Chapter Two #2
“However,” he continued, “Mrs Whittaker informs me we’ve had difficulty retaining companions for my aunt.
The last three resigned within a fortnight, claiming the position too challenging.
Which suggests I’m in no position to be overly selective.
” He stood abruptly. “You’ll begin tomorrow.
Eight o’clock sharp—which means no later than seven fifty-eight.
Your duties will be confined to the morning hours, from eight until noon.
Wages are twenty pounds per annum, paid quarterly.
Room and board are not included, as I assume you have other accommodations.
Cecilia rose on shaking legs, unable to believe what she’d just heard. “You’re… I’m hired, Your Grace?”
“Unless you’ve suddenly developed reservations?”
“No, Your Grace. Not at all. I’m merely… grateful. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His expression remained impassive, unreadable. “My aunt can be demanding. If you prove unsuitable, you’ll be dismissed without ceremony. Understood?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace.”
“Then you may go. Mrs Whittaker will provide the remaining details.”
Cecilia curtsied—perhaps too gracefully for a servant—and fled toward the door, her nerves rattled.
She’d nearly exited it when her reticule caught on the door handle.
The worn leather bag slipped from her grasp, and in her fumbling attempt to catch it, her spectacles tumbled free, skittering across the polished floor.
“Oh!” she gasped, mortified.
The Duke retrieved the spectacles in one smooth motion, then straightened, holding them out to her without comment. As she reached for them, her eyes inadvertently drifted toward an envelope lying on the sideboard with cramped handwriting.
“Mhhm.” The duke cleared his throat, and Cecilia snatched the spectacles away, hoping he didn’t notice. She settled them back on her nose even as her cheeks burned.
“My aunt,” he said, his tone measured, “has grown quite fond of her morning routine. “She’ll expect you promptly, Miss Vale. Do not disappoint her.”
His black eyes gleamed with something unreadable—not quite amusement, not quite warning—and heat flooded her cheeks. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Cecilia practically ran through the corridors, past a startled Mrs Whittaker, out into the blessed anonymity of London’s bustling streets. She’d made it three blocks before she realised she was still clutching the reticule hard enough to leave marks on her palms.
Velma materialised from an alley, eyes wide with questions. “Well?”
“I got the job!” The words emerged breathless, disbelieving.
“Ye got—truly? Och, Lady Cecilia!” Velma grabbed her hands, spinning them both in a small circle of triumph. “I kent ye could do it! What’s he like, then?”
Cecilia thought of those black eyes, the sharp intelligence, the way he’d dissected and dismantled her and hired her anyway. “I don’t know,” she admitted slowly. He’s… not what I expected.”
“Better or worse?”
“Different.” She removed the spectacles, tucking them into her reticule. “Velma, he suspects something, I’m certain of it. He knew something was wrong with my story.”
“But he hired ye regardless.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” Velma linked arms with her, steering them toward home. “Perhaps the Ice Duke isn’t quite as icy as his reputation suggests. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t care that much about the histories of his staff.”
Perhaps. But Cecilia couldn’t shake the memory of those intense black eyes studying her, the way her pulse had quickened when he’d stood mere inches away to hand her back the spectacles.
She’d expected cold indifference from the Duke. And instead, she’d discovered something far more unsettling—keen intelligence and a presence that had made the very air feel charged.
What was it about the Duke of Devonshire that had her so unsettled?
And more troubling still—why did some reckless part of her want to find out?
They reached the townhouse to find it blessedly empty—the Earl still occupied with his mysterious business, the servants going about their duties. Cecilia slipped upstairs to her chambers, her mind whirling.
Tomorrow, she would return to that elegant townhouse, present herself as Clara Vale, companion to a duke’s elderly aunt.
She would observe Adrian Ravenscar in his natural habitat, discover whether he was truly the cold, heartless man society claimed, and gather intelligence to inform her decision about their impending marriage.
A marriage both of them had agreed to, sight unseen.
A marriage she wasn’t certain she could endure.
“Lady Cecilia?” Velma’s voice interrupted her spiralling thoughts. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” Cecilia murmured, sinking into her bed. “Something far more dangerous.”
“What’s that then?”
Cecilia thought of a voice that commanded without raising volume, of the unexpected concern she’d glimpsed when he’d spoken of his aunt.
She thought of how her treacherous heart had hammered when he’d studied her, how she’d felt his eyes on her like a physical touch—making her feel simultaneously exposed and exhilarated by his scrutiny.
“A man who notices far too much,” she finally answered.
And as Velma helped her change from Clara Vale’s drab grey dress back into Lady Cecilia Bedford’s blue muslin, a terrible suspicion took root in her mind: perhaps the greatest danger in this entire scheme wasn’t being discovered.
Perhaps it was the possibility that the Duke of Devonshire might just be someone she could come to care for.