A Duchess to Remember Read online

  Relieved, he turned about and paced, raking both hands through his hair as he considered the implications.

  Relief was premature, of course. There might still be something in that diary even if Lady Cecily couldn’t recognize its importance. He had to get it away from her, out of fear for her safety, if for no other reason.

  “You must give me that diary,” he said. “It is important, do you understand?”

  She shrugged. “I think you will be disappointed in its contents. Why should you want it so badly?”

  “For the same reason I wanted Jonathon’s papers,” he lied. “I was commissioned to prepare an archive of his work for his university college. To do that, I need everything. Every scrap of paper he wrote on.”

  Her eyes brightened at the idea of her brother’s research being preserved for posterity. Again, guilt crept over him. But it was necessary. Necessary for her protection. He’d hold fast to that.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, in that case, I will most certainly give you the diary. But I want to know about the Promethean Club, Your Grace. Is it meant to be a secret?”

  “No, not at all.” He spread his hands as if he were laying all his cards on the table. “If you were expecting cloaks and daggers, you’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid. The Promethean Club is no more than a group of scientists, inventors, philosophers, and the like who meet once a month to debate and exchange ideas.”

  Seconds ticked by while Lady Cecily digested this, her clear-eyed gaze giving him the odd, disconcerting sensation that she saw far more than he wished to reveal to her.

  “It sounds innocuous,” she said. “Given what I know about my brother and my … another member of the club, your explanation makes sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “But there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  “Perhaps there is,” he said, refusing to show any hint of his unease. “It is irrelevant to your inquiry, believe me.”

  “You have Jonathon’s papers,” she persisted. “The Countess of Davenport told me only recently that she gave them all to you when he died.” She hesitated. “May I see them? There might be personal correspondence, things pertaining to the family. I—I should like to have those back.”

  “I will see what I can arrange,” he said. The request seemed innocent enough. Natural for Jonathon’s sister to want such keepsakes, wasn’t it?

  Jonathon’s sister … Now that he knew who she was, for some reason her continued presence in his house and in that costume increasingly bothered him.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, you must repay me for the information I’ve given you tonight by letting me take you home.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well, then.”

  What? No argument? The quick about-face surprised him. Was she truly so mercurial, or had she accomplished her real purpose in coming here without his realizing it? He did not make the mistake of believing Lady Cecily Westruther docile.

  With an unsettling twinge of uncertainty, he rang for a servant. He did not mean to let her escape him completely. “We will discuss this at a more appropriate time.”

  Looking up at him with a gleam in her eye, she said, “I shall not be satisfied until you have told me all. Are you going to be like Scheherazade and spin out your tale over successive meetings?”

  His lips twitched. “Something like that,” he replied. In a soft voice, he added, “But my motives are not nearly so pure.”

  He had the dubious victory of seeing her eyes widen slightly with alarm. At last, he’d disconcerted her.

  That vague spark of irritation flared to annoyance. He was not pleased to discover that while neither his physical intimidation nor his threats had scared Lady Cecily Westruther, the allusion to more amorous intent threw her off balance. A salutary notion, indeed.

  While his fair intruder wrapped herself in a cloak he found her and pulled the hood down low over her face, Rand disposed of the peruke wig. When a footman came in answer to his summons, he gave orders for his carriage to be brought around.

  He continued to question her as they waited, but she didn’t give him any more information about herself. He suspected she would withhold personal details just as he withheld information about the Promethean Club.

  Lowering to reflect that he needed to resort to trading information for a lady’s company. The most effort he ever expended over a woman was in calculating how best to extricate himself from her arms at the end of an affair.

  This one, however … Lady Cecily Westruther was neither intimidated by his manner nor impressed by his rank. She was novel, but not quite in the way she’d meant. And his immediate, powerful response to her … Well, that was unprecedented.

  When he wanted something, Rand approached getting it with a single-minded drive and implacable determination. Lady Cecily Westruther was no exception.

  He’d secure the diary. Then he’d go about the far more pleasurable task of securing her.

