Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Good luck, Miss Sinclair,” Peter said again.
Two days later, her carriage rolled to a stop before the Duke’s estate once more, and Joan felt her stomach twist with nervous anticipation. She had spent the past days wrestling with her decision, weighing the benefits against the risks, telling herself this was purely a practical arrangement.
Joan accepted his hand and descended from the carriage, smoothing her skirts with fingers that trembled only slightly. “Thank you, Peters.”
She had on a gray day dress with long sleeves and a high neckline that suggested respectability. She looked like a governess or a lady’s companion.
She walked into the mansion and the butler opened up before she could knock. His expression was as carefully neutral as before.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” he said with a bow. “His Grace is expecting you. If you would follow me.”
Jenkins led her down a different corridor this time, deeper into the house. They passed closed doors and shuttered windows until finally he stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open.
“Miss Sinclair.”
Joan stepped into the room—and her breath stopped.
It was a study, and it was magnificent. Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of them packed with leather-bound volumes.
A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface clear except for an inkwell and several neat stacks of papers.
Windows along the fourth wall let in filtered light through heavy curtains, creating a sort of perpetual twilight.
But it was the books that captured Joan’s attention.
She moved toward the nearest shelf as though drawn by an invisible thread, her fingers reaching out to trace the gilt lettering on the spines. Philosophy texts. Volumes of Plato and Aristotle. Locke and Hume. Rousseau. Kant.
Oh, what a collection.
She had always loved philosophy, had devoured every text she could find in her late father's modest library. But this—this was extraordinary. Some of these volumes must be first editions. Worth a fortune.
Her fingers trailed reverently along the leather bindings, and she pulled out a copy of Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature to examine it more closely.
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from directly behind her.
Joan spun around so quickly that she lost her balance. Her foot caught in her skirts and she pitched forward with a startled cry.
Strong hands caught her shoulders, steadying her before she could fall. Joan found herself pressed against a solid wall of muscle, her palms flat against a broad chest, her face mere inches from—
The Duke.
He was fully dressed today in an impeccably tailored coat of dark blue superfine, a crisp white shirt, and a black lace scarf tied across his eyes like a blindfold. The scarf covered him from just above his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, concealing his scars partially.
Joan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his coat, could smell that same intoxicating scent of sandalwood. His hands on her shoulders were firm, holding her steady, and she was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched.
Oh God.
She jerked away from him, nearly stumbling again in her haste. Her face felt like it was on fire.
“Your Grace!” she managed, her voice coming out higher than usual. “I—that is—I apologize. I was merely examining your collection. I didn’t hear you enter.”
The Duke moved past her with confident steps, his walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. He navigated around the desk and settled into the large leather chair.
Joan’s embarrassment deepened. She had been so focused on the philosophy texts that she had completely ignored her surroundings.
She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together, forcing herself to regain some semblance of composure.
“Your Grace, I have come to inform you that I accept your offer.”
“Have you?” He leaned back in his chair, his scarred hands resting on the armrests. Even with the silk scarf covering half his face, she could tell he was smiling. “How fortunate for both of us.”
“However,” Joan continued, lifting her chin, “I must confess that I find your choice of assistant rather puzzling.”
One dark eyebrow rose above the edge of the silk scarf. “Do you?”
“You have chosen a complete stranger—someone you know nothing about—to handle your private financial affairs. I could easily alter your account books. I could steal from you or expose your business dealings to your rivals. Why would you take such a risk?”
The Duke was silent for a moment, his head tilted slightly as though he were studying her despite the blindfold. Then he laughed—that same rusty sound she remembered from their last encounter.
“You want to teach village children,” he said. “Which means you must either be reasonably educated or completely delusional. I am inclined to believe the former, given your evident appreciation for my philosophy collection.”
He paused, and his smile took on a sharper edge.
“As for the possibility that you might expose my affairs or steal from me—I am not concerned. You have a sister at home, do you not?”
Joan felt ice slide down her spine. He had sent people to look into her. He was no fool
“Something tells me,” the Duke continued, his voice still pleasant but with an underlying hardness that made her skin prickle, “that you would not want anything… unpleasant to befall her. I have a great many resources at my disposal, Miss Sinclair. I can be a very generous friend. But I can also be a rather terrible enemy.”
The casual cruelty in his words struck her like a physical blow. Joan stared at him, seeing for the first time why the villagers spoke of him with such fear. This was not just a reclusive nobleman. This was a man who wielded his power without mercy.
What have I gotten myself into? she thought.
The Duke must have sensed her hesitation because his expression softened slightly.
“I am a fair man, Miss Sinclair. As long as you are honest with me—as long as you do the work I ask of you with integrity—we will have a smooth transaction. I simply require your assistance for approximately one month.”
