of his hand in the direction of the clustered stores and houses ahead. “Lakeheath-on-Somerset. I hope you find it to your liking. After all, it is mine. Or, rather, ours.”
She ignored his last mine-and-ours statement, focusing instead on his saying he hoped she found the village to her liking. Interesting. Yancey looked up at the duke, whose attention was on the fast-approaching town. She noted his determined jaw, his square chin, and his clean-shaven skin. Undeniably handsome.
But her mind was racing with other realizations. His wife had never been here. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have expressed a hope that she liked the village. Yancey supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, given that no one in his household had known any different yesterday when she’d told them she was the duchess. Still, she found it exceedingly odd that he had not brought his wife, to all appearances, back with him to England.
Suddenly he looked down at her—and caught her staring. An amused grin lit his features. “Yes?”
“It’s lovely, Your Gra—Sam. The town, I mean.” Yancey stopped her sputtering and took a deep breath for calm. Then she subtly leaned toward him, all but whispering in an effort not to be overheard. “What the devil should I call you? Sam? Samuel? Your Grace? After all, we are in public, and I don’t know the correct form.”
His grin, which showed white and even teeth, had Yancey catching her breath. Would the day ever come when her body didn’t jump to show its appreciation for him? “Oh, I’m certain other dukes would prefer the formal. But blame my years in America for relaxing the rules in my own household—this unorthodox outing being a prime example—and for giving me a liking for informality. In other words, you may call me Sam.” He paused, as if thinking about that. “However, for the sake of propriety, I suppose you should refer to me as His Grace to the town’s people.”
Glad that was cleared up, she nodded and turned her attention once more to the looming village. And found it was indeed lovely. Neat. Clean. Flower boxes and flower beds abounded. As their carriage approached the town square, in its center Yancey saw a water well encircled by bench seats. These were occupied by a well-dressed assortment of the young and the old. Over here were women laden with shopping baskets and small children. Over there, gentlemen strolled along the narrow streets, entering and exiting shops of every variety, including a pub and an apothecary. All around them, older children ran to and fro, usually followed by a barking dog or two. Young mothers with babies stood in knots, chatting and comparing infants and, no doubt, husbands.
All in all, Yancey noted, commerce seemed to be thriving and the people appeared prosperous. Surprising her was how proud that made her feel. As if she’d had anything to do with it. Then she realized that her pride was in the duke. Sam. Her … husband. She hadn’t thought much of the British system of hereditary land ownership and titles, but here was evidence of it working at its best. All of this prosperity was possible because of Sam’s and his predecessors’ efforts, she concluded.
Then she heard herself. Sam’s? Yancey marveled at how easily his name was coming to her mind already. How natural it seemed. Sam. Samuel. Samuel Isaac Treyhorne. Her husband. The Duke of Somerset. No. Not her husband or anything else. Merely a person involved in her active and ongoing investigation into a crime.
Just then the Duke of Somerset leaned in close to her ear to whisper something. When he did, Yancey felt the soft little hairs on the back of her neck stiffen in response. “Just do as I do,” he offered helpfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Look around you.”
Yancey did and saw that evidently word of their approach had preceded them. And now, much like a soft wind that carried their titles aloft and whisked and whirled them through the narrow hard-packed dirt streets of the town, whispers of conversation came to her ears. “The duke.” “It’s the duke.” “His Grace and his lady.” “The duchess! At last, the duchess.” “What does she look like?” “How does she seem?” “Is the duke well? Is his lady?” “Look—it’s Her Grace Nana, the grand old lady.” “Oh, this is a glorious day.”
As the two carriages passed, one in front of the other—Scotty, Mr. Marples, Mrs. Edgars, and Robin being in the second barouche—conversations ceased and everyone rose to their feet. Looking agog with excitement and wonder, the women curtsied and pulled children to them, getting them out of the way of the vehicles. While the older children stared boldly, the toddlers shyly peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts. The men doffed their hats and bowed. Amazingly, to a last person, they showed their respect and deference.
Yancey had expected that her American blood would hate what she called bowing and scraping. In fact, she had feared she’d see resentment and ill will on some of the people’s faces. But she found none. Didn’t that say something about the Treyhornes, that they would be held in such esteem? It must. Indeed, the villagers behaved as if the carriages were stocked with conquering heroes.