  As he escorted Lady Cecily to his carriage, his brain seethed with plans.

  * * *

  There’d been an instant, an infinitesimal pause after she’d announced her identity when the Duke of Ashburn appeared thunderstruck. Cecily savored the memory as he handed her into his carriage.

  That small satisfaction couldn’t keep her mind from the breathtaking proximity of the man beside her, though.

  He’d insisted on accompanying her the short distance to Montford House. Despite her outward protests, she was forced to acknowledge she felt safe while he was there to protect her. Far safer than if she’d gone home alone.

  Difficult to believe anyone could best the duke in a fight. Cecily didn’t doubt he’d be as competent at self-defense as he was reputed to be at everything else.

  Was it ever tiresome to be such a paragon, or did it all come as naturally as breathing? She must remember to ask him next time they met.

  The leap of anticipation in her chest at the thought of meeting him again made her frown. The Duke of Ashburn was dangerous. If only she didn’t need to retrieve that letter, she’d avoid him like the proverbial plague.

  After a tense silence, Ashburn said, “I believe I still have some of your brother’s papers in the attics at my country house. I’ll send for them.”

  Hope surged inside her, but she tried to remain outwardly calm. “I should be grateful to you. But how might I see them?”

  “I hold a masquerade next Friday evening. We can slip away then.”

  “The Duke of Montford decides which entertainments I may attend,” said Cecily primly. Glancing at the large figure beside her under her lashes, she added, “His Grace does not approve of masquerades for debutantes.”

  Particularly wayward debutantes like Cecily.

  Ashburn turned his head to look down at her. His eyes didn’t glow in the dark, she discovered. They glittered. “Something tells me that if you wish to go somewhere, you will find a way. With or without your guardian’s consent.”

  She supposed that conclusion was reasonable, given her intrusion into his house tonight. “Nevertheless, I shall not be at that masquerade. I—”

  Words stuttered in her throat as he took her hand in his. The heat and assured firmness of his touch made her heart lurch in her chest.

  “What are you doing, sir?” Her voice came out in an odd tone that was infuriatingly weak. Strangely, she couldn’t make herself pull free.

  He raised her hand and bent his dark head to brush a kiss over her knuckles. It was the lightest, most fleeting touch of his lips, but a tingling warmth spiraled inside her, wrapped around her, all the way down to her toes. Heat fluctuated in her cheeks. She couldn’t stop the small, responsive gasp that escaped her lips.

  He never took his gaze from her face, and even in the dim light, she could tell he registered her reaction. His eyes burned; his features lit with triumph, then darkened with intent.

  Softly, he said, “You will devise a way to come to the masquerade. And I will find you.”

 
His words resonated through her blood. His nearness, his air of power and assurance nearly overcame her will. In that moment, she understood why men obeyed Ashburn’s merest suggestions. And why women scrambled over one another to climb into his bed.

  She barely retained the presence of mind to withdraw her hand from his clasp. She tried to think of something flippant to say, but she couldn’t seem to wrest a smart quip free from the tangle he’d made of her brain.

  “I will do no such thing,” she managed. But the protest sounded lame even to her ears. If a mere kiss on the hand had this power over her …

  Suddenly, Cecily remembered she was betrothed to another man. All those warm, sweet, melting feelings soured and curdled in the pit of her stomach.

  Disgust lay heavy in her chest. She’d behaved like the veriest trollop! And a dunce as well, allowing Ashburn to exercise his skills of seduction over her.

  If she needed any more reason to stay away from Ashburn, her engagement to Norland was an excellent one. And why hadn’t Norland been uppermost in her mind all along?

  Yes, Ashburn was dangerous, but she needed to know more about why he’d come to collect her brother’s papers from Lavinia, why it had been Ashburn and not some close friend or relative who’d broken the news of Jonathon’s death. And she needed that horribly damning letter.

