Carla Kelly (17 page)

He considered the matter, worrying it around in his mind, looking at it from all angles like a horse at an auction. Libby was intelligent; surely she must realize that a duke was completely out of her reach. She could no more become a duchess than hope to succeed Pius VII.

He got to his feet, brushing the leaves off his buckskins, his eyes still on the window. Libby had turned away now, but her presence was almost as palpable as if she still stood there, her eyes on the morning, thinking of him, perhaps?

He foresaw some difficulty with the mother, but he knew he could win her around, too. Mrs. Ames was probably one of those shabby genteel women he had seen hanging about the fringes of the army, pretty once, with a face at one time palatable enough to catch the fancy of a cornet or ensign green as grass. And if the family’s situation was as desperate as Lydia Ames had hinted at last night, it was unlikely that Marianne Ames would look with disgust on his plan.

He would broach the subject with Libby and then proceed to London to drawn up papers with his lawyer. For all that her origins were questionable, she was not friendless in the world, and Uncle Ames would require careful handling, too.

“I will move with all deliberate caution and endeavor to get over heavy ground as lightly as possible,” he said, smiling at the memory of the Iron Duke’s favorite military dictum reduced to the terms of romance. “And so I shall succeed.”

It remained only to find Libby and tell her of his brilliant idea. He went into the house, calling her name.

In another moment, she looked down on him from the upstairs landing, a smile of welcome on her face that made his heart lift and turn over.

“We wondered where you were, Nez,” she scolded, and she descended the stairs, coming toward him on light feet. “The others are nearly done in the breakfast room, but I believe there are still toast and eggs.”

She took him by the arm and tugged it until—a smile on his face—he bent down so she could kiss him on the cheek. For the briefest moment she rubbed his cheek with hers. “Lydia said it would be fine if you took one of Uncle’s horses to Brighton, unless you prefer a post chaise, and they are available in Holyoke. But do come to breakfast now.”

He shook his head and took her by the hand, pulling her down the hall toward the book room. He answered the question in her eyes with a wink and a kiss of his fingers at her.

He took her in his arms in the book room and kissed her, touched and gratified at the same time to feel the trip-hammer of her heart against his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the fragrance of lavender that would always mean Libby Ames to him.

“I am not going to Brighton, after all, my dear,” he said finally, still holding her close.

Libby pulled away from him slightly to look up into his face, a question in her eyes.

He cupped her face in his hands. “I have a much better plan.”

The look that she gave him was full of so much trust that he felt another tug, this time to his conscience. He ignored it and pulled her close to him again.

“Really, your grace,” she teased, out of breath, as he kissed her neck and ears. “Ought we to at least close the door?”

“Libby, you told me everyone was at breakfast,” he murmured, and then reminded himself of the next step in his clever idea. He picked her up and set her lightly on the desk.

“How would you feel about a little house in Half Moon Street?” he asked, suddenly at a loss how to introduce the subject and trusting that his charm would carry him through.

To his relief, Libby smiled back and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Anywhere you are would be home to me,” she whispered, and touched her forehead to his. “You know that.”

“And I suppose you would like above all things to have a high-perch phaeton of your very own?”

“But of course I would,” she replied promptly, her eyes merry. “And it must be painted white with gilt trimmings. I shall cut quite a dash.”

“So you shall,” he agreed, laughing. “And you shall have furs and jewels and a box of your very own at the opera.”

“And you will introduce me to Florizel himself?” she asked, twinkling her eyes at him.

“Oh, no! Suppose he should decide to make you his own dollymop? I shall never introduce you to the prince,” he said firmly. “Come to think of it, I shall never introduce you to anyone, my darling. You’re much too tender a morsel, and some other friend of mine will think you are his for the taking. No, we will be together whenever we can, just you and I.”

A curious look came into her eyes, less trusting, more wary. He ignored it and hurried on, pleased with his success. “I shall go to London with Eustace and Lydia and make all the arrangements with my lawyer. You will be well provided for, Libby, and never have a moment’s regret.”

There was a long pause as Libby looked deep into his eyes. As he watched in growing discomfort, the color sailed away from her cheeks, leaving them the dead white of circus clown makeup. She took her hands off his shoulders.

