Chapter Eight
“What do you mean? What have you done?” Gabe asked. The look of wildness on Louisa’s face rattled him; it was the darting gaze of a trapped creature with no avenue of escape. Was Louisa a criminal? Just what was she hiding?
His natural caution warned him to have a care. He was not on very solid footing of his own, being a newly made duke with his life constantly under threat.
“Lord Vérité,” Louisa whispered, her voice a low thread of hurt. “He wants our building, or our lands, or our funds. Everything. And he threatens to expose me if I do not comply.”
“Don’t give in. We will not give him what he wants.” He ran his hands up and down her back, detecting the strength in her narrow shoulders, the steel in her spine. Yet she was soft flesh and warm blood, the same as any woman. So easily hurt.
He tightened his hands around her back, urging her closer. No one would hurt her. He would not allow it.
And that would be the first time Gabriel Declan had ever exerted himself in the interests of any female who was not his mother or sister. He’d certainly never exerted himself to win a woman. Yet for some reason, he was staging every ploy he could think of to get close to this one.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
He sensed that was new for her. She was a woman in command, the queen of this small realm, its greatest and final authority. All the decisions for its care and upkeep fell on her. All the burdens and responsibility that came with, what, a hundred souls or more in her keeping?
She rested a moment in his arms, her breath growing steady. The ribbons in her cap tickled his nose. Her scent floated into his head, pulling apart his brain and setting every lick of good sense free like chaff in the wind.
Hell’s knees. This woman overpowered him by her very nearness. What was he supposed to do next?
For a wild moment, he hoped she would kiss him again.
This close to her, he could think of nothing but kissing, and all the touches that might come after.
But she had not lost her head, as he had.
She stepped away, wiped the back of her hand across her face, and touched her pelerine to ensure it covered her bosom. Alas, it did.
“Etiquette lessons,” she said. “You might as well come with, if you’re curious.”
She turned away and, crossing a well-tended garden flowering with herbs and vegetables, entered another room that looked like it functioned as both conservatory and music room.
Four young women stood there, dressed in the plain cotton gowns, clean linen aprons, and the unadorned caps he had seen the other girls wearing.
Four pairs of eyes grew huge as Gabe entered the room behind Louisa.
“Girls, I have an assistant for your lessons today. You will have the opportunity meet a real duke.” She was brisk but warm, all traces of her momentary discomposure vanished.
“Always address a duke as Your Grace. Never sir, unless he bids you do so, and never Duke, unless you are his social equal. Your curtsy to a duke is lower than to a baron or viscount or earl, but not as low as to the King. Who remembers? Eleanor, show us, if you please.”
One of the older girls crossed her ankles, gripped her skirts, and sank into a curtsy as elegant as if she were in the drawing room of the monarch. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” she said, speaking slowly with the effort to overcome a strong Cockney accent.
“Very good,” Louisa approved, beckoning another girl forward. She had glossy dark brown skin and small black curls peeking beneath her cap. “Dolores?”
Gabe pushed away a moment of panic. Who was he to fool these girls?
He wasn’t a duke. He was a rat who had grown up in the streets of Alexandria collecting dung for fuel and splicing tufts of torn rope to sell them.
His being the son of the son of a duke was a mere accident, the common sideslip of a lonely soldier falling for a comely local girl.
That he should by some strange reckoning accede to an English dukedom was as bizarre a turn as a cinder girl become a princess, or a pauper being enjoined to masquerade as a prince.
He opened his mouth to tell Louisa not to cozen these girls by pretending he was anybody, much less a person who deserved courtesy. He deserved nothing, given his past and the things he had done in it. Then he heard what she was saying.
“When you walk, do not shift your weight back and forth on your legs. Put one foot in front of the other, like this. Step with your toe first, so your gait is smooth and your heels do not clatter.” Louisa demonstrated, gliding across the room as Gabe had seen ladies do at balls.
It struck him that he had never before known there was an art to a woman’s walk. But Louisa knew it.
“Weight on the balls of your feet, Margaret,” Louisa said to another girl, catching her arm as she tottered through her practice walk.