  Asking him outright seemed foolhardy at this juncture. She’d prefer to further her acquaintance with him in a public location where there were limits and constraints on his behavior. Not now and certainly not at a masquerade.

  At a masquerade, anything could happen. She didn’t need Montford’s warnings to realize that anonymity most often led to loose behavior.

  Perhaps Ashburn only pursued her like this because he wanted Jonathon’s diary. She couldn’t see what harm it would do to give it to him. There was nothing personal or precious in it, after all. And if she handed it over, Ashburn’s strangely compelling attentions would, in all likelihood, cease. That would be a relief.

  Mercifully, before the duke could do anything else to disconcert her, the coach came to a stop.

  “We are here,” she said. Relief drenched her like cooling spring rain.

  Cecily clutched the cloak Ashburn had given her tighter around her, enveloping her scandalously clad form from neck to toe. “Good-bye, Your Grace. Thank you for escorting me home.”

  If she’d been a stronger woman, she’d have put out her hand to shake his, but she couldn’t seem to risk it. She wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. Not in his presence, anyway.

  Abruptly, she said, “I’ll give you the diary, but you’ll have to find another way to get it. I shan’t attend your party, you know.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Lady Cecily,” drawled the duke. “I’ll see you at the masquerade.” His tone deepened. “In skirts this time, I trust.”

  The low thrill of his voice echoed in her blood long after his carriage rolled away.

  Chapter Four

  When Rosamund found her, Cecily stood in the long gallery at Montford House throwing a ball for Ophelia, the family’s ancient Great Dane. The ball bounced several times before it rolled to a stop beneath an elegant love seat by the wall. A circumstance that Ophelia only acknowledged with a deep, doggy sigh from her prone position by the fireplace.

  “I fear it is hopeless,” said Rosamund, gripping Cecily’s hands and kissing her on both cheeks. “Ophelia’s frolicking days are over.”

  Sighing, Cecily said, “Yes, you are right.” She watched the massive, graying hound. “Poor old girl. Do you think her spirits seem depressed?”

  Rosamund’s blue eyes sparked with humor. “How on earth could one tell? All she ever does is sleep.”

  “Yes, but she likes her humans to be here when she does it. And I’ve neglected her sadly these past weeks.”

  Cecily retrieved the ball from beneath the love seat and bent down to offer it to Ophelia. The Dane’s jaws opened to accept the toy. With a single thump of her tail she expressed her thanks, then settled back into slumber with the ball lodged in her mouth. She looked as if she ought to be served on a platter like a suckling pig.

  Thank goodness for Rosamund. For the past week, Cecily had not been able to stop thinking of that night in the Duke of Ashburn’s house, and even Ophelia had not proved an adequate distraction. Rosamund’s cheerful company was just what she needed to put a stop to a really rather maudlin tendency to brood.

  “Enjoy the season while you may,” said Rosamund. “You’ll be buried in the country with Norland soon enough.”

  “No, I won’t.” Cecily rose, shaking out her skirts. “Is that a new bonnet?” She scrutinized the confection that adorned Rosamund’s exquisitely styled golden hair.

  Rosamund pursed her lips at the change of subject but said, “Indeed. Do you like it? You know how I depend on your taste.”

  “You should not have bought it without me,” Cecily said severely. She gave the bonnet serious consideration. “Turn around.”

  Rosamund complied, holding her hands out a little. She was as poised and graceful as a dancer.

  “Almost perfect,” Cecily pronounced. “But just let me…” She stepped forward to pluck one superfluous plume from the arrangement of feathers at the capote and retie the buttercup yellow ribbons more becomingly beneath Rosamund’s chin. “There.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Rosamund, taking the feather from her and twirling it between her fingers. “Now, do tell me what you have planned for today. I came to see if you’d like an excursion to the Museum, since the weather is so inclement.”

  “No such luck,” said Cecily, trying to keep the groan from her voice. “My betrothed and his mama are due to arrive at any moment for tea.”

  The look of undisguised dismay that passed over Rosamund’s features made Cecily chuckle. “My thoughts exactly. But you are here now and you cannot escape.”