“Why should I have any cause to regret, Nez?” she asked quietly.

The tone of her voice should have warned him. There was something in it of curious great control, even as a muscle began to twitch below her eyes. She looked at him steadily and he stared back in fascination at the little tic.

He looked away first. “Well, Libby, sometimes these arrangements can be awkward,” he said as he reached for her hands again.

She put them behind her back. “What ‘arrangements’ are you referring to?” When he did not answer, she got off the desk, still not taking her eyes from his face. “What arrangements, Nez?” she asked again, her voice soft.

He knew she was a girl of great good humor, so he laughed and flicked her cheek with his finger.

“Libby, my love, surely you never thought I meant to marry you?”

13

I ABSOLUTELY refuse to faint, Libby thought as she stared at the duke. She ignored the little flickers of light around her eyes and the drumming in her ears and clutched at the desk to keep her balance in a world suddenly upside down.

“The notion of marriage had crossed my mind, Nez,” she said when he seemed disposed to make no further comment. “I rather thought that was what we were referring to last night.”

She wanted to say more, to scream at him and cry and stamp her feet and dig at his face with her fingernails, but she clutched her hands tight in her lap and struggled against the tears that spilled down her cheeks anyway.

He took her by the shoulders. “Libby, you didn’t seriously think that a duke would ever marry the granddaughter of a tobacco merchant? And wasn’t there some scandal about your father’s disinheritance? Good God, Libby, be reasonable.”

She felt as though she stood miles away from him and that she listened to his voice from the top of some distant mountain. “I assumed you were already aware of all that when we spoke last night,” Libby said.

He shook his head and made no move to touch her again when she brushed off his hands. “My dear girl, I thought you were Lydia, and then I thought that . . . Well, I never imagined that you weren’t . . . well, you know, Libby, eligible.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose we both assumed too much,” he concluded.

“Or not enough, my lord,” she said.

“Libby, be reasonable! You know I can’t possibly marry you.”

She did know. She shook her head when he offered her his handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve instead, wishing he would go away and close the door behind him. Incredibly, he was still speaking to her, his voice soothing as though he addressed a cranky child that must be brought to reason.

“What do you say, Libby? I love you. Only think how well we will suit. Any marriage I make will only be one of convenience. You, I love.”

His words seemed to roar in her ears and she sobbed out loud. It gave her no pleasure to see the helplessness creep into his eyes. He is only upset because I am crying, she thought. He has no idea of the insult he has heaped upon me, as if it were a favor.

Libby took a deep breath and held out her hand to him. “Your grace,” she began, her voice loud so she could hear herself over the roaring in her ears. “I am deeply appreciative of the great condescension of your offer, but I am equally certain that we would never suit. Do not let me detain you a moment longer.”

“Libby, don’t be a fool,” he said quietly.

“In future, I shall try not to be, sir,” she said. “I’ve learned such an excellent lesson and can only be grateful to you for that, I suppose. Good day, your grace.”

He shook her hand and stepped back as she swept from the room, her face set, her eyes straight ahead.

Joseph stood before her in the hall. He looked on in silence as the duke left the book room and stalked down the hall without even a glance of recognition in his direction. He turned back to his sister, openmouthed.

“I—I didn’t mean to listen. Libby, did you turn down his proposal?” he asked, his voice filled with amazement.

She nodded, afraid to trust herself with words.

Joseph leaned against the wall as though he could not hold himself upright anymore. “It was because of me, wasn’t it?” he asked at last.

Libby flinched. “Oh, no, Joseph, never that!”

“I disgust him, don’t I, and he doesn’t want me in London. Libby, I am so sorry.”

Mastering her own emotions, she reached for her brother, even as he wrenched himself away from her, turned, and ran out the back door. Her face a mask of pain, she watched him run with his curious loping gait to the stable. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door frame. In another moment, she heard the sound of horse’s hooves.

Joseph was gone.

She watched him ride away, hunched low over Uncle Ames’ horse. He took the fence toward Fairbourne with his usual ease and disappeared in the trees. Libby just stood there, knowing that he would return later in the day, hungry and tired and with only a sketchy memory of what had gone on before. The only danger was that he would ride too far and forget where he lived. And then what do I tell Mama? she thought as she rubbed her arms.

