Margery watched the duke later that night from under her lashes. She should be relieved she had found a way to pay the blackmailer. The duke and his problems were a blessing dropped right in her lap, after all.
Yet she was still amazed at her daring. Conjugality coordinator? It was madness.
More surprising than her own daring in offering her services, however, had been his accepting her proposal so quickly. But as the evening had progressed, her disbelief had quickly disappeared.
The man truly was awkward in company. All night long he’d stumbled and blushed and sat in glaring silence. Even now, with dinner over and everyone settled once again in the drawing room, he could not seem to relax. As Margery watched, he reached for a glass of wine from a footman, then promptly spilled a good portion of it down the front of the man’s uniform. Effusive apologies ensued, the duke retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket, hurriedly wiping the man’s coat. A slight tussle occurred, with the footman aghast, attempting to extricate himself. In short order the mess was cleared up, a fresh glass in the duke’s hand. But the damage had been done, for His Grace, quickly retreating to an empty corner of the room, appeared more miserable than he had all evening.
She bit her lip. This was no mere unease with his appearance. No, this appeared to go much deeper, an awkwardness that seemed part and parcel with the man himself. It had mayhap worsened with the addition of his scars and his perception of how others viewed him, but she had a feeling that was merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Suddenly the couch dipped beside her. Startled, she turned her head to see Lenora happily smiling at her.
“I vow,” her friend said, tucking an arm through Margery’s and giving it a squeeze, “though I miss my dear little Charlotte, it is lovely to get out for an evening. Especially now that both our Clara and Phoebe are back on the Isle. I’ve missed them dreadfully.”
Margery was glad for the distraction from the duke. She was only beginning to comprehend just how difficult finding him a bride in just under four weeks was going to be, no matter his station. Would that she had more time. But no, she reminded herself, four weeks it must be, allowing her to secure the funds from His Grace just before the blackmail money came due.
Her stomach lurched at the reminder of just why she was embarking on this scheme in the first place. Aaron, she told herself. She was doing this for Aaron and his good name. And she would ignore the difficulty of the job ahead…as well as her peculiar physical reactions to the duke. Something she might need to work at controlling, if his effect on her in the hall was any indication.
“I’ve missed them as well,” Margery said, looking to her cousins and their spouses, refusing to even think on her unwelcome attraction to the duke a moment longer. “But it does my heart good to see how very happy they are.”
“I’ve never seen them so radiant.” Lenora’s smile turned mischievous. “Your grandmother must be over the moon, with the spoils of her matchmaking surrounding her on all sides. And with His Grace here, she must have another conquest planned. He is her preferred specimen, after all: a young, single duke.”
Matchmaking. Margery’s smile turned sickly, wondering what her friend would think of her own newly acquired profession of conjugality coordinator.
Though perhaps Gran’s obsession—and talent—for matching couples might work in her favor. Perhaps if she could deduce who the older woman was planning on matching the man with, she could utilize the information to her benefit.
She schooled her features into mild curiosity. “Who do you suppose she’s thinking of for the duke’s love interest?”
Lenora merely pursed her lips and arched one brow.
It took Margery some seconds to understand the very pointed look her friend was giving her. “Me?” Margery squeaked, even as her heart beat out a disturbingly rapid rhythm at such a suggestion. She cleared her throat, praying her face didn’t appear as hot as it felt. “Please, that couldn’t possibly be true. If there’s anyone she’s planning on matching him with, it would be Miss Denby.” An idea that should not have sat so very wrong with Margery. She was fully planning on finding someone to wed the man, after all, and Miss Denby would make a fine candidate for the position. In fact, it would be a positively brilliant match, as the woman was not only the sister of a baronet, but was also staying in the same household and would, therefore, provide Margery with a veritable live-in option. As the sour taste in her mouth persisted, she determined that Miss Denby would be the first candidate on her list of prospective brides.
