A Duchess in Name Page 18

  With Victoria’s attention on Emma, he was free to stare at her without detection. She was striking, offset against the pale gold wall papers of the drawing room, the candlelight glinting off the jet necklace nestled into the hollow of her throat. His eyes fixed on that glittering black jewel, rising and falling slowly with each breath she took, and he swallowed hard. Her jet earring brushed against the side of her neck with each tiny movement she made, a spot of velvet skin he could remember feeling on his lips, on his tongue. His gaze was pulled farther down, to the cleft between her breasts, pressed tight against the edge of her dress. A black velvet ribbon twined about the edge, brushing her skin with each breath. Andrew found himself nearly hypnotized by the tiny, sensual movement.

  When she suddenly leaned toward him, his pulse spiked, but she was only drawing closer to whisper to him.

  “Emma is quite accomplished. She practices for two hours each morning.”

  “Emma?” With an effort, he dragged his gaze away from his wife and back to his sister.

  Like any well-bred young girl, Emma would have some familiarity with the instrument. Just enough training to get her through a song or two at parties when she was old enough to be out. Two hours of practice a day, especially at her age, hinted at a much more serious kind of passion.

  Finally, Emma and Louisa seemed to be in agreement on what to play. Emma looked over at him and flashed him a tentative smile. Taking a deep breath, she launched into Bach’s Contrapunctus 9. At first he was taken aback by the ambition of her choice. Surely such a piece was beyond the ability of a girl of ten? But within moments, he forgot all about Emma’s age and was simply stunned by her mastery. Her nimble fingers flew over the keys, and her face was fixed in concentration as she followed the notes.

  For the next several minutes, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Emma as she played and the powerful sound filled the drawing room. As her piece drew to a close, he glanced at Victoria.

  “I’ve put out inquiries for a teacher for her while she’s here,” she said quietly. “Talent like hers should be encouraged.”

  Of course it should. Emma’s last notes rang out and he burst into applause.

  “I’m working on my tempo,” she said shyly. “I know it’s not fast enough yet.”

  “Emma...” Andrew began, at a loss for words. “That was remarkable. I had no idea you were so gifted.”

  “Isn’t she marvelous?” Louisa said, squeezing Emma’s shoulder.

  “Marvelous isn’t a big enough word.”

  His praise garnered a delighted smile from both girls. What else had he missed about his sisters in all this time he’d been keeping his distance? His life required a change, in more ways than one.

  * * *

  Emma played three more pieces, each followed by her brother’s enthusiastic applause. Victoria had seen Emma happy in her time at Briarwood, but nothing compared to her face when her adored older brother praised her playing. It was very hard to stay angry at him when he was behaving like such a...a decent and loving person.

  Shortly after Emma finished playing, she and Louisa retired upstairs for the night. Victoria shot to her feet as soon as they left the room, busying herself with closing up the piano, moving glasses to the tray on the table, anything to keep herself occupied. Her husband was on his feet, too, walking a slow circuit around the drawing room, hands clasped loosely behind him. He seemed to be looking at everything in the room—the furniture, the carpets, even the new wall papers. He stopped at the mantle over the fireplace for a moment, looking at the framed photographs arranged there. There were only two. One was the formal portrait taken of the two of them on their wedding day, Victoria seated in her elaborate gown and him, standing stoically at her side. They both stared stony-eyed into the camera, looking every bit the strangers they were. The other was the photograph she’d taken of Andrew, Louisa and Emma at Waring House after the late duke’s funeral, before he left again for Italy. Was he, like her, remembering the way she’d lashed out at him before he left that day? He said nothing, only stared at the two pictures side by side before moving on to examine a painting hanging between the windows.

  She was waiting for a dig, some allusion to her middle-class taste or her vulgar fortune. He stayed silent. It was maddening. She wanted to goad him, just to get it over with so she could snap back and take her leave.

  He turned. She braced herself for the cutting remark sure to come.

  “The house looks lovely. Well, what I’ve seen of it so far.”

  “Oh.” She was so utterly unprepared for a compliment, her usually flawless manners failed her. She gaped at him with her mouth open.

  “You must have been quite busy.”

  “I...yes. There was a great deal to be done. There still is. We’re hardly finished.”

  “We?” He turned toward the mantle again, examining a vase there. His voice carried an edge she couldn’t read, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “I meant the staff and myself.”

  “The staff might carry out the work, but you’re the mastermind behind all this. And you seem quite good at it.” He was looking at her over his shoulder, and with his last words, she could swear he was almost smiling at her. More of a smirk. He was teasing her, in a rather gentle way. She was prepared for his sneering anger, but she wasn’t ready for this. Kindness and consideration. And a compliment.

  “Ah... Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He looked around the room in wonder, taking in the new carpets and freshly refinished ornamental plastered ceiling. “I never guessed it could be so...” He didn’t seem to be speaking to her as he trailed off without finishing the thought. He turned suddenly, and took several steps toward her.