  Rosamund glanced at the clock. “I’m sure there’s still time if I use the servants’ entrance.”

  “No, no. How can you desert me in my hour of need? Stay, dearest Rosamund. Please?” Cecily took her arm in both hands and tugged her toward the door at the end of the gallery.

  “But she is so horrid! And he’s so…” Rosamund broke off with a slight flush. As if Cecily didn’t know very well her opinion of the Duke of Norland.

  “Diffident?” she said. “Persuadable? Teeth-achingly dull?”

  “Well … yes!” said Rosamund in an uncharacteristic burst of candor. “He is like, oh, like a lump of clay. You could mold him into any shape you chose.”

  Cecily nodded. “You are right. It’s what makes him such a perfect husband for me.”

  “I know you believe that,” said Rosamund, regarding her steadily. “But, darling, he is not a man who could make you happy; of that I am convinced. He’s years and years too old for you, for one thing. Won’t you reconsider?”

  “He is barely past thirty!” Cecily threw up her hands. “You all act as if I’m marrying Methuselah.”

  “Yes, it must be the bald spot and that slight paunch that make him seem older,” said Rosamund with gentle sarcasm. “Don’t do it, my dear.”

  “I never suspected you were so frivolous, Rosamund.” Cecily refrained from pointing out the man Rosamund loved was scarcely an oil painting. However, there was a hard, masculine virility to Griffin, Earl of Tregarth, that was wholly lacking in the Duke of Norland.

  Instead, Cecily said, “Really, my dear. What happened to duty and honor above all? Do I need to give you the Speech?”

  Rosamund’s brow furrowed. “I don’t mean to say it would be the honorable thing to repudiate the arrangement, not after all this time. But … but it’s such a crime that you should be obliged to endure…” Biting her lip, Rosamund glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. Lowering her voice, she said, “I simply cannot imagine how you would suffer his attentions.”

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense,” said Cecily. “You make too much of all that. Besides, I shan’t be ob
liged to endure anything at all. Norland will remain in the country and busy himself with his study of infectious diseases or whatever he does, and I shall make my home in Town. We are to live entirely separately. I’ve made that clear. The arrangement suits us both perfectly.”

  She hadn’t told her cousin her intentions before, or not in so many words. Rosamund widened her eyes. “But what about … intimate matters? Surely every husband wants his wife in his bed.”

  “Oh, no,” said Cecily. “He won’t trouble me on that score. With two sons from his previous marriage, he doesn’t need an heir. And Norland has had a mistress for years and years. He won’t give her up. Why should he?”

  After a dubious silence, Rosamund said, “I suppose I am lucky that my duty coincided with my inclination. I never had to make the choice.”

  “Well, and so does mine,” said Cecily. She patted Rosamund’s hand and drew it through her arm as they walked the length of the gallery. “Norland might be dull, but he’ll make a most excellent husband. Particularly for my purposes.”

  Rosamund pulled up short. “You are willfully misunderstanding me, Cecily,” she said quietly. “I want—I wish you to fall in love.”

  Cecily refrained from rolling her eyes. “That is sweet of you and I perfectly understand that being so blissful yourself, you feel the need to … to evangelize love matches. Jane is exactly the same and I don’t blame her, either. But I’m not like the two of you, Rosamund. I don’t possess an ounce of sentiment—you know I don’t. I shall rub along very well with the duke.”

  More than anything, she wanted to live her own life with as much freedom as it was possible to have as a member of the so-called inferior sex.

  Long ago, she’d decided that the future her parents had mapped out for her would suit her very well. A duchess might do as she pleased to a large extent and wield a great deal of influence if she chose. And Cecily, Duchess of Norland, would choose to wield that influence to try to better the lot of females who were not so fortunate as she.

  Of course, certain sins were unforgivable, even in duchesses. But as most of these involved indiscretions committed by brainless, besotted females like Lavinia over worthless libertines, she knew herself to be safe on that score.