Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Page 16

  “Hmm. Yes – likely, he thinks that would put me in his power. Does he mean to make me play the mouse? But he will discover that is a mistake.”

  “Naturally. I expect he will also discover that it will be that much harder to keep you at a distance when he has himself insisted on having you share his home.”

  “I hope that you are right.”

  *

  Holly did not arrive at the Strathavon townhouse on St James Street until well after noon later that week, much to the curiosity of the staff and the duke’s obvious irritation.

  He had expected her promptly at ten o’clock, and was already restlessly pacing his study when his town coach drew up outside the house.

  “I trust that you will find everything in order,” Strathavon said to his wife, having introduced her to his London staff. They had gone to speak privately in his study, and their proximity in the little room was making Holly’s heart pound in a most irrational way.

  Now that she was finally at St James Street, looking young and impossibly lovely, the duke did not exactly know what to do with her.

  “I expect I shall. I will need a lady’s maid.”

  “Did you not have one already, at Pontridge?” asked the duke in astonishment.

  “I did, yes. Nancy. And she was very good – but she is newly married, and I did not like to take her away from her husband.”

  “I see,” sighed Strathavon. “Then we shall advertise. In the meantime, have Mrs Willan send someone up to assist you.”

  “Mrs Willan?” Holly asked absently, watching as the duke carelessly adjusted a cufflink.

  “The housekeeper.” He said dryly.

  “Ah, yes. Now I think I had better –”

  “Yes, I expect you’ll wish to go up to your rooms –”

  “Yes –”

  They stared at each other a moment, lost in their own private reverie, until someone rang the bell at the front of the house, and Holly ducked out of the room with a chagrined smile on her face.

  She was very pleased to discover that the house had a lovely garden, where the previous duchess had been fond of hosting parties on sultry summer days. The greenery made for a charming view out of Holly’s drawing room window and her bedroom looked directly on to the little rose garden below.

  Strathavon’s mother had been known for her great love of roses and had even overseen the gardeners herself. It was comforting that this imaginary friend from Holly’s lonely days at Pontridge was even now by her side, giving her much-needed support.

  The marble—white and faded gold splendour of the Strathavon townhouse unsettled her. Holly had never been mistress of a place like that and it made her uneasy, for one was worried about moving too quickly and knocking over some precious curiosity displayed in glass.

  The house was elegantly furnished and in a much better state than had been the country pile. This residence had seen frequent use even as the manor had gone untended.

  That evening, after supper, Holly retired to the parlour with her journal, and was duly incredulous when the subject of most of her anguished scribblings decided to join her, armed with the evening paper and a glass of port.

  “I hope you do not mind?” he asked, indicating his chosen chair, opposite hers. “I shouldn’t like to disturb your quiet.”

  “Not at all! Especially not if you offer me a glass of that port.”

  “Port!” The duke was taken aback at such a fast request, but Holly chose to ignore his expression.

  “I developed quite a taste for it, staying on Park Lane.”

  “And I suppose next you’ll tell me that you have taken a liking to cigars,” said the duke, though he did get up and pour her a glass. Then he watched as she took a delicate sip and nodded approvingly, her eyes meeting his with a sparkle and a tantalising hint of fire.

  “Very good. Ruby port is my favourite. And no, I don’t care for cigars, though Lady Louisa’s coterie do favour their figurados. I am told they are an acquired taste.” Holly took a moment to enjoy his expression at the thought of Lady Louisa and her matronly friends enjoying a night of port and cigars.

  “One that I hope you’ll have more sense than to acquire.”

  “For someone with your reputation, You Grace, you can be surprisingly prudish. Now hush, you promised not to disturb me.”

  With those words, she seemed perfectly content to ignore him in favour of her journal. From what the duke could see, it was a scruffy-looking book, one that must often have been shoved out of sight at the very last moment, he fancied.

  He carefully examined her face, and her delicate shoulders, teasingly covered by a sprigged shawl of black Chantilly lace.

  Holly was very taken aback to find that Strathavon liked to spend his evenings reading the contents of his large library. She had pictured him burning the midnight oil in a den of vice, gambling away fortunes at hazard and associating with ladies of the sort of which she oughtn’t even have been aware.

  And yet there he was, elegant and relaxed. She snuck a quick glance at him before dropping her gaze to her journal once more. It was a striking image and one that would remain with her always.

  They sat that way for about half an hour until the duke folded his paper, leaned back and regarded her out of deceptively sleepy eyes. The rain had been going all day and showed no sign of stopping. It provided a peaceful accompaniment to the unlikely scene in the parlour.

  “Are you working on a novel?” he asked blithely. “A frightful gothic affair? Or is it a woeful tragedy? You showed yourself to have a marked talent for the macabre that night at Lady Raike’s.”

  “I am writing in my journal. It is a relief to be able to do so without worrying that one of my brothers might take it into his head to read it. Boys can be terribly boorish at their age,” said the duchess primly. “And I do not care for sad novels. There is already enough sadness in the world for one not to have to read any more about it.”

  Then, she had the unbelievable effrontery of going back to her writing.