Joan swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to get as far from this dangerous man as possible.
But then she thought of Percival’s earnest face. Of Timothy Andersen’s bitter resignation. Of all the children in the village who would never have the chance to read or write or better themselves.
She thought of Victoria, languishing at Fairfax Manor with nothing to occupy her mind except her heartbreak.
“Very well, Your Grace,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I agree to your terms. But I have one condition of my own.”
She moved closer to his desk, planting her hands on the polished surface and leaning forward to ensure he could hear her clearly.
“You must not have any indecent thoughts about me,” she said firmly. “This is to be a purely professional arrangement. Nothing more.”
The Duke’s mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile. “You are quite audacious, Miss Sinclair.”
“I am serious, Your Grace. I will not—”
“Let us not beat about the bush,” he interrupted smoothly. “If you wish to confess that you find me attractive, you need not be so coy about it. I understand that men like me tend to sweep ladies off their feet. However, I must inform you that I have standards.”
Joan’s hands clenched into fists on the desk. The overwhelming urge to punch him directly in his smug, face surged through her with shocking intensity.
Before she could give in to that urge—or formulate a suitably cutting response—the Duke clapped his hands together once.
Jenkins appeared immediately, as though he had been waiting just outside the door. In his arms he carried a stack of leather-bound ledgers, which he set carefully on the desk between Joan and the Duke.
“The quarterly accounts, Your Grace,” Jenkins said with a bow.
“Excellent. Jenkins, please have the maids bring tea.”
“I prefer water,” Joan said.
The Duke’s smile widened. “The tea is not for you, Miss Sinclair.”
Joan gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak without saying something she would regret.
Jenkins departed, and Joan pulled one of the ledgers toward her, opening it with rather more force than necessary. The pages were filled with neat columns of figures—income and expenditures for the estate, carefully recorded in an elegant hand.
She bent over the book, determined to ignore the Duke’s presence and focus on the task at hand. But it was difficult to concentrate when she could feel his attention fixed on her, even through the silk scarf.
“This entry here,” Joan said, pointing to a line in the ledger. “What does ‘miscellaneous improvements’ refer to? The sum is rather large.”
“Repairs to the tenant cottages,” the Duke replied. “New roofs, primarily. The storms last winter were quite severe.”
Joan made a note in the margin and continued reading. A maid entered silently and placed a tea tray on the edge of the desk, well within the Duke’s reach. He lifted the cup bringing it to his lips without spilling a drop.
Joan watched him despite herself. His movements were fluid and assured, showing no hesitation or uncertainty. He navigated his own limited vision with remarkable skill.
“How do you do that?” she asked before she could stop herself.
The Duke lowered his cup and turned his face toward her. “Do what, precisely?”
Joan felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I meant—that is—how can you perform certain tasks without difficulty if your eyesight is so impaired?”
The Duke’s posture relaxed slightly. “I can see,” he said. “Simply not with the clarity I once possessed. I can perceive shapes and movement, distinguish between light and dark. Sunlight is unbearable—it causes terrible pain—but in dimmer conditions I can manage reasonably well.”
“You are unbearable,” Joan muttered under her breath.
The Duke’s head snapped toward her. “I beg your pardon?”
Oh God. He heard that.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Joan said quickly.
“Indeed,” the Duke replied thoughtfully. “It is a sentiment I have encountered… in other quarters.”
Joan’s composure fractured at once. “Your Grace!”
“Do not look so outraged, Miss Sinclair.” His smile was wickedly amused. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of making foolish assumptions.”
“Nor am I in the habit of inviting them!” Joan shot back before she could reconsider.
The Duke laughed—a genuine sound of amusement that transformed his severe features. “Then why did you pretend to fall earlier? Surely not just to have an excuse to touch me?”
“I did not pretend!” Joan’s voice rose despite her best efforts to maintain composure. “I genuinely tripped! I would never—I have no interest in you!”
“Whatever you say, Miss Sinclair.” The Duke’s tone suggested he believed absolutely nothing she was saying.
Joan opened her mouth to protest further, but no words came out. She was so angry she was actually shaking, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
The Duke took another sip of his tea, seemingly oblivious to her fury. “I suggest you focus on your work, Miss Sinclair. We haven’t all day”
She forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. Violence against a duke would not help her secure the hall for the children and would likely land her in prison.
No matter how satisfying it might feel in the moment.
She turned back to the ledger, her jaw clenched so tightly she feared her teeth might crack. Her fingers gripped the pen with enough force to snap it in half.
Never had she wanted to punch someone so badly in her entire life.