Chapter 3
Ayear? What does he mean? And what did he want a year ago?
The Duke towered over Harriet, his shadow falling across both Harriet and the small girl.
At his words, she saw the little girl’s smile vanish.
Without thinking, Harriet moved, shifting so that she was between the Duke and the child.
She stood with as much dignity as she could muster, forcing herself to meet his dark gaze.
Her eyes drifted to the sharp lines of his face, to the angular jaw accented by sharply cut, jet-black hair. His eyes never left her face and Harriet’s mouth went dry.
He reminded Harriet of an oak tree. Tall, majestic, and solitary. The kind of person one’s eye would be drawn to. Her mind began to sketch him and the tree as one – both handsome. What is wrong with me?
Belatedly, she realized the implications of the Duke’s words. “What do you mean? You left this note a year ago?” How long has he been trying to find me? Why has he been trying to find me?
“This is not the place for this conversation.” The Duke waved to someone behind Harriet. “Mrs. Morton, kindly take Phoebe back to her lessons. I have much to discuss with our guest.”
“Of course.” Harriet turned to see an older woman drop into a curtsey and take the little girl—Phoebe’s—hand. “Come with me, Lady Phoebe.”
Harriet saw Phoebe’s hesitation, the way her eyes still fixed on the sketch in Harriet’s hand. She handed the paper to the girl. “Keep it, it is yours.”
Phoebe beamed at her. There were several beats of silence and the Mrs. Morton, who Harriet assumed was the girl’s governess said, “One must always thank someone for a gift, Lady Phoebe.”
Harriet saw the girl stiffen, her smile dip. “It is all right. I do not need-”
“- thank you.” The girl interrupted, her voice so soft and her words spoken so quickly that Harriet nearly missed it.
A wallflower’s voice. “It is my pleasure.” She could feel the Duke’s eyes on the back of her neck and wondered if she should have kept the sketch. Well, it is too late now.
She would not take it from the girl. Phoebe and her governess departed and Harriet followed the Duke into Irondale Hall.
The building was just as imposing and cold as its master.
High ceilings, and imposing doorways with suits of armor lining the corridors.
The walls were nearly bare, save for a few tapestries and the Duke’s coat of arms. The furniture was somber, dark and ornate.
Everything looked pristine, perfectly ordered with not even a hair out of place.
Harriet swallowed, her nerves growing, as she followed the Duke further into the great house, the hairs on her body standing on end.
I am unchaperoned with an unmarried man.
If anyone found out, the scandal would keep the ton entertained for weeks. She would be ruined.
The Duke gestured to a nearby doorway. The sensible part of Harriet knew she should leave, this was dangerous and stupid. But she needed answers. She rolled her shoulders back and walked into the study. The Duke followed her, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved to stand by a large desk.
Harriet expected a reprimand – after all, she knew how improper this whole thing was. She remembered Fiona’s words. Cold, proper and exacting. Staring at the hulking figure before her, his face little more than a handsome mask, she could see just why he had that reputation.
But to her surprise, the Duke did not tell her off. Instead, he said, “Given the impropriety of our meeting, you will forgive me for not offering you refreshment. I assume I do not need to ask you to be discrete – after all, such a scandal would be far more harmful for you.”
Harriet froze, her eyes narrowing. Exactly what kind of game was the Duke playing? “Is that a threat, Your Grace?”
“It is a fact. Whether it becomes a threat is entirely up to you.” His voice was so cold it made her shiver. “You claim to be the artist behind these sketches.”
“I do not claim anything, those drawings are mine.” Harriet bristled in spite of herself, caught off guard by the anger that flared to life in her chest. What are you doing? This man is dangerous! “Do you need proof?”
She arched an eyebrow, her words dripping with sarcasm – the sane, more cautious part of her had apparently been replaced by something more brash. She hardly recognized it. She was not sure why the Duke's suggestion that she was lying about her drawings irked her so much, but it did.
The Duke either missed or chose to ignore her tone – Harriet suspected it was the latter. “That would be for the best. There is a pencil and paper on my desk. Will five minutes be enough time?”
“That depends on what you wish me to draw.” Harriet moved towards the paper like a moth drawn to a flame, she did not enjoy being tested but with her tangle of emotions, she knew that a quick sketch would steady her nerves.
