Chapter Two
“I look like a governess who’s lost her way to a particularly depressing funeral.”
Cecilia glared at her own reflection in the cheval glass, adjusting the borrowed dress that hung on her frame with all the appeal of a potato sack.
Velma had pinned her vibrant red hair into the tightest, most unflattering bun imaginable, and the wire-rimmed spectacles perching on her nose made her eyes appear owlish and shortsighted.
“That’s the point, milady,” Velma replied, circling her with a critical eye. “Ye’re meant to be invisible, forgettable. A companion is furniture with a pulse—there to serve, but never to be noticed.”
“How utterly depressing.” Cecilia turned sideways, examining the effect.
The transformation was remarkable, she had to admit.
Gone was Lady Cecilia Bradford, the Scottish beauty who’d once turned heads at Edinburgh assemblies.
In her place now stood… no one particularly memorable.
“Do I truly need the spectacles? I can see perfectly well.”
“Plain glass, nothing more. But they change the shape of yer face, draw attention away from those eyes of yers.” Velma produced a worn leather reticule, pressing it into Cecilia’s hands.
“Now, remember—ye’re Clara Vale, formerly companion to Lady Margaret Ashworth of Yorkshire.
She passed last autumn, God rest her soul, and ye’ve come to London seekin’ new employment. ”
“Lady Margaret Ashworth,” Cecilia repeated dutifully. “Yorkshire. Deceased last autumn.”
“If anyone asks for specific details, be vague—grief makes memory unreliable, doesn’t it?” Velma’s expression turned serious. “And milady—ye must focus on softenin’ that Edinburgh lilt. London companions don’t sound like Highland lassies fresh from the moors.”
Cecilia practised a few phrases, flattening her vowels, smoothing the r’s that usually characterised her speech. It felt strange on her tongue, like wearing a glove that was made for someone else. Which, she supposed, it quite literally was.
“Better!” Velma approved. “Now, come—the interview is scheduled for nine-thirty, and His Grace despises tardiness.”
The journey to the Duke’s London residence took mere minutes—it was scandalously close to her father’s own townhouse, a fact that sent fresh anxiety coursing through Cecilia’s veins.
She’d strolled past the imposing structure dozens of times without truly seeing its elegant architecture, pristine white stone, and windows that seemed to watch the square with cold assessment.
Rather like its master, if gossip was to be believed.
“I’ll wait around the corner,” Velma whispered as they approached the servants’ entrance at the rear of the property. “If ye’re not out in an hour, I’ll assume ye’ve secured the position. If ye emerge sooner…” she let the implication hang.
Cecilia nodded, her mouth too dry for speech.
This was madness. Utter, and complete lunacy.
She was a lady, the daughter of an earl, about to present herself as a paid companion under false pretences.
If she were discovered, the scandal would make Wexford’s desertion look like a minor social faux pas.
But the alternative—marrying a complete stranger—seemed worse than risking humiliation.
She knocked on the door before her courage could desert her entirely, and the door swung open to reveal a stern-faced housekeeper whose expression suggested she’d been weaned on vinegar. “Yes?”
“Clara Vale, ma’am. I’m here regarding the companion position?”
The housekeeper’s gaze raked over her with brutal efficiency. “You’re late.”
“I—I beg your pardon, but I was told half past nine—”
“It’s now two minutes past. That’s late.” The woman stepped aside with obvious reluctance. “His Grace is in the study. This way.”
Cecilia’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed the housekeeper through a maze of servants’ corridors.
The house was immaculate—floors gleaming, brass polished to mirrors, not a speck of dust anywhere.
It spoke of rigid discipline, exacting standards, and a household run with military precision.
They emerged into a more elegant hallway, and suddenly Cecilia found herself confronted with wealth on a scale that made her father’s comfortable circumstances look provincial.
Paintings by Old Masters lined the walls, their subjects gazing down with aristocratic disdain.
Marble busts occupied alcoves at regular intervals, and the very air seemed expensive.
“Wait here.” The housekeeper gestured to a chair outside an imposing oak door, then disappeared without another word.
Cecilia perched on the edge of the seat, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.
