Chapter 6
Richard watched how the shadows highlighted the beautiful curves of Meriel’s face as the lamp gleamed across her pale skin. Her black dress made her vivid hair stand out like gold hidden in a cave. It was so easy just to look at her, to forget about his worries and bask in the pleasure of her.
But she was obviously uncomfortable being alone with him.
If he continued to stare at her, he knew she would flee.
And he didn’t want her to go. Only when he was with her did the loneliness inspired by this old house recede.
He didn’t know what it said about him that a strange young woman, suspicious of him, could somehow bring him a moment’s peace.
He forced himself to look at the portrait of his brother Cecil, which had been painted eighteen years ago. What could he tell her about it, except that as a child, he’d stood nearby and watched it being painted day after day?
“The setting was in the conservatory,” he began slowly.
She looked up at the portrait in surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, Your Grace.”
“The artist captured the sun well, but at the time, I was not very cooperative. I was seven, and when they’d tried to paint me outdoors, I kept escaping. So the conservatory it was.”
She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the image of his brother. “You had a devilish smile, Your Grace.”
“I’m sure I was thinking up terrible mischief. It’s what I did best.”
He looked down at her as she held the lamp up high.
She was close enough to touch, and in that moment, his vaunted control almost deserted him.
Never had he felt a woman’s presence in such an overwhelming way.
No wonder he’d let work rule his life—he’d never found anyone who drew him like Meriel Shelby did.
“I still enjoy mischief,” he said softly.
Her reaction was swift. With a start, she stepped away and lowered the lamp.
“I’m sure you quite put out your governess,” she said.
“I did. It’s amazing I learned anything at all.”
She glanced quickly back at the portrait, and seemed to study it a long time. “Your Grace, I already told your son about the military exploits of your father and grandfather. Did you ever give thought to serving?”
Richard himself had not had the money to purchase a commission when he was younger, and by the time his inheritance began to pay off several years later, the government needed him more for his prowess guiding industries to success.
Remembering to play Cecil, he said, “There haven’t been any wars that needed me.”
She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, the British army in India has been fighting in the border countries for several years.”
“Oh, those. But they’re not true, declared wars, are they?”
“Well—”
“I became the duke at such a young age—seventeen—that after that it was unthinkable that I abandon the running of all these estates. After all, who would do all the spending that so many people need to keep their employment? We dukes play a very important role in our country’s economy.”
She stared at him as if she was trying to decipher his words, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.
From somewhere nearby, a feminine voice called, “Your Grace?”
Richard was glad Stephen wasn’t there—certainly the boy would have thought it was a ghost, instead of Clover, one of the upstairs maids.
She was a redhead, statuesque and sturdy, as pretty as the other maids that Cecil must have enjoyed looking at.
The girl walked toward them, and he saw her glance at Miss Shelby.
The maid wasn’t at all good at schooling her features, and a flash of distaste and anger marred her prettiness.
Miss Shelby lifted her chin as if she had nothing to be ashamed of. And she didn’t—but it must look otherwise, and it was his fault.
“Yes, Clover?” he said, knowing his tone sounded short.
“I’ve turned down your bed, Your Grace.”
“I’m awaiting a new valet,” he explained to Miss Shelby.
She nodded coolly but didn’t respond.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Grace?” the maid asked.
Richard winced inwardly, knowing how that must sound. “Nothing, Clover. And tomorrow, please send up a manservant to prepare my room instead.”
She flinched, dropped a curtsy, and fled. He knew he was handling everything badly tonight.
Miss Shelby finally spoke. “If there’s nothing else then, Your Grace, I’ll bid you a good night.”
He wanted her to stay; there were ghosts haunting this corridor, but they were only inside him.
“Sleep well, Miss Shelby,” he said, and watched her retreat down the gallery.
When he was alone, he looked back at the portrait of Cecil and let himself be swamped by old memories.
In the conservatory, it had been very easy for Richard to hide in the ferns and watch as Cecil, the future duke, was being painted.
Cecil had thrown a tantrum demanding that Richard pose with him, too, but the duchess had coldly refused.
She had come to the sitting the first few days, so Richard had had every reason to remain out of sight.