  Panic flooded her body. And a terrible, conflicted longing. Was he considering visiting her bed tonight? She still wanted a child, but the price of getting it, allowing him near her again, was so high, almost too high to bear.

  But he stopped when he was still several feet away and made no move to come closer. Of course not. He’d been drunk the other times he’d touched her. He wasn’t now. He’d never accost her when he was in his right mind. He’d proved to her over and over he didn’t want her and she’d finally accepted it.

  “I thought I should tell you... That is, I’ve decided to stay on for a bit. Several weeks, at least. For Emma and Louisa.”

  She’d been clinging to the hope that he’d stay a day or two and then leave again. He was staying for weeks? Having to maintain this facade of polite consideration for so long would be dreadful, but she’d do it for the girls.

  “Your sisters will be pleased,” she finally said.

  He gave her a dark, unreadable look carrying an unwelcome frisson of heat. Alarm and anticipation swirled in a confusing mix. Oh, why couldn’t he have stayed away?

  “I think I’ll go up to bed,” she said, her voice sounding high and a bit frantic.

  “Yes, it’s been a long day,” he replied, watching her closely.

  “One of the footmen brought your bag up from the coach, and he will act as your valet tonight. Tomorrow we can see about hiring someone properly. And of course we’ll have to send for the rest of your things. Borne will see to it if you give him the details. He’s frightfully competent.” She was rambling, talking to cover her nerves and awkwardness. Something in the slight quirk of his lips told her he knew that’s what she was doing.

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Just let me know if there’s anything else you need, Your Grace.”

  “Andrew.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You could call me Andrew. Or Waring, if you prefer,” he amended. “The girls might think it odd you still address me so formally.”

  She stared at him, thinking of every moment when she’d made an overture of friendship to him, only to have him slap her back in
to her place. And now, after all this time, he wanted to invite her into that intimacy? Well, she wasn’t doing it. There was no way she’d fall for this relaxed, charming version of him only to have him turn on her in the morning.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied coldly, refusing to look at him as she did.

  “Sleep well, Victoria.”

  She swept past him in a rustle of skirts. As if she could ever sleep well again with him under her roof.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andrew announced over breakfast that he intended to stay for a few weeks, and the reactions of Emma and Louisa left little doubt in his mind he was making the right decision. The girls needed him for more than a day or two at a time. They were still chattering excitedly about all the things they wanted to do with him while he was there when he glanced across the table at Victoria. She had been watching him as he talked with his sisters, but she looked away when he caught her at it.

  Whatever tensions and anger the two of them had to work out between them, she seemed prepared to leave it behind when they were with the girls, and he was grateful for it. It allowed him to relax and freely enjoy their company.

  “Don’t look now, Victoria,” Louisa said, “but we’ve got an unexpected visitor.”

  “Oh dear,” Victoria sighed, looking under the table. “He’s gotten out of the kitchens again.”

  “Oh, let him stay,” Emma said, bending down to peer under the table.

  “He’ll get hair all over your brother’s trousers. You know how he is with new people.”

  “Who are we discussing?” Andrew interjected.

  “Pounce,” Emma explained patiently. “See?”

  Then he did see—or rather, he felt—a large cat begin to twine around his legs under the table.

  “You have a cat?”

  “We have a cat,” Emma said.

  “Pounce,” Victoria said somberly, looking down at the cat as she spoke, “is vital to the running of this household. Aren’t you, Pounce?”

  “I didn’t see him yesterday.”

  “He spends the evenings in the kitchen, trying to filch handouts from Mrs. Fiske. During the day, he has important duties above stairs.”

  “And at night he sleeps with me,” Emma said.

  They were so settled here already. They had rhythms and shared experiences and pets. Almost like... Well, like a family. He couldn’t quite make sense of the mess of feelings that idea generated. Gratitude on his sisters’ behalf. A bit of envy on his own, if he was being completely honest with himself.

  After breakfast the girls disappeared upstairs to answer letters that had come in the morning mail. Victoria lingered at the table, flipping through her own hefty pile of correspondence.

  Andrew cleared his throat, reluctant to disturb her when she seemed determined to ignore him.

  “I thought, perhaps, if you’re not too busy, you might show me some of the renovations?”

  She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. But after a moment, she rose to her feet and motioned for him to follow her.

  “This floor is furthest along,” she explained over her shoulder as she led him toward the back of the floor. “We focused our energy first on structural repairs like the roof, then on the public rooms on this floor, and now we’ve begun in earnest on the family rooms upstairs. Yours, mine and the girls’ are well in hand, but there are several bedrooms we haven’t touched yet.”

  “I’m sure it’s an overwhelming task.”

  “Yes, and some improvements will take some time to implement. Thankfully, there was plumbing, but no hot water. The workmen have been installing the boilers in the basement for the past several months and they’re nearly done. Once they’re finished, it will simply be a matter of upgrading the plumbing in the rest of the house.”

  Nothing she was describing sounded simple. “You’ve certainly had your hands full.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  There it was again. That cursed “we.” She’d had a partner in all this, but it wasn’t him, as it should have been. It was this bloody Mr. March.

