Page 47 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

“Oh there you are,” he said, as if she usually lurked up here in the daytime. Cecelia noticed that he had an ink-stained wad of papers in his hand and immediately knew what he would say next. “I brought this to be copied out.”

He extended the pages. No one but Cecelia could read his scrawled handwriting or decipher the maze of circled text, arrows, and emphatic cross-outs he created when penning an essay.

“Tomorrow would be sufficient,” he added. He shook the paper a little.

He never asked if she was busy or when it might be convenient for her to produce a fair copy of his work. In Papa’s mind, she was at his disposal. It sometimes seemed to Cecelia that he didn’t quite see her until he had need of her services. She had tried to discuss this with him, but the incisive brain that grappled with the intricacies of German philosophy seemed incapable of absorbing her concerns. He really did not appear to understand what she meant. Just doing his copying had come to seem simpler. She took the pages from his hand.

“Splendid,” said her father. He turned and walked away, his attention already elsewhere. Certainly not on any expression of gratitude.

“Splendid,” repeated Cecelia in quite a different tone and went to remove her bonnet.

Nine

The back door closed behind Cecelia with a decided snap. James sat for a while in the dingy kitchen, which suddenly felt emptier than it had yesterday. Seeing Cecelia had been a comfort, he realized. She’d always been that, even when they disagreed. Particularly when they disagreed—somehow. Mysteriously. He hadn’t quite seen it before. Not the depth of it. He looked at the basket she’d brought. That apple had tasted ambrosial and like…kindness. Even affection?

He’d made her angry today. No doubt about that. He hadn’t meant to blame her for his situation. Sometimes he said things that sounded right at the time and wrong later, when he was alone and heard their echo. This was one of those times. His apology hadn’t come out right either. The humor had fallen woefully flat. And now she was gone.

He rose and made the tea. It didn’t taste quite right, and there was no milk. But it was better than none. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? He had it with another scone. Proper food was so much more satisfying than the stuff he’d been eating.

Surely Cecelia would visit him again? She was curious as a cat. She wouldn’t be able to resist. This was assuming he was actually going to stay in Uncle Percival’s wretched house. James looked around the empty kitchen, the antithesis of the cozy, bustling, aromatic place it should be.

He thought of going home, ordering Hobbs to fill a bath, sharpen his razor, lay out fresh clothing. The idea was tempting. Hobbs, at least, wouldn’t criticize. He rarely said much of anything. He would do as he was told, and James would soon look like himself again.

And then what? He would have to face society as the man who’d lost control and behaved dishonorably. There would be whispers and impertinent questions, and of course Prince Karl’s smug triumph. There was no doubt that man would gloat. He seemed to have a distinct talent for it.

James could brush through the gossip. Now that some time had passed, he could see the possibility. It wasn’t as if he’d never made a mistake. His reputation would withstand the errant punch. Eventually. He could turn the whispers back on themselves. A few hotheads would even admire him for exploding. After a time—tedious and annoying—all would go back as it had been.

But the odd thing was, he wasn’t sure he wanted that.

James looked around the ill-kept kitchen again. Cluttered, forlorn. And yet this ruined household was part of his new responsibilities as duke. There were others as well. Tasks more important than any he’d been required to do before. His established routine began to look stale, a bit small, from this new vantage point. Changes were called for. But what kind? And how?

He’d proposed to Cecelia; she’d refused him. James felt a stab of resentment and regret at the memory. She ought to have taken him. Each time he thought of it, the idea made more sense and held more attractions.

He gazed at the basket she’d brought, the money she’d left on the table. He’d counted on Cecelia so many times. He’d turned to her, trusted in her. Could she say the same of him? He had a sinking feeling that the answer was no. Worse, he hadn’t cared about the disparity. Not until he was about to lose her to some fool of a prince.

Every sentiment rose up in James to protest this. His competitive streak might be uppermost, but other less familiar urges jostled behind it. That could not be! He had to get her away from that smug blusterer. He would return to his rooms, repair the ravages to his appearance, and find her. He would convince her!

In the midst of a crowd of yammering gossips and inconvenient friends, another part of him noted. He remembered how impossible it was to see her alone now. And with his recent behavior, it would be even worse. Society would be wild to corner him, question him, twit him about his loss of control. Cecelia would be pulled even further away.

His gaze caught on the basket once again. In this house, there were no distractions. Just the two of them, face-to-face. They would not be stared at and interrupted. Most importantly, there was no Prince Karl to stick his nose in where he was so emphatically not wanted. James would have time to find the right words, to show her…whatever it was that she needed to see.

James nodded. He had no doubt he could lure her back. His uncle Percival’s epic level of untidiness would eat at Cecelia Vainsmede, offending all her instincts. Knowing he was here, dealing with the chaos, she would return, and he would win her over. He felt a smile spread over his face at the idea. The conquest of Cecelia offered so many delectable possibilities. They filled his mind and roused his body.

But none of that could happen while he was living in squalor. James looked down at his dust-smudged hands, pushed the teacup away, and stood. Something had to be done about that. And she had given him a clue.

James went out the back door and across the cobbled yard behind the house. He entered the stables without knocking. They were his, after all. The creak of the hinges set off a flurry of motion in one of the loose boxes. Four figures leapt up from a pile of musty hay and faced him, at bay in the dim light.

The tallest, a woman, pushed three children behind her. Very thin, dressed in layers of ragged clothing, she was visibly trembling. The smallest child whimpered. James had intimidated people in his time, but he had never knowingly terrified anyone. It was an unpleasant sensation. “Hello,” he said. “I am Tereford.” Immediately he wondered if his name would mean anything to them.

Apparently it did. “We didn’t mean no harm, milord,” said the woman. Her voice shook. “It was just so cold in the night, and we didn’t have nowhere…” She broke off, swallowed. “If we could stay one more day. Then we’ll move on.” The tallest child, a boy, stepped up beside her, his expression belligerent.

“Where would you go?” James asked. He’d never had dealings with people in their situation. One passed them in the street now and then, dropped a coin, and thought no more about it.

The woman slumped. Clearly she had no answer. She looked beaten.

“These stables was empty,” said the boy. “Nobody using them. Why shouldn’t we get out of the rain? No harm done, eh?”

“Ned,” said the woman.

---