CHAPTER 11
Gabriel stood at his study window, watching the drive for any sign of his aunt's carriage while simultaneously trying to calm the restless energy that had plagued him since Clara left his bed.
The memory of her warmth, her scent, the way she'd looked wearing nothing but his shirt was enough to drive a man to madness.
And he had to spend the entire day pretending she was nothing more than an employee.
"Your Grace?" Peter appeared in the doorway with the studied invisibility of a well-trained footman. "Lord Hartley has arrived and is waiting in the morning room."
"Of course he is. The man has a supernatural ability to appear whenever I'm trying to maintain some semblance of dignity."
Peter, to his credit, didn't react to this observation. "Shall I bring tea?"
"Bring brandy. I have a feeling I'm going to need it."
"Miss Whitfield has instructed that no spirits are to be served before noon, Your Grace."
Gabriel turned to look at Peter, who maintained an expression of perfect innocence. "Has she now? And when exactly did Miss Whitfield assume control of my beverage consumption?"
"I believe it was Tuesday, Your Grace, though she's been quite subtle about it until today."
"Subtle? The woman hid my best brandy behind a collection of agricultural treatises that haven't been touched since my grandfather's time."
"A clever hiding place, if I may say so."
"You may not. Bring tea, and tell Lord Hartley I'll be there momentarily."
Peter bowed and retreated, leaving Gabriel to contemplate the various ways his life had been reorganized without his explicit permission. Clara had been systematically imposing order on his chaos, and the most disturbing part was how little he minded.
He found Edmund in the morning room, examining the now-clean windows with theatrical amazement. “Mercy! Gabriel, you can actually see through these. I'd forgotten there was a garden out there."
"Your powers of observation remain as acute as ever, Edmund. Yes, the windows are clean, the floors are polished, and I've even managed to dress myself appropriately for my aunt's inspection. Behold the miracle of domestic transformation."
Edmund turned, taking in Gabriel's appearance with raised eyebrows. "You're wearing a cravat. Properly tied, even. What sorcery is this?"
"It's called having a competent housekeeper who threatens bodily harm if I don't present myself appropriately."
"Threatens you, does she? How delightful. And here I thought you were the master of this house."
"I am the master of this house, but even masters must occasionally bow to superior tactical knowledge, particularly when that knowledge comes wrapped in gray wool brandishing a feather duster as one might a sword.”
Edmund grinned. "Gray wool? Not anymore, from what I've heard. Margaret mentioned seeing Clara at the drapers yesterday, purchasing some rather fetching blue fabric."
"Your wife's surveillance network rivals anything the Crown has established. Does she have nothing better to do than monitor the shopping habits of my housekeeper?"
"When that housekeeper is the first woman to capture your interest in the three years since you returned from war. No, she has nothing better to do. In fact, I'd say it's become her primary occupation."
Gabriel moved to pour himself tea, needing something to do with his hands. "Clara hasn't captured anything. She's an employee performing her duties admirably."
"Do her duties include sharing your bed?"
The teacup rattled against the saucer. "I don't know what you're implying…"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating outright that Mary saw Clara leaving your room this morning wearing your shirt, and while she's too well-trained to gossip, she did mention it to Cook, who mentioned it to my stable boy when he delivered eggs this morning, who naturally mentioned it to me because I pay him extra for information. "
"You're bribing my staff's connections for gossip about my personal life?"
"Of course I am. It's the most entertainment I've had in years. Do you know how boring it is being happily wedded in the countryside? I have to live vicariously through your romantic disasters."
"This isn't a romantic disaster."
"Not yet, but give it time. Your aunt's carriage was spotted leaving the inn twenty minutes ago, which means she'll be here any moment to shower disapproval upon your budding romance."
Gabriel set down his teacup with more force than necessary. "There is no budding romance. Clara and I have a professional arrangement that happens to include certain personal accommodations that are nobody's business but our own."
"Personal accommodations? Is that what we're calling it now? How delightfully euphemistic."
"Edmund, I shall…"
"Your Grace?" Clara appeared in the doorway, and Gabriel's train of thought derailed entirely.
She was wearing a new dress, one of blue wool that fit her perfectly, highlighting curves the shapeless gray had hidden.