“I leave that entirely to you.” The Duke stepped to one side, clearly intending to watch her work.
Harriet tried to ignore the feel of his gaze on her as she looked at the paper before her.
It felt like a physical touch across her shoulders, and she fought the urge to shift beneath it.
She sensed his body, not so close as to be improper, but far closer than she would like.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
The smell of oak mingled with ink and fresh paper. Notes of a deeper smell circled her, musk and cedar. The image of a tall and proud oak tree sprang to the forefront of her mind once more, and Harriet opened her eyes.
Her hand shook at first, upsetting a few lines, but as she continued, she lost herself in the drawing. Everything else faded, and it was just Harriet, the paper and the tree she was pulling out of it. A sturdy trunk, with thick boughs that reached almost protectively around the garden.
“It is you.” The Duke’s breathless voice broke the spell and Harriet stopped, looking round to see him looking at her.
A look flitted across his face that made Harriet’s skin erupt into gooseflesh. His eyes blazed, one corner of his mouth curved into the merest hint of a triumphant smile. Oh. If he ever truly smiled, how handsome might he be?
“I am not a liar.” Harriet tilted her chin towards him, grateful that her voice was steady even as the shaking of her legs was hidden beneath the thick fabric of her dress.
“I had to be sure.” The Duke inclined his head towards her, never breaking eye contact. “You understand. I have had too many people claim to be someone they were not.”
“Other people tried to take credit for my work?” Harriet’s brow furrowed as she tried to imagine why anyone would do such a thing.
“No. You are the first to answer my call.” The Duke’s eyes darkened, reminding Harriet of a sea in a storm. “I have learned that to trust blindly is dangerous.”
Harriet saw the Duke’s mouth curl downwards, his eyes hard as iron. He is furious. The realization made her stomach roil, and Harriet wondered just who had been foolish enough to cross this man. And here I am, alone with him.
“Why did you want to find me so badly?” Harriet tilted her head, watching as the anger faded from the Duke's face. I did not think the neutrality of marble could be so reassuring.
“First, tell me your name.” The Duke replied, stepping away from her and sitting in an armchair.
The air in the room returned and Harriet could breathe once more. She inhaled sharply and sat across from the Duke, perching on the edge of the plush chair as she smoothed her skirts.
Harriet hesitated, wondering if perhaps it would be safer to lie. A false name might keep her safe from scandal after all. The Duke arched an eyebrow and though he did not say anything, Harriet could hear his unspoken reprimand. I thought you said you were not a liar.
She stiffened and sat up a little straighter. “I am Harriet Montrose.” I do not have to tell him that I am the daughter of an earl.
She had come here to get answers, and without knowing why the man had wanted to meet her in the first place, she was not going to give him anything he could use against her.
He was a duke after all, and everything about him screamed propriety. If he learned the truth of her station, what would he think of her? Would he tell her the truth or dismiss her drawings as the fancies of a bored, aristocrat.
The thought made the air around them feel colder, and unconsciously, Harriet tugged her shawl closer around her.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Montrose.” The Duke inclined his head towards her.
She did not correct him. Let him think she was a minor noble, or even only a gentleman's daughter. It was safer. Her shoulders relaxed, just a tiny amount.
“And you, Your Grace.” Harriet shifted in her armchair, her eyes taking in the room around her. “Forgive me, I do not mean to sound rude, but I still do not understand why you cared so much about finding me. You do not strike me as the sort of man who cares so deeply about the arts.”
For a moment, Harriet could have sworn she saw the Duke’s lips twitch as though he were about to smile, but she knew she must have been mistaken, for his voice was utterly devoid of amusement as he spoke.
“I do not care for mystery, Miss Montrose, and I am a gentleman; an appreciation of art is to be expected.”
“Art, yes, but… well these are just silly little drawings.” Harriet pointed to the sketch of the tree on the desk, her heart twisting at her own words, feeling as though she was betraying some part of herself.
She heard the sound of the seat creaking as the Duke leaned towards her.
“If you think so little of your own drawings, why do you leave them dotted around in libraries throughout the land? I have found your sketches as far North as Inverness. There is something of you in nearly every estate I have been to.”
Her heart sped up at his words. Her mouth was bone dry. He was skirting dangerously close to a truth she had no wish to name. Not to him. Not to anyone. They are pieces of me.