Chapter 6
From the moment the announcement about Our Brave Soldiers appeared in the papers, all credit for the idea was given to the Duke of Salcombe.
Everyone, from the most prestigious of nobles down to chimney sweeps and ratcatchers, believed a charity for soldiers who had lost limbs, and therefore their livelihoods, while fighting for their country, was an excellent idea.
They knew the government pensions weren’t enough and never would be to support these former soldiers.
Salcombe was lauded for his foresight, patriotism, and generosity.
And Celeste was pleased that it appeared her charity would be a success—except, being ignored when it had been her idea originally stung.
To his credit, the duke tried to include Celeste.
He ensured Celeste and her family, as well as Dame Beatrice, were invited to every rout, ball, and event he attended.
When hosts and hostesses drew him up on a dais to speak to the gathering about Our Brave Soldiers, he asked Celeste to stand by his side.
When questions were asked, he deferred them to her.
But that didn’t mean she was given any credit.
The world insisted he be in charge. Everyone acted drawn to this new, responsible Duke of Salcombe. Even Lord Liverpool sought him out for conversations. Celeste couldn’t help but feel abandoned.
Especially since Salcombe had been all that was proper after that one, singular kiss. It was almost as if he didn’t recall the kiss. What had been a revelation for her had apparently not been all that interesting to him.
But he did call often and seemed to enjoy teasing her.
A time or two, he would touch her. It was not anything dramatic—a brush on her arm, perhaps leaning a touch closer than one should, that sort of thing.
One day, when he was driving her around the park so she could privately school him on what he should say at an upcoming meeting at his club, he pulled over.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“The wind,” he answered and then, removing one glove, gently tucked one of her curls that had blown free from under her bonnet back behind her ear.
His expression was intent, as if he was concentrating on the task, wanting to see it done right. His face was mere inches from hers. His eyes lifted to meet hers. Their gazes held.
She found it hard to breathe, let alone think.
Then he sat back, smiled at her, put on his glove, and they were off again… as if nothing untoward had taken place.
George believed he didn’t have to call on them as often as he did. “He is interested in you,” she said.
“Nonsense. He can have any woman he wants.” Why should he settle on her? There were many women more statuesque, more beautiful.
“Then why is he here every time we turn around?”
“He likes our chef and our brewer.”
“I think he likes you,” George insisted.
Those were dangerous words. Celeste mulled over them more than she should. Occasionally, she sensed him watching her. Except when she looked in his direction, his attention was always on something or someone else. Never her. She needed to keep herself in check.
Furthermore, he was high-handed and male—and therein lay the challenge.
Celeste was dressed but had not yet had a cup of strong tea or a bite of toast when Rodman knocked on her bedroom door and informed her that Salcombe was currently sitting at their breakfast table, again.
George was still abed but overheard. “I’ll be down to chaperone,” her twin groaned and stretched her arms. “Provided I can manage to open my eyes. The fireworks at the Lovetts’ were spectacular. A pity you and Josephine had already gone home.” She referred to their youngest sister.
Celeste and Josephine had left the ball shortly after Salcombe took his leave.
He’d taken a moment to address Lord Fromhurst, who had requested to speak to him alone about the charity.
They all wanted to speak to him. Alone. She was never invited into those conversations.
She supposed that the duke and Lord Fromhurst had gone off to one of London’s gentlemen’s clubs. Women were not invited.
And here was the galling thing: After his departure, Celeste discovered that the ball had gone decidedly flat.
Now, he was downstairs…waiting for her. He might have information about his discussion with Lord Fromhurst.
“You sleep,” she advised George. “He’s here so often, no one will bat an eye about my meeting him over breakfast. He does like Cook’s beefsteak.”
“He likes you,” George answered.
Celeste kept her opinion to herself. There was no arguing with George.
In the family dining room, she found Salcombe happily drinking Kenbrooks ale and munching on a mound of bacon. Without any greeting, he said, “Fromhurst wants to be a named patron—”
“A patron?” She frowned down at him seated at the table.