  Annoyed, Strathavon was just about to make some kind of cutting remark when a pitiful mewling came from somewhere outside the library, cutting the argument short.

  “What is that?” Holly asked, her fine brow creasing in a frown.

  “What is what?” Strathavon was confused, thrown off the path of his argument with that innocuous question.

  “That mewling! I think there is a cat in the garden – stranded in the rain, poor thing.”

  The next moment, a terrible yowling spilt the air.

  The duke’s gaze flew to the French windows at this eldritch wailing.

  “Quick!” Holly shot to her feet and, before he could stop her, she was out through the glass doors, and into the rain, careless of her silvered muslin gown.

  With a rising irritation, he followed her, only to find her standing beneath a tree, peering up, while a yapping from the next garden suggested the culprit behind this sorry tableau.

  “I was right, it is a cat,” Holly asserted.

  “I can see that. I can also see that you are getting soaked.” He did not mention that her dress would be ruined and that it suddenly struck him that she was at her most beautiful during such moments of kindness.

  “The poor thing is in the terrors.”

  “It’s that beastly poodle of Sir Harold’s,” agreed the duke.

  Holly gave him a wide-eyed, pleading look. With a sigh, Strathavon peered up into the shadowed greenery. It was too dark to see much more than a pair of yellow eyes peering back at him.

  In his opinion, the damned thing looked more enraged than terrified and the hiss that promptly followed easily confirmed this theory.

  “I hardly think the cat is the one at a disadvantage here,” he drawled.

  “Really, Sylvester, how can you?” Holly exclaimed. “You are being a beast. The dear thing is terrified and must be rescued. Cats are never very good at climbing back down. My mother’s cat wasn’t.”

  It took Strathavon a moment to work o
ut what she wanted of him, because his mind was still reeling at her unprecedented use of his first name. Rescue? he thought in disbelief, wondering if she was quite right in the attic, and then applying the same examination to himself.

  “Certainly! It cannot be left up there. I won’t have it.”

  He sighed. “Very well, then. I shall ring for a servant.”

  Holly, however, did not seem mollified. She shook her head. “Oh, no! There would be a to-do and a crowd, and the poor thing would feel even worse. You’re distressing it.”

  The duke stared down his considerable nose at her. “You don’t mean for me…” he began, only to shortly discover that she did indeed mean just that.

  He wondered when it was that he had decided to join her in her obvious madness.

  Strathavon’s coat was the latest masterpiece from Weston, just arrived that morning. It was nothing short of blasphemy to ruin the thing by picking up a clawing feline.

  “As you will, then,” he sighed, with a most put-upon air. He only hoped his tailor should never hear of this travesty, else he would undeniably send the duke from his doors in disgrace.

  Strathavon would never after be entirely certain how it was that he had found himself clambering up the tree in the dark, dressed in his superfine coat, in quest of a spitting feline. He was only glad that Avonbury was not there to see it.

  “Don’t hurt it!” the duchess exclaimed when the cat issued a particularly ferocious yowl.

  Ten minutes later, he had miraculously managed to apprehend the creature without himself falling out of the tree or being fatally wounded.

  Strathavon felt more than a little miserable, his hands scratched and his coat ruined to such an extent that he was not certain his valet would ever speak to him again.

  At Holly’s instruction, he deposited the creature in the parlour and shut the door. Holly, however, seemed unimpressed by his dishevelled state, choosing instead to croon over the cat, which was still giving him vicious looks from the carpet, eyes flashing undisguised hostility.

  The duke felt ridiculous as he ordered up a meal for what appeared to be a mangy feral cat. It did not seem to realise that Holly was the one to blame for the whole absurd set-up.

  When he remarked on this fact, Holly dismissed him with a laugh. “Nonsense – he merely wants a home! Or she, in fact. Calico cats are always female. Some warm milk and a basket near the fireplace should do her wonderfully. Cats are naturally very clean animals. ”

  “Hmph.”

  “I do think she likes you.”

  The duke did not dignify that with an answer. “My coat is well beyond repair,” he remarked casually, hoping to draw some attention to this unfortunate state of affairs, but to no avail. It was a pity that he was too well-bred to concede annoyance.

  “Yes, it was very good of you to climb up that tree – I would have done it myself, but this is hardly a good gown for such pursuits,” Holly replied absently, still fussing over the creature. She instructed her husband to ring for the milk and maybe a fish from the kitchens.

  And that was how the Duke of Strathavon unintentionally acquired a cat. The most irritating part of it was that the feline seemed to take to Holly instantly and, having been provided with nourishment, it had the audacity to let her stroke it and even purr as it curled up next to her.

  “I do not think you should be sitting so near to it.”

  “Why ever not? She’s hardly a leopard. And she didn’t mean to scratch you, of course – she was frightened. But I think you had better have a glass of brandy and water. Cold, with a little sugar is best. For your nerves.”

  The duke gave his wife a dark look, which made her chuckle.

  An amused smile still playing at the corners of her mouth, she sent for a styptic to be brought so that she might tend to the scratches on his hands. Her eyes lingered warmly on the duke’s, who instantly decided that fetching the damned cat from the tree had been worth the trouble after all.