She longed to throw herself on her knees in front of Mama and pour out the whole dismal story into her lap. It would be such a relief to cry herself out and to feel her mother’s gentle hand on her hair. She would take the next mail coach to Brighton.

And the next moment, Libby knew she would do nothing of the kind. Mama must never know of any of this. It would only shame her and deepen her mother’s own sense of failure. Mama had suffered enough at the hands of her father-in-law. They had not roamed Europe for years and years not only because Thomas Ames had been a dedicated soldier, but because there had never been a home to return to in England, no kind welcome from relatives on either side.

Libby turned away from the door. Mama would never have to know that this same rejection extended to her beloved daughter and son. I owe you that, Mama, she thought. She would swallow the misery all by herself and count herself lucky that she had not got any deeper into the mess.

But now the only thing that remained was to sneak upstairs, plead a sick headache, and stay there until Eustace, Lydia, and the Duke of Knaresborough left for London. Aunt Crabtree would chide her for her inhospitality, but that couldn’t be helped. She started for the stairs on tiptoe.

“Ah, Miss Ames, I have been looking for you,” Candlow said, coming toward her on the half-trot that usually indicated catastrophe. “The cook is in an uproar over some remark that the Earl of Devere made about his croissants, and I need you in the kitchen. Your aunt tried and has retreated to the card table.”

She sighed. “Won’t it wait?”

Candlow’s sigh was louder. “No, it will not, Miss Ames. This is serious.” He paused for breath and then threw in his weightiest argument. “And didn’t Sir William expect you to keep house for him this summer?”

Yes, this summer, and all the summers to come, and then when Mama died, she would be housekeeper for life. She would be the one to welcome the Earl and Countess of Devere to Holyoke Green for the occasional holiday, standing with the other servants, but slightly apart, for she didn’t belong with them, either. And when the Wiltmores had their friends down from London, she would be there, too. Oh, God.

I only hope I do not become the family joke, like poor Aunt Crabtree, Libby thought as she followed the butler belowstairs. I hope they do not point me out as the one who had pretensions. Pray God they will not laugh about me after I have served them tea, and twitter among themselves that I thought myself good enough for the Duke of Knaresborough. Silly woman, she thought to snare a duke. I wonder that the Wiltmores keep her on.

Several cups of tea and a tumbler of Uncle Ames’ best smuggled brandy convinced the cook that the Earl of Devere wouldn’t know a muffin from a croissant it if leapt off the plate and smote him across the chops.

“But I won’t cook for him again,” the cook sniffed, tipping the brandy glass for the last drop.

“I believe they are leaving this morning.”

“And good riddance to rubbish, is what I say,” declared the cook.

This was certainly not the time to tell the cook that the Earl of Devere would likely have his feet under the dining-room table for more meals to come. She took another sip of her tea and wished it were brandy. Some things shouldn’t have to be faced all at once.

When she could gracefully escape from the cook, who grew more garrulous the lower the level in the bottle dropped, Libby tiptoed up the back stairs. With any luck she could avoid the other inmates of Holyoke Green until the moment of departure. If they did not linger long with farewells and instructions, she could maintain her composure and then go about the arduous and unwelcome task of putting the Duke of Knaresborough from her mind.

The maid and footman were hurrying down the hall with the bandboxes, portmanteaux, and hatboxes that Lydia considered essential for a London stay. From the look of resignation evident on the footman’s face, this was not his first trip down the stairs.

The duke was nowhere in sight. Libby knew how limited was his wardrobe. Probably he was already packed and standing by the carriage, eager to be off, relieved to put behind him the embarrassment she had caused. By the time the carriage rolled into London, he would likely have forgotten she ever lived.

And then Lydia was hurrying from her room, tying the bow of her chip-straw bonnet under one ear, calling to her abigail in breathless tones to hurry up or be left behind.

“Do you know, cousin, I think I will procure a dresser when I get to town,” she said as she tucked her arm in Libby’s and pulled her along to the landing. “Dear Eustace says I am to throw myself on the mercy of his mother for these details. He says she is a frivolous lady, but that we should deal admirably.”