“Though I don’t doubt that Miss Denby will one day become the recipient, willing or not, of Lady Tesh’s matchmaking prowess,” Lenora said with a smile, “you know your grandmother better than anyone, and so should fully comprehend that there may be something behind her suggestion that you assist His Grace in getting about in Synne society, such as it is this time of year.”
Which Margery had not considered at all until that moment. “But that’s ridiculous,” she sputtered, more than a little flustered at the idea.
“It’s not ridiculous in the least. You have to admit, it does sound like something she would do.”
“Well, yes,” Margery conceded grudgingly. “And I might think you were onto something, if you were not including me in this equation.”
“And why ever not?” Lenora demanded. “Though we all know how deeply you loved Aaron, and how difficult it was for you after his death, you’re still young. And she loves you and wants to see you happy.”
But Margery had heard enough. She pulled her arm from Lenora’s and, pressing her lips tight, worked the gold band on her fourth finger in agitated circles. “You know where I stand on this, Lenora. As does my grandmother.”
“Yes, we know.” Lenora’s expression turned sad. “I was the one with you when you received word of Aaron’s death. I know the struggles you faced day in and day out to keep your head above water when the grief threatened to drown you completely.”
Pain tore through Margery. She had a sudden flash of that long-ago day: the quiet afternoon she and Lenora had spent together in the small house Margery had shared with Aaron in London, the tension so thick they could fairly taste the bitterness of it, a strange premonition having settled deep in her bones. Then a knock on the door, the trembling in her limbs as she’d exchanged a fearful glance with Lenora, the somber look on the messenger’s face as he handed over the sealed letter. And then the chaos and confusion of the next days, her wails mingling with Lenora’s tearful words of comfort, curling in a ball in her friend’s arms on the bed she’d shared with Aaron, each hour bleeding into the next until she didn’t know night from day.
She shook her head to dispel the unending grief of that memory. “Yes,” she whispered, reaching for her wineglass. Her hands, she noticed as if from a distance, were shaking as she took a deep swallow. “And so you also know I’ll never marry again. I will never love another as I loved him, will never replace him in my heart. Ever.”
“Of course, dear,” Lenora soothed. She rubbed a hand over Margery’s back in gentle circles, just as she’d done the day Margery’s life had split apart into a million pieces, jagged fragments that she had not been able to fully mend back together. “Forgive me. I never meant to cause you pain.”
“I know,” Margery said. And she did know. Lenora was her dearest friend in the world. They had been there for one another through so many of life’s tragedies. Hurting one another was the last thing either of them wanted.
“But,” Margery continued, straightening and turning to smile bracingly at her friend, “though I’ll agree that my grandmother most likely has matchmaking on her mind, I cannot agree with you that I’m the recipient. If we exercise patience, I’m sure she’ll show her hand soon enough.”
Lenora returned the smile, her eyes shining with relief. “I do hope I won’t have to say ‘I told you so’ in a month’s time,” she teased.
Margery laughed. “You won’t have to.” Her smile slipped as her friend turned away. You can depend upon it.
* * *
After a fitful night’s sleep, Daniel woke at dawn to a sky teeming with gray clouds. It seemed the inclement, unseasonable weather they had been battered with in Cheshire had followed them to the Isle. To most people it would be an unfortunate start to a holiday.
Not so to Daniel.
He was all too aware that sunny skies and warm weather would mean there would be no stalling his entry into Synne society. And though he needed to begin working with Mrs. Kitteridge on the search for a bride with all haste if he was to avoid the marriage mart in London—as limited as it would be in autumn—after the strain of the evening before, he was in no mood to converse and smile with strangers.
He had never been easy in company, of course. But in his youth he’d at least had the protection of being a second son. No one had paid him the least mind, especially when Nathaniel had been present, and most had even indulged his propensity for preferring solitude to company. Now, however, he didn’t have Nathaniel to hide behind.
He exhaled a heavy breath and peered out his borrowed bedroom window to the rose garden below, hardly seeing the late-summer blooms that gave a cheery cast to the landscape despite the thick clouds that loomed over it all. He may not have ever wanted this life, but he had gotten it regardless. And he would do the best he could with it. With luck he would succeed, at least in finding a wife. Especially as he now apparently had Mrs. Kitteridge in his corner.