  “You see, it’s not so bad. Just a silly scratch,” Holly said to him as she held his long, elegant hands in her little ones. Her voice was low and husky, her eyes appeared hooded in the candlelight.

  *

  After a week living at St James Street, Holly became convinced that Lady Louisa had been correct about the educational value of sharing a roof with the duke.

  Admiral Nelson himself could not have picked a more fortuitously strategic location from which to plan her next step.

  She could observe Strathavon’s habits, gain as much intelligence as she possibly could – it was exactly like staging a military campaign. One had to scout the territory and learn whatever one could, then plan accordingly.

  This was the surest way to decide how best to proceed, how best to marshal one’s troops. But war could lead one either to felicity or ruin: Holly knew that she had to play to win.

  When she met Lady Louisa for hot chocolate, the woman listened to Holly with great interest, though she did not say what it was that had amused her enough to elicit the small, secret smile with which she took a bite of her biscuit.

  “I think you are doing splendidly. You must always think creatively, my dear, and keep your eyes open. Avail yourself of any helpful circumstance – no matter if it breaks the mundane rules of the polite world. One must always know when a rule wants breaking. Think on your feet, and adjust your plans as you go along!”

  “Is that how you conquered the Duc d’Orleans?” Holly asked, recalling the tale of that impressive coup.

  “Oh! That – no, that was merely a very good dress and an even better corset. Monsieur d’Orleans was ever a man susceptible to splendour. Your Strathavon, on the other hand, must be won with strategy and fun. Though a good corset may help matters along.”

  “Fripperies?” Holly asked, disappointed. She had been envisioning a grand seduction.

  “But of course. Love, like war, is based on illusion. On deception. It is a game – that is exactly why you must be ready to cheat and to break rules wherever necessary.”

  This advice was unlike anything Holly had ever been told before: was that really how one ought to play at love and marriage? She would never have thought to liken love with deception. Which she supposed was exactly what made the advice so valuable. Yet this strange world of seduction, in which Lady Louisa had lived most of her life, was entirely foreign to Holly.

  Her greatest object was victory.

  Quite aside from laying out her strategy, the things she learned about the duke also made her fall even deeper in love with him – was such love even possible?

  She was learning a great many unexpected things about the man. She now knew, for instance, that the duke always slept late in the mornings and was awfully grumpy until he’d broken his fast.

  He stayed up late at night, reading and sometimes writing letters and notes. He always kept a coffee pot nearby, to the precise preparation of which he assigned an almost spiritual importance, and he drank enough of the brew to make him most touchingly frenetic.

  He could talk about horses with Avonbury for hours on end and he was particularly fond of rhubarb tarts, though he could not abide marmalade.

  She knew that the duke, while he dressed in fabrics of the finest quality to be had in all of London, could never preside as a true leader of fashion, because of the unfailing practicality of his appearance. Nor was he even remotely wicked, no matter what some gossips said of him.

  The Dastardly Duke was not all that dastardly. She hoped that he knew it too – just as she hoped that he would one day discover his own capacity for love.

  Holly had seen enough of the melancholy man beneath the implacable façade to know that he was quite human. She would almost have preferred it if he were wicked because then she would not be overcome by the urge to help him defeat his sorrows.

  She also learned that he secretly liked the cat, whom Holly had named Mittens for her white paws, even though he pretended that he did not. They were often to be found together near the fire, and he had
even taken to carrying about a length of wool for Mittens to chase.

  She also liked to explore his lordship’s private library, which he had given her permission to do at leisure. One morning, when she found herself free from any plans or engagements, she ventured down there in search of some novel to occupy the quiet hours.

  The library was empty. There was a sole open window that let in a ray of pale autumn sunlight over the rich Persian rugs and the tall bookshelves that covered the walls.

  She opened the other curtains with a flourish, before turning her attention to the heavily laden shelves. As she browsed, a little green book caught her eye – it seemed innocuous next to its neighbours, but Holly drew it out regardless and opened the slim volume at random.

  Then she blinked, and stifled a gasp, feeling her breath quicken and her skin warm.

  The illustration was like nothing she had ever seen before.

  She remembered what Lady Louisa had told her about the art of seduction. You must seem artless: weak one moment, yet perfectly in control the next.

  Looking at the colourful tableau of a lady and gentleman in what was a most imaginative pose, Holly was at once fascinated and appalled. More scandalous yet, next to the illustration, there appeared to be instructions. Despite herself, Holly looked closer. Was that what her seduction must entail? She felt short of breath just considering it. How could she ever appear artless and in control in the face of such a thing? Was that even possible?

  She knew that she ought to be a lady and close the book. And she would, any moment now. Holly turned the page and examined the next illustration.

  Did Sylvester really read such things? Was this what occupied his attention during his nightly hours in the library?

  The thought of the duke carefully examining these self-same pictures thrilled her in a most secret, feminine corner of her soul.

  Chapter 9

  She could hear the grandfather clock in the entrance hall, echoing through the house. Eyes closed, Holly counted along with it in her head. One. Two. Turning over yet again, Holly gazed hopelessly at the curtains, which fluttered gently in the moonlight that seeped through them into the room.