Chapter Twelve #2
She mewed. Commanded, more like. I missed Mercutio fiercely. I scooted over and patted my chair.
Immediately she jumped up. She wore a diamond-crusted collar and was obviously beloved. She must belong to the duchess. Cautiously, she raised her nose at me, placed a paw on my hip, and looked over her domain—the tea things.
“Milk?” I reached for the small creamer. She mewed again. I held it for her as she drank. Then she lay at my side, warm and heavy, and nosed my hand.
“Mercutio loves when I do this.” I scratched between her ears. Like magic, she closed her eyes and rested her chin on my thigh.
I grinned and smoothed out her soft, fluffy coat. With my free hand, I opened my book and continued to read.
I did not hear the door open. Nor the footsteps approach, until a voice said, “I beg your pardon?” and I startled upright.
His hair was mussed, brow furrowed, lips parted until he recognized me, and I him.
The Duke of Marlow.
But disheveled. For he’d neglected his jacket. He’d loosened his cravat. A shadow had formed across his jaw. He almost looked . . . comfortable. And it suited him.
My heart started to thrum. What was he doing awake at this hour? I’d thought for certain he’d come home from the club and straight into his bed.
I’d been wrong.
His piercing blue eyes bored into mine with surprise, like he’d locked me away and caught me out of my quarters and was trying to decide what to do with me. Unfortunately for me, he was standing in the doorframe, blocking any escape.
The cat stood lazily, half on my lap, and stretched out her back. Then she hopped down, brushing through and around his legs.
“Your Grace,” I breathed, acutely aware of the sugar crumbs on my lips as his gaze washed over me. I looked down at my stocking feet.
“Miss Wood,” he said with a little bump in his voice. He looked at the cat, who mewed loudly at him. Like she wanted something from him too. “You are sitting in my chair.”
Well . . . yes. What, was I supposed to sit on the floor? This was my night. Gads, he ruined every good thing. But as far as I could tell, I was doing nothing wrong. Her Grace had told me to enjoy the many rooms in the house, and here I was.
I made a show of surveying the room. “Is there a chair in this house that isn’t yours, Your Grace?”
He raised his brows as though to say what nerve you have, his eyes dropping to the sweet bun in my hand. “This is where I sit in the evenings.” His voice was low and raspy from the hour. “I just stoked that fire myself.”
And then, like a puzzle, it all clicked together. “This is your . . .” His chair. His fire. His tea tray. My lips parted, and I could not have been more humiliated. I grasped the arms of the chair. “You sit here. But I told my maid—”
He gave me a tight smile. Then, he crouched to pet the cat. His cat.
Jane hadn’t said anything to anyone, had she?
I could have thrown myself in the flames and felt the same burning.
I stood, sweet bun in one hand, snatching my book with the other. “Your Grace, I am mortified to say the least. Let me just”—I quickly swiped the crumbs from the armchair, balancing my used teacup atop my book—“call for another cup of tea.”
He cleared his throat, stood, then shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself. I will find another place.”
“No trouble. No trouble at all. Just a moment.” I spun around, desperately praying he would not look at my feet, nor my hair, nor my face.
I searched for anything I’d left behind or done that might further inconvenience him.
His cat, sensing my distress, bounded from the room, which only served to make me feel a hundred times worse.
“Georgiana.”
“I think I have it all—”
The teacup started to slip, and I dropped the sweet bun trying to free a hand, but the duke was faster. He reached out, catching the saucer and cup before it fell. “I insist.”
“It’s your chair,” I insisted. “I should retire, anyway, as the hour is—”
“Sit,” he demanded, and with that tone, I quickly obliged. My back was ramrod straight, book clutched to my chest with crossed arms, as I desperately tried to hide my feet.
“Read your book.” He dropped down to pick up the sweet bun from the floor.
He set the teacup down nearby, and I watched with bated breath as he stalked to a far corner, lifting another chair like it was air, and carrying it to my right, nearer the hearth.
He meant to stay.
I glanced to the door, which was still open, though certainly not enough to satiate propriety at this hour, and back as he took his seat and reached over for a sandwich. His eyes were fixed on the fire, and then they flicked to mine.
Heart jolting, I looked away, thoughtlessly opening Udolpho, not that I had any mind to read.
