Chapter 3 #2
His hand encountered empty air. He hesitated, then reached out again, patting the space in front of him as though searching for something.
Joan watched, her anger momentarily forgotten, as the Duke took another careful step forward. His movements were cautious, uncertain in a way that seemed entirely at odds with the confidence in his voice.
He was looking for something. Feeling for something.
And then Joan saw it, walking stick, leaning against the wall several feet to his right. Too far for him to reach without knowing exactly where it was.
The Duke took another step, still holding the cat, still reaching out blindly. His hand swept through empty air again, and Joan saw frustration flash across what little she could see of his face.
He can’t see, she realized. Or at least, he can’t see well. That’s why the room is so dark. That’s why he moves so carefully.
The footmen were already approaching her, ready to escort her out. In moments she would be ushered from the room and the door would close on any hope of securing the hall.
Joan knew she should go quietly. Should accept defeat with grace and dignity.
But she had never been particularly good at accepting defeat.
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” she said clearly, her voice cutting across the room, “you would benefit from having someone assist you. It might improve your rather rude temperament.”
The footmen froze. The butler’s expression shifted to one of pure horror.
And the Duke stopped moving entirely.
The silence that followed was so complete that Joan could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
What have I done? she thought, panic beginning to claw at her throat. What possessed me to say such a thing to a duke?
“Stop,” the Duke said quietly.
The footmen immediately stepped back.
The Duke turned to face her. He set the cat down gently, then began walking toward her. He walked with more confidence now, as though her voice had given him a direction to follow.
As he emerged from the deepest shadows into the shaft of sunlight streaming through the un-curtained window, Joan finally got her first clear look at his face.
And the shock of recognition brought her to her knees.
It’s him.
The man from the carriage. The aristocrat who had blocked their path on the road to Fairfax Manor. The man whose eyes had stared at her with such piercing intensity that she had felt stripped bare under his gaze.
But she hadn’t seen—hadn’t noticed in the brief moments of their encounter—the scars.
They traced from his temples down toward his eyes, pink and puckered with relatively recent healing. The scars were intimidating, but there was something almost… endearing about them. They made him seem less like an untouchable duke and more like a man who had suffered and survived.
I’ve offended him twice now, Joan thought desperately. First on the road, and now this. He’ll never help me. He’ll probably have me thrown off his estate entirely.
She pressed her forehead nearly to the floor in the deepest curtsy she could manage, hiding her burning face.
“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice strangled. “I apologize. Thank you for granting me an audience. I should not have—that is, I had no right to—”
She scrambled to her feet, not daring to look at him, and turned toward the door. She needed to leave. Before she made an even bigger fool of herself.
“It’s you. The lady who asked me to turn back.”
The words stopped her mid-flight. Joan forced herself to turn back, though she kept her eyes lowered. She dropped into another curtsy.
“Your Grace,” she said quickly, “you have already been so generous. You allowed me to see you without an appointment. I should not have troubled you with such petty demands. I will find another hall. I’m certain there must be some other suitable location in the village—”
She was backing toward the door as she spoke, ready to bolt.
“Wait.”
Joan froze.
The Duke tossed his walking stick aside and it clattered against the floor with a sharp crack and closed the distance between them in three long strides.
He reached out and caught her wrist before she could evade him.
His grip was firm but not painful. She could feel his pulse beating against her skin, or perhaps that was her own heart racing out of control.
He was younger than she had expected—perhaps thirty-four or thirty-five.
His features were aristocratic and severe: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as though it rarely smiled.
His hair was dark brown, slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that softened his otherwise harsh appearance.
But there was something unfocused about his gaze. He was looking at her, yes, but not quite meeting her eyes. As though he could see her shape, her outline, but not the details of her features.
He leaned closer, much closer than propriety allowed. So close that Joan could smell the faint scent of sandalwood.
Joan’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered so hard she was certain he must be able to hear it.
“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice emerging as barely more than a whisper. “This—this is not appropriate. A man and a woman should not stand so close.”
“And yet you came here alone,” he said softly. He paused, and his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. “Anyone who saw you enter might think we had been engaged in rather… improper activities.”
Heat flooded Joan’s face. He stepped back suddenly, putting a more respectable distance between them. He gestured toward where his walking stick lay on the floor.
“Would you retrieve that for me, Miss Sinclair?”
Still dazed, Joan moved automatically. She crossed to where the stick had fallen and picked it up. The wood was smooth and polished beneath her fingers, clearly of excellent quality.
She walked back to him and held it out.
The Duke reached for it but instead of taking the stick, his hand closed around hers. He pulled gently but firmly, drawing her closer until they stood nearly as close as they had been moments before.
Joan’s heart skipped a beat then another. She stared up at him, unable to look away from those intense, slightly unfocused eyes.
He should say. “Are you open to us assisting each other?”
What was he suggesting?
“I am not that type of woman, Your Grace. I have self-respect and my innocence matters —”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. The Duke stared at her for a moment. Then, to her utter shock, he laughed.
It was a rusty sound, as though he didn’t laugh often. But it was genuine, transforming his severe features into something almost handsome.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, still chuckling, “I assure you, I have no designs on your virtue. I am asking you to read financial documents and ledgers. Nothing more.”
The relief that flooded through Joan was so intense it left her lightheaded.
“I have certain duties that require clear vision. Accounts to review. Household ledgers to examine. Correspondence to read. My injury has made these tasks… difficult,” he said.
“But surely you have servants who could—”
“I have a house full of servants,” he agreed.
“But only a few whom I trust with my private affairs. You, however…” He paused, and that almost-smile appeared again.
“You are desperate enough to be trustworthy. And you clearly have no designs on my title or fortune, given your complete disregard for propriety.”
Joan’s mind raced, trying to process what he was offering. “You want me to help read your accounts? To assist with your estate business?”
“Precisely.” He released her hand, though he kept hold of the walking stick, creating a connection between them. “In exchange, I will grant you use of the hall. And any other resources you need for your school.”
“Oh,” she managed. “Oh. I see. I—forgive me, I didn’t mean to suggest—that is, I wasn’t—”
She was making it worse. Her face felt hot enough to set the curtains on fire.
“I will think about your offer, Your Grace,” she said quickly, dropping into a curtsy so deep she nearly lost her balance. “I thank you for your time and consideration. Good day.”
She turned and practically ran for the door, yanked it open, and hurried down the corridor with as much dignity as she could muster while moving at near-running speed.
Behind her, she heard the Duke’s low chuckle following her retreat.