“—I told him yes. I will also be meeting with the Marquess of Penaly in an hour. He’s a morning person as well. He wants to be a patron of the charity, too.”
Celeste stared at him. “Wait. How many patrons will we have?”
“As many as wish to pay,” he assured her.
“How many have you agreed to?”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if mentally counting and then shrugged. “I’m not certain.”
She wanted to growl her frustration. “We must keep track,” she said, struggling to keep her tone civil. “We can’t have half of London listed as patrons.”
“I can for our charity,” he explained as if it were obvious.
He’d said our. She registered the word.
Except he’d also said “I.” I can for our charity.
Her temper ignited.
He was always making decisions without a word to her.
Just as he’d changed the name of the charity.
Just as he’d been going around London inviting dispossessed soldiers to join them—something she couldn’t do because single women of a certain class couldn’t approach men on the street without being misunderstood as to their intentions.
Just as he was obviously making promises in meetings she could not attend.
It was not right. Why were men free to do whatever they wished? No one suspected their motives or branded them as too forward. Men also expected the world to bow to their demands while they ignored the women with ideas—
“My charity.” The words flew out of her. “This is my idea.”
“True,” he answered. He nabbed a soft, hot bun off the plate and talked around bites. “But I am your lead patron.“
“Apparently, you are one of what’s becoming a legion of patrons. However, I’m the one who makes decisions.” There, she’d said it. She had laid down the law. And it had taken all of her courage, all of her energy.
He hooked an arm on the back of his chair, completely at ease with himself. He enjoyed taking up all the space in the room, she thought peevishly. “You are upset,” he observed.
“You noticed, Your Grace.”
He pressed his lips together, thought a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. Sounding somewhat contrite, he said, “I fear what you will consider a truly major decision may have been made without you.”
Her back straightened. “What have you done?”
Salcombe glanced at her cooling tea. “You might wish to sit and take a sip of your brew before we discuss this.”
“Answer my question.”
A footman entered the room with her toast. He set it before her.
The duke said, “Enjoy your breakfast, my lady. We can discuss this later—”
“What decision?
He released a soft sigh, his brows rising as if in regret. “Well, I may have agreed to purchase a property. One where the men could live…along with their pets.”
For a second, Celeste didn’t believe she had heard him correctly. “Purchased a property?” she repeated, ignoring his soft jibe about pets. He had been hoping to deflect her attention from what he’d just admitted. “I saw you last evening. Had you purchased the property by then?”
“No.” He took a drag of his ale, his gaze moving away from hers. “And I still haven’t purchased it. Not until I see it. But the deal is fairly well done.”
“How did you make an agreement between last night and now? It is half past eight in the morning. Or did you do this at midnight? And why are you leaving me, the owner of the charity, out of the discussion?”
The footman shot a nervous glance at her. She frowned. “Please give us privacy, Stephen.” With a curt bow, the servant made a hasty retreat from the room.
Seemingly unperturbed, His Grace leaned over and plucked a piece of toast from her toast rack.
He chomped down on half of it before saying, “It was around midnight when I talked to Masick. I came across him at Fromhurst’s club.
Masick’s land borders my estate in Greenwich.
He has been yapping at me for months to take it off his hands. He gambles. Poorly, I might add.”
He paused as if expecting her to reply. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Her nails bit into the palms of her clenched fists. The effort of restraining herself was mighty, and he must have sensed it. “I do wish you would sit—"
“I’m fine.”
The duke eyed her as if he didn’t agree, but he wisely didn’t contradict her. Instead, he spread his hands as if to show he meant no tricks. “I haven’t decided on the property yet. I’m going to Greenwich to look over the land tomorrow and see if it meets our needs—”
Celeste could contain herself no longer. “My needs. My charity. My idea. I’m honoring a request from my late father.” She faced Salcombe, so angry she didn’t know what she would do next. “You have taken a great deal upon yourself.”
“You told me you wanted a place in the country for the men to live…with their pets. I’m attempting to help, Celeste.”
He’d used her given name. A day ago, she might have been flattered. Right now, she was annoyed. “Not by cutting me out of important decisions, Oliver.”