If, of course, she still wanted to assist him after the disaster that was last night.
He blanched as the memories came flooding back. Between spilling the wine on the footman, to fumbling through every question put his way, to dealing with a dog that was much too interested in sniffing his…delicate areas, every minute had been rife with embarrassment. If Mrs. Kitteridge wanted to renege on her offer, he would not be the least bit surprised.
He sighed, his fingers tightening on the plain curved head of his cane, his finger finding and rubbing anxiously at the bit of bullet embedded in the wood. But he would never know if he didn’t leave his room. Gathering his courage—sadly lacking this morning—he headed to the ground floor.
The descent was slightly easier than the night before. Even so, his ruined muscles made their outrage known, and he took a moment to lean against the banister once at the bottom, surreptitiously using the last riser to stretch his leg.
“Your Grace, do you require assistance?”
Apparently not surreptitious enough. Daniel straightened and turned to face the butler. “Perhaps you might point me the way to the breakfast room?” he inquired with a polite smile.
The man’s face fell. “Ah, I am sorry, Your Grace, but breakfast is not yet ready. I’ll hurry down to the kitchen to speed things along.”
Daniel’s face flamed. And there went his hopes to remain unobtrusive and no bother. He was so used to rising with the sun, he quite forgot that wasn’t how things were done in the majority of the homes of the British nobility. “No, please,” he said when the butler made to turn away. “That is, I’m not at all hungry just yet. Though if you could let me know where I might find the duchess?”
“Her Grace has not yet descended for the day. Would you like me to show you the way to her rooms?”
Oh, God, no. The very idea of climbing those stairs again had him feeling vaguely ill. Though he could only be grateful that she was resting. More often than not, over the past few years his mother had woken well before him—if she even slept at all. He hoped this was a sign that the Isle would be able to work its magic on her and return her to good health. And to give her contentment, if not happiness. Goodness knew being surrounded by reminders of Nathaniel and all they had lost with his passing had done the opposite of that.
“No, thank you,” he said to the butler. “I do believe I’ll take a bit of a walk.”
“As Your Grace wishes,” the man murmured. Quick as a wink he retrieved Daniel’s hat and cloak, and handing them over, he opened the front doors wide.
Well, hell.
Truly, the man should be commended for his ability to react so swiftly, Daniel thought as he gave a sickly smile and strode—or at least a close approximation of a stride—from the house. The moment he stepped foot out the front doors, however, and the brisk sea air hit him full in the face, everything else was forgotten for one blessed moment. The salty flavor and cool sting of it jolted his senses in the most invigorating way. He stopped for a moment on the front step and closed his eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath as the cobwebs of the morning cleared from his brain. Glorious life, all green and briny and heavy with moisture. And the faintest sound of waves crashing against rock, Seacliff being exactly what its name implied, the grand manor house inhabiting the cliff top above an unforgiving sea. He felt an instant invigoration in his limbs. Ah, yes, now he could see it, the draw of a place like this. There was something strangely comforting in being so close to the edge of the land, to let the vast ocean into your very soul.
But, though he considered crossing the drive to the cliffs beyond so he might better see the churning waves and feel the wind bathe his scars, something turned his steps to the side of the house, down the path, into the rose garden he had spied from his window.
In a moment he understood why. It was peaceful here, the sounds of the ocean fading to a dull hush.
For once he didn’t mind his slow pace. Able to relax for the first time since leaving Cheshire, he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the myriad scents carried on the breeze, combined in a kaleidoscope of impressions: the delicate petals of the roses, the rolling white-tipped waves, and the heady smell of rich earth. His vision, too, was filled with all the details he might have missed had he been in possession of a hale and hearty body: the flitting of a small bird in the dark dirt beneath a bush, a whimsical statue of a satyr hidden in the bare bramble.
A pale purple skirt peeking out from behind an artfully trimmed hedge.
