Chapter Eight
Evie had been careful to stay out of sight during the duke’s and marquess’s visit, keeping her head down when she could not avoid their presence.
On the second day, as they were saying their farewells in the front hall, the Duke of Cranbrook glanced at her then snapped his head around to look a second time.
But when she quickly ducked into a room, he didn’t say anything to Lord Rutland.
When her employer had questioned her, he had believed her story that she’d gained her wisdom working in a London home.
She’d worried he’d question it, but it seemed he was either that ignorant of the gap between the aristocracy and their servants or that desperate for assistance regarding his new world.
She could not have planned a better way to evaluate him as marriage material than spending a few hours a day helping him.
As a bonus, she no longer had to cast surreptitious glances as she worked to admire his physique.
If anything, her aunt had understated his uniqueness.
The man was built like no duke she’d ever seen.
He could be one of those pugilists so popular in London these days.
His shoulders were twice the width of hers, above a trim waist and tree trunks for legs.
’Twas a good thing this duke could afford bespoke clothes, as no ready-made trousers would fit his proportions.
Between all that, his arresting face, and that damned throat hollow that beckoned her, she worried she would not be able to focus on the laws which heretofore had been her highest priority.
She raced through her duties the next morning, having a rough idea of his schedule.
He generally read papers and ledgers until he was so confused and frustrated he couldn’t focus, only to take a quick break before calling in Munroe to go over his questions.
Afterwards, he either walked or rode some of his agitation away.
So, she anticipated him calling for her later in the afternoon.
She was correct. Walking into his office, she dipped into a shallow curtsy. “You rang, Your Grace?”
“Miss Mullens, may I—?” He cleared his throat. “Please sit down.”
“See? You’re getting the knack of it.” She smiled at him as she lowered to a visitor’s chair across from him.
When one side of his mouth curled up in amusement, she bit back a gasp.
For all his rough edges, open-necked shirts, and almost permanent frown, he was breathtaking when he smiled.
Her heart might have missed a beat when his cheek creased and his eyes twinkled.
A splendid attribute in a husband, but his leanings in Parliamentary matters and his treatment of women were still to be determined.
At least being on his payroll, she’d already crossed off any concerns about how he dealt with servants.
If anything, he deferred too much to them, as he had with her the previous day.
He gestured to the largest pile on one side of his desk. “These are items Munroe cannot help me with. Mostly bills from the House of Commons, headed to the House of Lords, I think?”
She nodded.
“And a few invitations. Munroe managed the ones from this region. These are from London.”
“Those will continue to flow in. Dukes are in great demand. Their presence at one event can elevate a host or hostess’s reputation for an entire Season.”
“Why?”
“Because your set is the most powerful in the kingdom, barring the Royal Family.” She shrugged.
“But…a party, or dinner?”
“You’d be surprised at how much business is conducted at these social events. Second only to the clubs. I’m guessing Mr. Lancaster informed you which memberships you have inherited?”
“A club?” He thought. “Perhaps it was the place named after a color? Black’s?”
She stifled a giggle. “White’s. You were close.”
He raised a brow. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Oh, that is perfect. A very ducal expression, Your Grace. You should keep that in your repertoire.”
His omnipresent frown returned, his jaw ticking. “You’re dismissed.”
She gulped a breath. Oh dear, he was upset. She would be, too, if she had to learn every aspect of a new life and some servant sat laughing at her lack of knowledge.
She stood to execute a lower curtsy than her first. “Your Grace, I must beg your pardon. ’Tis difficult for me to fathom someone so unfamiliar with all aspects of the aristocracy.
However, I was not laughing at you. I would never.
I want to help you. The contradiction of black and white was simply amusing. Please. I am sorry.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Apology accepted. Sit, please. And enough with the curtsies and the Your Graces. I apologize as well. This is frustrating, and so much of it feels pointless. By this time of day, I am often short-tempered. So many rules and prancing around to observe ‘etiquette.’ Life in the public house was much simpler.”
“I can imagine.” She was accustomed to the intricacies of society now, but recalled feeling overwhelmed when she’d learned them years ago.
“I cannot promise you I won’t snipe at you again, so have patience with me.”
“Is that an order, Your—?” she asked cheekily, trying to tease him out of his bad mood. But she stopped on his title. “What shall I call you?”
“Xander, please.”
She gasped. Even some of her friends were uncomfortable calling their betrothed by their first names. Here she was, a servant. “I could not!”
He growled.
“Your Gr—my lord. Please. You have asked for my help with learning this…life. Using someone’s first name beyond your closest circle is simply not done. By order of familiarity, you should accept Your Grace, Rutland, my lord, and then a nickname or Xander to only your closest circle.”
“Blazes. Fine, then. Rutland, I suppose. Might as well become accustomed to answering to it.”
“Still not appropriate for someone who works for you, but I understand, er, Rutland. Let’s delay the invitations to another day. Perhaps you can sort them by date of the event, and we can prioritize them that way. Have you read the bills?”