But after she grew bored and stopped attending, Cecil had used his antics to coax Richard from hiding.
Soon, the little boy refused to pose unless his brother was there, making him laugh.
There were no portraits of Richard O’Neill—there never were in cases like his.
He was a bastard, the old duke’s firstborn son by an Irish maid.
Cecil had been young and still innocent of how his own place in the world would alter him.
Later, Richard’s little brother had insisted privately that they would share the portrait, since the brothers looked so alike.
It was that little boy that Richard wanted to help, not the indulgent, arrogant man Cecil had become. The strength of those childhood memories had been what made Richard finally agree to this mad plan.
Richard was at Thanet Court to protect Stephen while Cecil was recovering from consumption.
Cecil had almost died, and the doctor in London had insisted that silence and peace were most needed to recover.
But Cecil had insisted that he couldn’t rest unless he knew that Stephen was safe from the machinations of their cousin Charles.
Cecil had confessed that he’d accepted a loan or two from Charles, who was next in line to the dukedom after Stephen.
Consequently, Charles had begun to make more insistent demands that he officially be named little Stephen’s guardian, should something happen to Cecil.
Cecil had been certain that if he looked too weakened by illness, Charles would push the matter, using it as leverage to stay close to Stephen.
Richard had wanted Cecil to go to the police, but Charles had been careful to issue no real threat.
It was the thought of Stephen that had swayed Richard to Cecil’s cause. He’d never met the boy before this week, but he knew what Stephen must feel like, with no parent to look out for him—the same as Richard had often felt when he was that age.
What might happen if Charles felt he could control Stephen? Richard well remembered that Charles’s own servants feared him. There had been a rumor, never substantiated, that Charles had tormented a child or two on the estate when he was young.
Yet Richard’s motives for accepting his brother’s plan were selfish, too. Some part of Richard was still that boy hiding in the ferns, spying on the life he’d never have, the one he’d thought he no longer wanted.
~oOo~
The next afternoon, Meriel found her laundry waiting for her—wrinkled. So now even the laundry maids were angry with her? Did all of them really think the duke would notice anyone but a woman of the nobility?
Maybe they didn’t care about marriage—maybe his attention was enough.
Not for Meriel. She had no illusions about the kind of husband she could attract now. And she was not the sort of woman to accept the crumbs of a man’s attention.
Even if he was a darkly handsome duke who made her think about sin. The kind of sin a man and woman committed together.
Meriel started down to the laundry rooms carrying three of her gowns.
She seldom moved freely among the servants, and she finally realized what she had never noticed.
All the young women were pretty, some truly beautiful.
Straight teeth, flowing hair, and stunning figures, enough so that Meriel felt like she was one of the plainer women there.
She went to the housekeeper’s suite first and found Mrs. Theobald at her desk, absorbed in the household accounts.
The older woman gave her a friendly smile, even as her glance took in Meriel’s burden. “May I help you, Miss Shelby?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Theobald, but the gowns I sent down to the laundry have returned…”
She paused to lay the gowns across a chair, and Mrs. Theobald finished the sentence for her.
“Severely wrinkled,” the woman said, frowning. “What could have gotten into the laundry maids?”
“So others have had the same complaint?” Meriel asked.
“No, Miss Shelby, only you.” She looked apologetic, and even vaguely guilty.
“Do you know why, Mrs. Theobald?”
“I might have overheard a thing or two,” the housekeeper said, without any embarrassment.
Meriel waited.
Mrs. Theobald finally sighed. “You are a threat to the maids, Miss Shelby, but then anyone new in the household is.”
Meriel sank into a straight-backed wooden chair. “How could I be a threat? I’m simply the governess.”
“You’re a new pretty face to distract the duke.”
Meriel opened her mouth to object, but the housekeeper quickly went on.
“It’s not your fault that the duke likes to look at beautiful women.
It’s no one’s fault.” She eyed Meriel’s plain garments.
“You can try to disguise your features, but they aren’t easily fooled.
The girls down here have decided that since you’re constantly with the duke’s son, you have an unfair advantage over them. ”
“An unfair advantage—how would I even use such a thing?”