He stopped hard in the path, his boots kicking up gravel. Damnation, he had thought no one was up. Who could possibly be out of doors at such an early hour? But the question had not whispered through his mind before the answer popped into his head with stark certainty: Mrs. Kitteridge.
For one insane moment he was caught in a kind of purgatory as he tried to decide between forging forward and greeting her as a proper person would or escaping back to the house.
She peered around the hedge, however, making the decision for him.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I heard a noise but thought it was a gardener.”
“I apologize if I’ve startled you.” He moved forward until he stood in front of her. She was seated on a stone bench tucked back within the hedge, bundled up in a dark gray cloak, a simple bonnet perched on her head and a sketchbook balanced on her knees. “I didn’t know anyone was up at this hour,” he continued. “I’m afraid I’m quite the early riser, something I picked up during the war and haven’t been able to break myself of.”
“I’m an early riser myself.” Her expression darkened for a moment before she smiled brightly. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you,” he lied. What good would the truth do, anyway?
“That’s wonderful to hear. But won’t you have a seat beside me?” She slid over to one side of the wide stone bench and adjusted her skirts.
But the idea of sitting so close to her dredged up a vague panic in him; no matter that they were in full view of the house and could not be construed as doing anything untoward, her proximity would no doubt affect him just as it had last night. “Ah, no, thank you. You’re busy, and I would not want to impose upon your private time.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “And besides, I was feeling lonely and would love the company. Please sit.”
What could he say to that kind speech? And so, gritting his teeth, he moved forward and sank his bulk to the bench. But being this close to her, with her skirts brushing his leg and her warmth traversing the small space between them, was affecting him in wholly base ways. He was embarrassingly lacking in knowledge of the physical arts—his awkwardness had assured his experience with the fairer sex was limited—but his imagination was alive and well, and that imagination was dreaming up all manner of things where Mrs. Kitteridge was concerned.
Aghast that he would think of her in such a manner, he cast about for something, anything, to say. Finally his desperate eyes lit on her sketchbook. “What’s that you’re drawing?” he managed, praying she didn’t hear the hoarseness in his voice.
In answer she held the sketch out to him. He took it with only the barest hesitation, being careful not to touch her as he did so. A detailed drawing of Freya, Lady Tesh’s pup, graced the page. He studied it a moment in silence, as much to take in the simple beauty of it as to compose himself. The lines were delicate, with several sections scrubbed out and redrawn. Yet with the too-large ears perked up, the head tilt, the large eyes that held a surprising amount of humanity, the image was lovely.
“You have captured her perfectly,” he said.
“Do you think so?” She leaned in closer to peer at it, and her scent wafted to him on the chill morning air: a delicate fragrance that was deliciously akin to sugared violets.
“I admit,” she continued, blessedly unaware of the turmoil within him, “I had trouble capturing her expression. For a canine, she is incredibly demonstrative.”
“I think you have done a beautiful job,” he said. Then, hoping to put much-needed distance between them, he handed the sketch back and, under the pretense of rearranging his leg, shifted farther from her on the stone bench. “You’re quite talented.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “Though I know my talent is merely average, I do hope my grandmother appreciates my attempt when I’m through.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken and denounced her claim. “That is not my way of fishing for further compliments, I assure you.” She gave a small laugh. “If you could see Lenora’s drawings you would think mine the mere scribblings of a child.”
He frowned. “Lenora?”
“The Duchess of Dane,” she corrected.
“She is talented?”
“Incredibly so. One might even say she’s gifted. She sells her paintings, and gives lessons during the summer months to visitors of the Isle. She is quite sought after.” She paused then, and when he remained silent, not quite knowing what to say to that, she continued in a quieter voice that held an undercurrent of steel to it, “You might think a woman in her position should not pursue such things, however.”
“No,” he was quick to assure her, appalled that his silence might be construed as disapproval. “I think it commendable.” He paused. “As I think your own newly acquired profession of conjugality coordinator is commendable as well. Though, after last night, you may have changed your mind about me.”