  “You saw the gold parlor last night. This is the morning parlor. I’ve rearranged the furniture to take advantage of the light.”

  “You’ve made the right choice. It looks very welcoming.”

  What he didn’t say was that the house he was currently touring bore almost no resemblance to the dark, drafty shell he’d dumped her in over a year ago. Everything was scrupulously clean, tidy and artfully done. All his life, his impression of Briarwood Manor, based on a handful of visits over the course of two decades, was of a rotting hulk, a relic from another era. The rooms they now moved through were bright, airy and fresh. How had he failed to notice all the windows? There were banks of mullioned glass everywhere he looked, polished clean and flooding the rooms with warm morning light. Walls and ceilings had been replastered and some of the rooms had been done up with new wall papers, but the essence of the house, built in the time of Queen Elizabeth, remained intact. There were new carpets, but they were laid down on the same golden oak floors, now glossed with beeswax. There were the odd pieces of new china, but they were unobtrusively placed atop ancient carved furniture of the same generation as the house. She hadn’t stacked the walls with fashionable sentimental paintings of garden scenes as he’d expected. She’d simply uncovered and cleaned the Waring family portraits already there. He’d thought she would have made it over in the same gaudy taste as her parents’ townhouse in London. Instead, she’d taken a raw gem and polished it to a sophisticated high gleam.

  Mr. Borne materialized from the entryway. He seemed to possess a singular knack for silence.

  “Your Grace? Mr. March is here. Should I show him into the study?”

  Victoria spun on her heel. “Yes, of course, Mr. Borne.” She drew up short, flashing a look at Andrew. “That is, if you wish, Your Grace.” He smiled at her confusion, in spite of the awkwardness. Of course she was used to being the only “Your Grace” in the house, used to being the only one the servants deferred to.

  “Whatever you’d like. I don’t want to disrupt your routine.”

  “I’m sure Mr. March will want to fill you in on everything happening on the estate. You should meet him.”

  “Indeed I should,” Andrew growled under his breath, preparing to meet the man who had taken his place all these months.

  The man waiting for them in the study was not at all what he was expecting. His imagination had crafted a handsome, powerful young man, set on seducing his wife. Mr. March stood before him, unassuming, stolidly built, and somewhere north of forty. His hair was beginning to recede and his midsection was beginning to expand. When Victoria entered the room, he stood and sketched a perfunctory bow, his eyes lingering on her no longer than they’d linger on a piece of furniture. A moment later, he noticed Andrew behind her.

  “Mr. March,” Victoria said, stepping to the side. “You’ve not met my husband, the Duke of Waring.”

  He drew himself up and inclined his head. “A pleasure, Mr. March. My wife has had nothing but good things to say about you.”

  March made a brief bow. “Your Grace. It’s an honor. I hope you’re pleased with all Her Grace has accomplished with the estate?”

  “Yes, she’s been very industrious.” What a wild understatement.

  “Her Grace is quite adept at managing things. You should be proud.”

  Instead, he was ashamed. This man was clearly no threat. It was likely no one ever had been. He’d been so badly conditioned by his mother, he saw phantom lovers where none existed. Meanwhile, his steadfast and faithful wife had been working herself to the bone here to rebuild this wrecked house. What a bastard he’d been to her.

  When he’d first left for Italy, it was for all the right reasons. He’d needed to break free from his family to s
ave himself. But he was beginning to think he’d stayed in Italy after his marriage for all the wrong reasons. He hadn’t been escaping all this time. He’d been hiding.

  “She’s a wonder,” he finally said to March. After a year and a half of marriage, he was just now beginning to understand the truth of that statement.

  * * *

  “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. March, Victoria. Electricity seems the way of the future. Perhaps we should bypass the gas lines altogether and build a power plant.”

  Victoria glared at her husband as he casually leaned his hip against her desk and looked over March’s paperwork. Three weeks at Briarwood and he was lounging about her study and commandeering her desk as if it were his own. It was, technically, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.

  “Build a power plant? Here on the estate?”

  “We’ll need our own if we mean to power the entire house and outbuildings. Didn’t you say so, March?”

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” March said. “I’ve taken the liberty of investigating some locations that might suit the purpose, if you’d like to take a look.”

  Mr. March unfurled his plans across the desk and Andrew leaned over them to examine the details as she watched them and fumed in silent fury.

  How dare he come into her life and participate, after all this time? Just when she’d been thinking he’d depart for Italy again, he seemed to be settling in for the duration. Every morning, when she met with Mr. March, he was there, listening and learning. And now, he’d actually started contributing opinions! She could kill him.

  The frustration was magnified because at the heart of it, she agreed with him. There wasn’t any point in installing gas lines. Building a power plant was clearly the wisest course of action. It would bring Briarwood entirely up-to-date. They’d be vanguards, one of the earliest great British houses to go fully electric. It had been in her mind for some time.

  But now Andrew had swept in and advocated for the plan, and he and March had their heads together discussing locations for the new power plant, and she was so angry she could scream.