To her utmost surprise and chagrin, Yancey liked the attention. She basked in it, wanting to wave and greet these people as if she’d known them all her life. How to explain this response of hers? Even in Chicago, she hadn’t behaved this way. Instead, she was aloof, a loner, preferring not to be noticed. But here in Lakeheath-on-Somerset, a lovely town actually built on the shores of a large blue lake surrounded by carpets of blooming heath, she felt at home. What was this feeling? Where was it coming from?
“Just ignore them for the most part,” the duke said out the side of his mouth.
“I will not,” Yancey protested in a harsh whisper. “How rude.”
The duke’s exhale had the quality of a long-suffering sigh. “They will expect you to. But if you must, a discreet wave or regal nod of your head”—he demonstrated both in the direction of the delighted citizens he’d thereby singled out—“will suffice. It’s not necessary to hug everyone and kiss the babies.”
“I had no intention of—”
“No doubt. But let me assure you the barest form of notice from you will be bragged about for weeks and can cause hard feelings or accusations of favoritism. I promise you there will be aggrieved feelings and, before long, you will have petitioners on the doorstep wanting your notice and favor, too.”
So he wasn’t simply being pompous. The duke knew his people and he knew his business, which, it occurred to Yancey, was being a nobleman. “I see,” she said, contrite, yet with a growing sense of the heavy responsibility that was placed upon the shoulders of the realm’s peers. “Thank you for that lesson, Your Grace.”
He chuckled. “My, my, I am honored. A thank-you from you. How much did that cost me?”
Just then, the carriage drew to a stop. Yancey glanced to her right. The dressmaker’s shop. She smiled her widest smile for the duke. “Not nearly as much as my gowns will … my husband.”
He caught her meaning and his wonderful gray eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, but I would … Sam, darling.”
* * *
That evening, with a double shot of a fine whisky as his only company, Sam sat alone in the lavishly furnished and carpeted drawing room. Achingly formal, the long, wallpapered room wasn’t his favorite one in the manor. But he did favor its high ceilings and the double sets of French doors, closed now against the night’s chill. His mother had expertly decorated it with names like Wedgwood and Chippendale. Porcelain vases stuffed with fresh flowers and ornamental bric-a-brac of exquisite quality owned every tabletop. Surrounding him too were a swirl of tall potted plants. Scattered about the room were three separate arrangements of brocaded suites meant to allow for intimate conversation.
Dressed no less formally than the room, Sam awaited Miss Calhoun and his dinner. Miss Calhoun. A grin tugged at his lips. He shook his head and chuckled. She’d certainly won the day—and ten new gowns, all at his expense. The woman was a force of nature. He hadn’t fully realized that until he’d seen her with the people of Lakeheath-on-Somerset. They’d immediately adored her. No matter which shop she’d frequented—and she had frequented them all—she’d woven a spell of cheer over the entire town. How happy the people had been to see him at last with his lady.
Sam frowned. What would they say when they found out she was nothing more than an impostor? No doubt, his tenants would storm the manor with pitchforks and torches held aloft. Surprisingly, the fact that she was so obviously American hadn’t seemed to bother the townspeople in the least. They’d thought her charming and had told him so. And there he’d been, forced into the background and allowed only to stand around grinning stupidly in her wake and toting all of her purchases.
The proper husband. The picture of connubial bliss. Sam’s smile faded into a frown. Connubial bliss. Had that been what he’d experienced today? He’d never known it with his real wife. And yet he had with Miss Calhoun. Infectious happiness. Peace. Warmth. Conviviality. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Sam realized that he couldn’t allow this warm feeling of contentment to own him. He already suspected that his delightful little impostor was charming him for some nefarious purpose. And he wasn’t proving to be too difficult a mark, was he?
Just as he’d done earlier that afternoon, Sam reminded himself that he knew what he had to do. Have it out with her, or attempt to. He sipped at his liquor, feeling its warmth curl around in his stomach as he stared into the fireplace where a fire roared. He would ask her direct questions and expect direct answers. If she refused to answer him, or if he wasn’t satisfied with her answers, then she would be leaving tomorrow morning—and hang his mother’s alleged invitation.