She blinked in surprise. “Why ever would I do that?”
His lips quirked in a wry smile. “I think you saw firsthand just how hopeless I can be in social situations.”
“I wouldn’t call you hopeless,” she hedged.
“Mrs. Kitteridge, you needn’t lie. I have been a passenger in this head of mine for nine and twenty years; I know what I’m capable of—and not capable of. Which is a startling amount.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “Very well, you’re not what one would call a charming swain.” She grabbed his sleeve when he made to rise and held him in place with impressive strength. “But I daresay someone with smooth, easy manners wouldn’t have need of my services, would they?”
“I suppose not,” he grumbled.
“There now,” she said, her tone bright, her smile wide, “you see? I’m not ready to abandon our agreement, not in the least.”
Relief flared in his chest. “Thank you,” he managed.
“There’s no need to thank me, Your Grace. I assure you, you’re doing just as much of a favor for me as I am for you.”
Once again questions flitted through his mind on why she might need funds. But even he, as clueless as he was in social niceties, knew better than to question her on her finances. No doubt she had her reasons. She was a war widow, after all; too many families had been left destitute after the dust of battle had cleared.
“We may as well discuss what kind of lady you’re looking for in a wife while we’re on the subject,” she said. She flipped the page in her sketchbook and held her pencil aloft over the blank page, then looked at him in anticipation. “Do you have any preferences? Status? Manners? Looks? Do you require an heiress?”
He barked out a sharp laugh, startled—and, to be truthful, a bit intimidated—by her sudden air of intense competence. “I assure you, I have no preferences at all, save that she is of child-bearing years. As vulgar as that may sound.”
She nodded, jotting the pertinent information down. “You’re a duke; you require an heir. There is nothing vulgar about it. Or, rather,” she corrected, with an arch smile his way, “it’s an accepted vulgarity in our society.”
He was struck mute, the humor changing her features from cool and collected to mischievous in a moment. Goodness, she truly was lovely.
“What of temperament or manners?” she continued, all business once again. Thank goodness. “Family connections? Are you opposed to a commoner?”
“Truly, Mrs. Kitteridge,” he said, his head beginning to spin, “I don’t care if she is highborn or the daughter of a farmer, if she has fine manners or burps and swears like a sailor. As long as she can stomach bedding me, I’ll be happy.”
She stilled, her eyes widening in shock. He groaned. “I’m very sorry for being so crass.”
She flapped her hands in dismissal. “I assure you, such talk doesn’t bother me in the least. Why, my cousin Peter, the Duke of Dane, has been known to blurt out inappropriate things himself, especially when going to battle with my grandmother. But I’ll not have you disparaging yourself in such a way, sir. You will make someone a wonderful husband.”
He found his gaze dropping from her piercing one, overcome by her sudden defense of him. “I thank you for your optimism, Mrs. Kitteridge,” he murmured, studying the plain handle of his cane with much more interest than it warranted, rubbing his finger over the embedded bullet, buffed to a sheen after years of such nervous actions. “I, however, don’t see it as disparaging myself; I’m merely being realistic.”
There was a charged moment of silence. Suddenly she stood. He looked up at her in surprise.
“I’ll not have you talking in such a way in my presence,” she declared with a bright smile. “It will do no one, most especially yourself, any good at all. Now, shall we head inside? Breakfast should be ready, and I’m famished, as I’m sure you are as well after a morning of exercise. A full stomach will perhaps help us to decide where to begin.”
He rose with the help of his cane and fell into step beside her as they headed back to the house. As they walked in companionable silence, however, he realized that already things did not seem so dark. Was it owing to her presence? He should, perhaps, find her effect on him a cause for concern. Theirs was to be a business arrangement, after all, and even if it weren’t, he had no wish to develop a close relationship with her. But in that moment, able to breathe a bit more freely than he had in too long, he found he could not regret it. Nothing would come of it, he reminded himself. He would find a bride in just under four weeks’ time, and would leave Synne. And he need never worry about his troubling reaction to Mrs. Kitteridge again.