My thoughts were anywhere but the page. He sat a few feet away, across the little table between us, and yet, I could hear every sound he made—his quiet chewing of a sandwich, the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed, his shirt sliding across the armchair when he rested his arm and again when he reached for another bite.
He stretched out his legs, and we sat together, in silent companionship. Alone.
The feeling was decidedly different when we weren’t arguing.
I absently turned a page I had not read just to do something.
When he’d finished eating, he stood, and I watched his back as he moved toward a little cabinet by the window.
He pulled out a bottle and a glass and poured himself an amber drink.
He turned round and leaned against the cabinet.
I pretended to be absorbed in Udolpho as he lifted his cup to drink. His large hand engulfed the glass.
Marlow was the sort of man women whispered to each other about behind their fans. Unaccountably handsome, and not because of any singular feature. Mysterious, they’d surely say. Rugged and strong and would fight for your honor with his bare fists.
Exactly the sort of man I meant to avoid. The sort that beckoned and tempted and made a girl trick herself into believing.
He cleared his throat. “I’d like your opinion on a matter.”
I looked up again, flushed, and found his gaze straight on mine.
He quickly looked away, lifting his glass again for another swig of his drink.
The set of his jaw made me wonder if he often asked for another person’s thoughts, or if this urge was against his nature.
Either way, I was intrigued. I closed my book and sat up straighter.
“Very well.”
“How many times would you give someone money—decent sums of money, which they inevitably squandered—before you cut them off?” He watched the liquid swirling in his glass.
I pondered his question, wondering if it was in any way aimed at me. “That question is too vague. There are far too many factors that might influence my answer.”
“Such as?”
“What is your relationship with this person? How are they using the money? And is there any investment in it for you should this person eventually succeed?”
Our eyes locked once more, and I found surprise reflected in his features. When he wasn’t deliberately trying to hide his feelings, he was rather easy to read. “Family. Personal gain. And, no, no investment for me.”
I touched my bottom lip. Interesting. “Are you close with this person?”
The duke nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Gabriel. I could almost guarantee it. How I loved a mystery. “Last question, then. When you say ‘personal gain,’ do you mean gambling or business endeavors?”
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Likely a little of both, but primarily business.”
I nodded. “Then I should think, as his family, you’d strike one of your infamous deals.
You give him money, and in return, whether or not he succeeds, you turn some sort of profit.
Then, when he inevitably squanders it, you don’t feel the loss so acutely, while he feels supported and learns something along the way. ”
“You would still give the money, despite the previous losses?” He pushed off from where he leaned against the cabinet and meandered toward his chair.
“I was not under the impression that you were at a deficit currently. Unless the sums he is asking for are quite exorbitant.” I sat back in my seat as he took his.
“If he is trying, then I see no reason why you, in your position, oughtn’t to help him.
Strength of the whole is better than strength of the one. ”
Marlow’s jaw worked. He was quiet. Thoughtful. He downed his last sip in a quick tilt of his glass. His chest moved with his next deep breath.
“I’ve told him no. He thinks I am cruel.”
“Are you?”
We locked eyes again. His attention felt like an arrow pinning me to the spot. My heart thrummed against my chest.
“Do you think I am?”
I thought through our acquaintance. How rigid he’d been when we’d first met. Was he capable of cruelty? Most certainly. But deep in his bones, was he cruel?
“I do not think you’d be asking my opinion on the matter if you weren’t bothered by the question yourself. That alone tells me you are not cruel, Your Grace.”
He set down his empty glass and rested his arms along the chair, his head leaned back, eyes closed. And I supposed that was the end of that.
I opened my book and found the page I’d left, still too distracted to read. My gaze wandered the words.
“What did Mrs. Johns say this afternoon?”
I looked up again. It seemed a single glass could loosen his tongue. That, or the duke was in a chatting mood.
“Thanks to your cousin and Her Grace, I’m to expect a parade of callers in the coming days.”
His eyes remained closed. “Are you not pleased?”
I shifted in my seat. Was I? I should be. “In truth, I feel more anxious than anything.”
“Over what?” He blinked awake, frowning.
Forward of him to ask. I tilted my head. If he were any other person, I’d—well, why shouldn’t I call him out? “That is a touch too personal, Your Grace.”
“Forgive me.” He looked down, his features shifting into a smile. “Though by your own account, we are such good friends.”