In truth, and he was only now willing to admit it, he feared less any treachery in which Miss Calhoun might be involved than he did the fact that increasingly he didn’t care what it was. He wanted her here, plain and simple. And that could put her in physical danger. It hadn’t hit him until they’d been on their way back to the manor this afternoon, but he’d suddenly realized that allowing her to pose as his duchess—which he did hoping to divine what her reason might be for such a pretense and to see how far she would take it—could conceivably put her in harm’s way, if any of his suspicions regarding Geoffrey’s death proved to be true. Meaning, if he was the next target, then she could also be.
Sam drained his measure of whisky. Eyeing the fireplace, he fought his urge to hurl the glass against the cold marble fronting it. Damn. He must call her bluff and send her away. For her own good.
Would he never know peace? Or happiness? The words were a familiar lament to him. What had he done that he didn’t deserve it? First, a little over a year ago, things with his wife Sarah had come to a head. And right on the very heels of what he’d gone through with her, Geoffrey’s sudden, suspicious death had occurred. And that had forced Sam to return here to shoulder the responsibilities of being a duke. He’d much preferred the freedom of being a fortune-seeking second son.
And now? Just when he’d come to grips with it all, and just as he was making peace with this new life, this new Sarah had arrived. A riveting and desirable woman of mystery. He thought of her now, recalling how she’d felt in his arms last night … warm, sweet, feminine. How she’d raged at him today like a tiger. And how her mouth had tasted this morning when he’d stolen that kiss … hot, inviting, questing.
A grin of purely male lust claimed Sam’s mouth. What would it be like, he wondered, to possess such a woman fully? Would she be like a summer storm that comes out of nowhere and threatens the day’s calm? A sudden squall that could swamp a ship at sea? A woman who could make him forget he was supposed to be a gentleman bound by rigid dictates of polite behavior? One who could, with but a sign from her, and in a rage of lust, sweep her off her feet and carry her up the stairs to his bed, only to—
The heavy double doors into the room opened behind him. Sam jumped to his feet, not an easy thing to do given his state of arousal. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat and tugged on his vest with his free hand. He straightened his formal swallow-tailed coat. Like a preening peacock, he irritably accused himself. Still, excitement filled his veins and rooted him to the spot. He gripped the glass in his hand so tightly that he expected it to shatter into shards.
In walked the huge and lumbering, very sober Scotty. He caught Sam’s eye and said, “The duchess.”
The very words weakened Sam’s knees. For one ironic second he didn’t know exactly who to picture. In quick succession, he saw his mother’s face … then his wife’s … then Miss Calhoun’s. He blinked, realizing that Scotty could only mean Miss Calhoun. “Very well. Show her in, Scotty.”
The butler stepped back, making way, and in swept Miss Calhoun. Just inside the room, she stopped suddenly and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before in her life. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. The distance between them in the long room seemed to disappear as if in a rush of attracted bodies. He felt as if she were only inches from him, and that he had merely to reach out to touch her. Yet she remained so very far away and out of his grasp.
Sam raked his gaze up and down her. In a word, she was stunning. Gone was his desire to question her, to be abrupt, or to confront her. He wanted only to hold her and make her his own … in every lofty and carnal way possible. Hang the consequences, moral or financial.
She said nothing. Was she giving him time to note details about her? Perhaps so. And so, greedily, Sam did. Her hair was artfully arranged atop her head in a mass of curls and ribbons. Several trailing auburn tresses fell across her bare alabaster-white shoulders. She wore no jewelry. She needed none. Sam sought her eyes and beheld there sparkling emeralds in their green depths. Her gown left her shoulders and a good amount of her breasts bared. Nipped in at the waist, the full crinoline-supported skirt floated around her like gossamer wings. He could see only the tips of her silver shoes.
He raked his gaze back up her length until he again looked into her eyes. Looking very anxious, she tipped her tongue out to moisten her pink lips. The gesture was not lost on Sam. Innocent. Provocative. It all but staggered him. As he held her gaze, he felt his body tighten with need. Sheer, physical need. But it was more, so much more. Deeper even than his need for food and water and air. He knew he was lost. He wanted to cry out with the truth that he wanted this woman above all others. And that he meant to have her at all costs. All costs. Even certain death.
Staring at her, Sam fought an urge to shout out his rancor to her. Why, in God’s name, had she come here? But he didn’t really want to know why because he feared he couldn’t bear the answer.