“A few of them. I have opinions on them, but I am worried they will be unpopular given my background. As you say, they might come up at the social gatherings, I wish to avoid saying the wrong thing.”
“Understandable, my lord—Rutland.” She corrected herself. “Might I take those and read them between now and tomorrow to discuss with you?”
He arched the ducal brow again. “What? You won’t know all of them from perusing the title over my shoulder?”
She arched a brow. If he could be snide, so could she. “Perhaps, but I’d rather be certain. ’Tis your reputation on the line.”
* * * *
Evie had been sure the duke would have to vouch for her to get reading time, but the housekeeper accepted her need for daylight hours to go through the documents Evie showed her.
The senior staff members had accepted the new duke’s unconventional method of running the house and adjusted accordingly.
Having been in the household for the better part of a month, Evie was impatient for knowledge to inform her true purpose, and whether or not to encourage the duke to accept the marriage contract.
Determined to obtain an inkling of where Xander’s thoughts were on some of the more controversial bills, she waited for the household to settle for the night.
Once in her nightclothes, she braided her hair for sleep, enjoying the freedom from the infernal, itchy mobcap she had to wear by day.
Then, carrying her slippers, she slipped out of her narrow servant’s room and down the back stairs, past the first floor with the duke’s private quarters and bedchambers for guests, to the ground level.
She slid her footwear on before approaching the library.
There, she eased inside around the half-open door and aimed for his desk.
She leaned over the desk to light the gas lamp, not quite daring to go around and sit in the duke’s chair.
Sliding the pile of documents toward her, she looked for his notes.
Not finding them, she turned the lamp a shade brighter to search beyond the one pile.
She swore he’d had a folio near him on the desk, but it wasn’t there.
Fabric rustled behind her.
She spun around, her heart racing.
The duke lolled lengthwise on the settee, shirt untucked, one foot up on the arm, the other on the ground. His arm was thrown up over his head on the arm behind it. And his eyes were open, staring at her.
She bent a knee, beginning a curtsy.
He growled, and she straightened quickly. Nodding, she tried to brazen it out. “Rutland.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
Belatedly, she spied the folio laying open on the low table in front of the settee. Devil it.
“I—I thought one bill was missing a page.”
“You cannot think I’ll believe that you were reading at this time of night. I am quite sure servants are only allotted one candle for their chambers. Frankly, given what I saw, any more would singe the walls, those rooms are so tiny.”
Of course, of all the things he’d have mastered, it had to be servants’ allotments. She sighed.
“You are correct, sir.” His brows twitched at that moniker, but she ignored it. “I did not want to interfere with your day, so I thought I’d look for it now.”
He rose and stretched, his dratted open-necked shirt dragging along his muscular torso, before striding over to stand within arm’s length.
“Well, now you’ve interrupted my night.” He stared down at her, his eyes pools of darkness in the planes of light and shadow playing over his face. His curls were in even more disarray than by day, and when he scrubbed a hand over his chin, she could hear the rasp of stubble.
Her heart raced, and heat twinged low in her belly. She licked her lips.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, eyelids remaining lowered. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
The heat pouring off him singed her through her nightrail and wrapper, and she shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She shook her head, unable to form words. Whether that was from fear of being caught in a lie or distraction due to physical turmoil, she did not care to decide.
“Right, then. You owe me a forfeit for awakening me.”
“I did you a favor, sir. Your bed must be more comfortable than the settee.” Her forwardness, no matter what her position, in mentioning a man’s bed made her squirm. Or perhaps it was due to his naked forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves.
“That bed is ridiculously large. Especially when, for some reason, there is a separate set of rooms for the duchess.”
As much as she wanted to ask to see said bed, she needed to find a balance between flirting and sanity. She tried, “After sharing your thoughts of my accommodations—in your home, I might add—I don’t think ’tis very fair to complain about your bed being too large.”
He chuckled.
“Perhaps our forfeits negate one another?” she proposed hopefully. Worry over what her forfeit might be had begun to cloud her thoughts. They might be on totally different pages for what they’d like to explore this evening.
“I don’t think so.”
She swallowed through a tight throat. “What, then?”
“What do you suggest?” He frowned. “What do other households have as punishment?”
She’d heard her mother discussing such a thing with the housekeeper once, but with him so close, she could not pull the memory forward. Offering a few guesses, she said, “Docking their pay? Forfeiting their day off?”
His lips flattened. “Sounds harsh. What do the London ladies forfeit?”
It would be inexcusably forward of her, but no one had to know. Unable to resist his lure, she dropped her gaze to his hard jaw and lush lips and whispered, “Kisses.”
His nostrils flared on a sharp inhale, and he cupped her jaw with a broad work-roughened hand. “That seems more fair.”
Her eyelids fluttered, the heat of his hand searing a path from her cheek to between her legs. Oh my, he is potent.
His voice was rougher and lower than normal when he asked, “Do you agree?”
Her conscience and newly awakened desire were warring. You mustn’t. But—for husband research. Unable to resist his heat, his gaze, and his touch, she nodded against his hold.
Before her next breath, his lips were on hers.