“But it don’t feel right, mum. What if I lose my balance?”
“It becomes easier with practice, and this ensures your tread is light. Important for an upper servant, a companion, or a tradeswoman. You do not want to go stomping about the home of your employer or patron, disturbing their peace.” She turned to the four girls.
“Posture. Chin up. Head back. Shoulders down. When you address a superior, keep your gaze on their shoulder. That will indicate respect without bowing your head in subservience.”
She turned to Gabe, her gaze fixed on his upper arm, and sank into a graceful curtsy. “An honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
That she addressed him as her superior when he so clearly was not rankled. Louisa Bickford was inferior to no one. Gabe pulled off his glove and extended his right hand.
“And what if a gentlemen should offer to shake hands with you?”
“Oh!” Eleanor giggled. “As if a duke would shakes hands with the likes o’us!”
That suspicion of earlier was flowering, growing stronger. Gabe watched Louisa with challenge.
He was not at all surprised when she met it. Her eyes kindled with a deep glow, and her lovely red lips tightened at the corners.
“A gentleman will remove his glove to shake hands with a lady, as His Grace did,” Louisa said to the girls. She rose from her curtsy, extending her hand. “As a lady, you would be wearing gloves, and not required to remove yours.”
The girls were wearing lace mitts without fingers, servant’s attire. Louisa was wearing them, too. A thrill of possession moved through him as he closed his bare fingers around hers. Her hands were warm and strong, fingertips lightly callused. So were his, not yet gone soft with ducal leisure.
“As a sign of respect, a gentleman may kiss a lady’s hand,” Gabe said, holding her gaze. He lifted her hand to his lips and grazed his mouth over her knuckles. Her eyes went hot, and he heard the small catch of her breath.
“Or if he is flirting, and trying to get in the lady’s good graces,” Gabe added. The girls erupted in cackles. Louisa snatched back her hand.
She put them through their paces several more times, lining them up as if they were staff welcoming an employer to his house, bringing them forward as if they were being presented as new staff, having them practice as if they were a milliner or shop girl receiving a gentleman in their premises. Gabe’s suspicions solidified.
Louisa had spent time near gentlewomen, either because she was a superbly trained upper servant—or because she was a gentlewoman born.
He didn’t need his fascination with her to be deepened with the addition of a mystery; he was already sunk up to his ears as it was.
Every gesture of hers, every lilt of her voice or sweep of an arm, was another thread in the silken net settling over his head.
Her low throaty laugh when the girls amused her with their comments or their comical dismay over something silly a lady was required to do.
Her tender correction and patient answers.
He wanted to draw her close, put his mouth next to the delicate skin by her ear, and whisper all his secrets, as if she could offer redemption.
He wanted to see her face as he slid inside her and they soared together into that piece of heaven he’d found in her arms.
Down, he told himself as they took their leave of the girls and Louisa led him away. He must not betray his eagerness. Or his fascination with her. Women became cruel when they knew they held a knife to a man’s heart.
“I believe,” he said, as they strolled back through the blooming gardens, “I can help you stop this blackmailer if you tell me this secret of yours he presumes to know.”
She stopped in the middle of the path as if he’d tossed cold water over her head.
“What do you mean?”
Gabe slid his hand along her forearm, then placed her palm on the crook of his arm. It felt right to have Louisa walking at his side, like his lady.
“The blackmailer believes he knows something that you would sacrifice all this—” He waved a hand to indicate the bounty surrounding them, the tidy beds of growing things, the rooms filled with busy industry, the clean windows that sparkled with effort and care— “to keep secret.”
She looked about them, seeing what he did, but also, he guessed more: the years of her history here, the refuge she had spoken of finding. The pride she took in her place here was evident.
He could imagine her in an expensive drawing room, sweeping along in a fashionable gown as if she glided over water, holding her own in conversation with ladies like the Marchioness of Westmeath, accepting the admiring homage of their lords.
But she was so completely at home here, sharing smiles and caresses with the small girls who clustered around her skirts, showing the older ones how to go on in the world.
She had built this place, the quiet efficiency if not the actual stones, and she was its beating heart.