She could hear voices from within the study—deep, masculine, discussing something about shipping manifests and import duties.
Business, then. Good. If the Duke was occupied with ledgers and accounts, perhaps he’d be distracted during the interview, less likely to scrutinise her too closely, to—
The door opened. A man emerged, tall and broad-shouldered with dark chestnut hair. He was reading from a document, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Cecilia had approximately three seconds to study him before he looked up.
Time slowed down, then fractured entirely.
He was beautiful. Not handsome in any conventional sense—his features were too sharp for that, his jaw too severe, his mouth too uncompromising. But there was something about him, the way shadows played across his cheekbones, the intensity of his black eyes that made her breath catch in her throat.
This was the Ice Duke?”
“You’re the girl for the companion position.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was deep, measured, carrying the clipped accent of England’s finest educational institutions.
Cecilia shot to her feet, remembering to curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace. Clara Vale.”
“Hmm.” He continued reading his document, apparently unconcerned with social niceties like eye contact. “Mrs Whittaker tells me you were late.”
“By two minutes, Your Grace. I apologise—”
“Punctuality indicates respect. Lack thereof suggests either incompetence or indifference. Which one are you, Miss Vale?”
The bluntness of the question momentarily robbed her of speech. “I—neither, Your Grace. I assure you, I hold this opportunity in the highest regard—”
“Words are meaningless. Actions demonstrate character.” He finally looked up from his document, and the full force of his attention settled on her.
“My aunt requires companionship in the mornings—someone to read to her, engage her in conversation, provide stimulation for a mind that remains sharp despite her advancing years. Can you read?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“French? Latin?”
“French passably, Latin, less so.”
“Musical accomplishments?”
“I play the pianoforte adequately.”
“Adequately.” His lips twitched in what might have been either amusement or contempt—impossible to tell which. “Most women claim virtuosity regardless of actual skill. Your honesty is either refreshing or strategic. I haven’t decided which.”
He gestured for her to follow him into the study. Cecilia complied, her mind racing. Nothing about this interview matched her expectations. She’d imagined a cursory examination, perhaps a few questions about her references. Instead, she felt like a specimen being catalogued and assessed.
The study was magnificent—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a desk the size of a small ship, with windows overlooking a private garden. The scent of leather and parchment filled the air, underlaid with something else… sandalwood? Or perhaps expensive tobacco.
“Sit.” The duke indicated a chair before his desk, then settled into his own seat with the fluid grace of a predator at rest. “Your previous employer was Lady Margaret Ashworth of Yorkshire?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
“Duration of service?”
“Three years, Your Grace.”
“And Lady Margaret’s death—sudden, or anticipated?”
Cecilia’s mind scrambled. “She’d been in declining health for some months. The end, when it came, was peaceful.”
“Cause of death?”
“I—her heart, Your Grace. The physicians said it simply… stopped.”
His eyes never left her face, and Cecilia had the unsettling feeling that he could see straight through her disguise, through her lies, straight to the terrified lady underneath. But he merely nodded, making a note on the paper before him.
“My aunt suffers from early-stage dementia,” he said bluntly.
“Some days she is lucid and sharp as she ever was. Other days, she becomes confused, agitated, sometimes failing to recognise familiar faces. The position requires patience, compassion, and an ability to manage distress without losing composure. Do you possess those qualities… Miss Vale?”
Something in his tone suggested genuine concern. Not love, exactly, but something more complex—protectiveness, or perhaps devotion.
“I believe I do, Your Grace,” Cecilia answered carefully. “I’m accustomed to managing difficult situations with equanimity.”
“Are you.” Again, not a question. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
“You present an interesting contradiction, Miss Vale. Your speech suggests education beyond the typical companion’s station.
Your hands—” he gestured to where they rested in her lap, “—show no evidence of hard labour. Your posture is excellent, your bearing refined. Yet you claim to have spent three years in service to a Yorkshire lady I have never heard of.”
Cecilia’s heart stopped entirely. She’d been discovered. Within minutes of meeting him, the Duke of Devonshire had seen through her pathetic disguise, and now…