Her hair was arranged in a style that was somehow both proper and alluring, and she looked every inch the respectable upper servant rather than the woman who'd been moaning his name against the library door last night.
"Miss Whitfield," he managed, his voice only slightly strangled.
"Your aunt's carriage has been spotted approaching the drive. I've arranged for tea to be served in the front parlor, as it's the most impressive room now that we've finished the repairs."
“What repairs?” Edmund asked.
"We've removed approximately three years' worth of dust, several family of mice, and what I suspect was the beginning of a new ecosystem in the corner behind the pianoforte," Clara replied smoothly. "His Grace has been most accommodating about the necessary improvements."
"His Grace has been accommodating? Will wonders never cease?"
Gabriel found his voice. "Miss Whitfield has a way of presenting her arguments that makes resistance futile."
"I merely pointed out that living in squalor was unlikely to convince Lady Agatha of your competence," Clara said, though there was a slight flush to her cheeks that suggested she was remembering exactly how she'd presented some of those arguments.
"And we can't have Aunt Agatha thinking poorly of me," Gabriel said dryly. "She might cut me off from the family fortune I don't need and the social connections I don't want."
"She might have you declared incompetent and take control of the estate," Clara corrected. "Which would be inconvenient for everyone, particularly the staff who've worked so hard to make this place presentable."
"Ah yes, the staff. All six of them, laboring tirelessly to create the illusion that I'm a functional member of society."
"Seven, if we count Mrs. Potter, who's been secretly aiding despite your repeated attempts to dismiss her."
"Mrs. Potter doesn't count because Mrs. Potter doesn't actually work here. She just appears like some sort of domestic spirit whenever she feels I need scolding."
Edmund laughed. "She's been doing that since you were in short pants. Remember when she caught you trying to slide down the bannister using a tea tray as a sled?"
"That was a perfectly reasonable experiment in physics that was unfortunately interrupted by an excess of maternal concern."
"You broke your arm in two places."
"I learned valuable lessons about velocity and friction."
"You learned that tea trays make terrible sleds."
"That too."
Clara cleared her throat delicately. "Perhaps we could reminisce about His Grace's childhood disasters after we survive the current disaster approaching our door?"
"Aunt Agatha isn't a disaster," Gabriel said. "She's more of a natural phenomenon, like a plague of locusts or that rain of frogs they recorded in medieval times."
"Your biblical catastrophes aside, she'll be here in approximately three minutes, and you should be at the door to greet her properly."
"Must I? Can't I lurk dramatically in the shadows and make my entrance after she's been sufficiently softened by tea and whatever miraculous pastries Cook has produced?"
"Cook has made lemon cakes, your aunt's favorite according to the intelligence I gathered from your cousin's lady's maid, and no, you cannot lurk. Lurking is what got us into this situation in the first place."
"I prefer to think of it as maintaining a dignified distance from society's expectations."
"Society expects you to greet your aunt at the door like a proper duke, not hide in your study like a recalcitrant schoolboy."
Edmund looked between them with undisguised glee. "Oh, this is delightful. She manages you perfectly, Gabriel. Are you sure she's just your housekeeper?"
"Miss Whitfield is whatever she needs to be to ensure this household runs smoothly," Gabriel said carefully, very aware of Clara's eyes on him.
"And what she needs to be right now is invisible while you greet your aunt," Clara said, dropping a curtsey that was perfectly proper and somehow still managed to remind him of how she'd looked this morning. "I'll be supervising the tea service if you need me."
She left, and Gabriel tried not to watch her go, failed miserably, and caught Edmund smirking at him.
"Whatever she needs to be?" Edmund quoted. "That's rather comprehensive."
“Hold your tongue.”
Edmund's smirk widened. “I daresay I neglected to inform you that Miss Penelope Ashworth is accompanying her.”
Gabriel felt his blood run cold. "Ashworth? As in Lord Ashworth's daughter?"
"The very same. Eighteen years old, accomplished, beautiful, and in possession of a dowry that could restore this estate three times over."
"No."
"I'm afraid yes. Your aunt has decided that if she can't have you declared incompetent, she'll settle for seeing you wedded to someone she considers appropriate."
“I shall have them both removed from the property.”
"You'll do no such thing. You'll be charming and civil and prove that you're perfectly capable of interacting with eligible young ladies without sending them running in terror."