Libby was not surprised that the irony of her statement flew over Lydia’s head. She could only pat her cousin’s hand and descend the stairs, keeping her peace.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lydia laughed. “Libby, I must tell you the most delicious thing. You will go into whoops when I tell you, but last night . . .” Lydia put her face close to her cousin’s. “Last night the duke said he was going to offer for you. Isn’t that amusing? How I laughed when I heard him!”

She laughed again, a merry peal that was almost painful to Libby’s ears. “Naturally, I set him straight, and wasn’t he surprised! Men will do the strangest things when they think they are in love.”

“I suppose they will,” Libby agreed, winking back her tears.

Lydia looked at her cousin. She dabbed her handkerchief at Libby’s eyes. “You dear thing! I will miss you, too.” She danced out the door, calling to Eustace.

Libby walked out into the open doorway and watched as the footman, his collar dark with sweat and his mouth set along grim lines, poked bags and boxes here and there at Lydia’s command. The duke stood apart with his friend the earl. He looked back at Libby once and there was scarcely a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

She urged the footman on silently and was grateful beyond measure when Candlow found a pressing matter of house business to occupy Lydia so the man could finish his task in peace. In another moment, the coachman was in his seat and Lydia hurled herself into her cousin’s arms for one last embrace.

“I’ll write, Libby dear, but it may be easier for you to write me,” she said, hugging her cousin close. “I think you will likely have more time than I will. Do take care, my dear.”

“That I shall do, Lydia dear,” Libby said, and kissed her cousin. “If Uncle Ames should send you one of his famous letters of good advice, do take some of it.”

Lydia pinked up and flashed her dimples at her cousin. “Only some of it, silly! What does Papa know of the
haut ton
? He spent all his life avoiding it. I shall do this family proud.”

And then it was Eustace’s turn. He bowed over her hand. “Charming, charming,” he murmured. “Do come see us.”

And then Nez took her by the hand. He looked in her eyes as if searching for something there. For just one moment, she held her breath.

The moment passed quickly as he pressed her hand and leaned closer. “If you should change your mind, Libby . . .”

She withdrew her hand and stepped back as the coachman gathered the reins and the horses moved. She smiled for Lydia’s benefit, Lydia who was even now edging closer to hear what was passing so quietly between them.

“I promise you, my lord, I will not change my mind. Safe journey to you, sir.”

She stepped back and the duke had no choice but to hand Lydia into the chaise and climb in after her. She blew a kiss to Lydia and waved until the vehicle was out of sight on the road that ran past Holyoke Green. The same road that had brought Nesbitt Duke, the chocolate purveyor, into her life so precipitately carried him out.

When the carriage was gone from view and only the dust cloud remained, she sat down on the front steps and rested her chin in her hands, ignoring the stares of the butler and the footman, who had never seen her do such an unladylike thing. The footman started to say something, but Candlow took him by the arm and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him.

Libby sat there until the urge for tears left her. Her heart booming in her chest, she looked up in surprise once to the sound of a carriage. Nez had thought better of his words and was returning to her.

But it was only a farmer’s cart full of produce in kegs that rumbled down the road, bound for the great open-air markets of London. The duke was not going to come back. Men like that don’t look back, once they have made such a decision, she decided.

Libby, you are a wonder, she thought, chin in hand. Only think of all the wisdom you are acquiring this summer. Dr. Cook taught you how to set a bone yesterday, and today a peer of the realm showed you handily your place in life. I wonder what else there is to learn today?

She looked up then from her contemplation of her shoe tops and gazed across the road. And where was Joseph? The thought propelled her to her feet and she started around the house. Perhaps he had returned and was helping Tunley in the stables. Her steps quickened until she was almost running, her eyes hopeful that he would be there, mucking out the old straw in that awkward but methodical way of his. Or perhaps he was just sitting there watching Tunley, absorbing each simple task that the groom lavished on the animals they both loved so well.

He was nowhere in sight. Libby sighed and went into the stable, blinking her eyes against the sudden gloom.

If she had thought to find edification from Tunley, her hopes were quickly dashed. He hurried toward her.

“That brother of yours! He must have borrowed Sir Williams’ best hunter. I do not think your uncle will be overly pleased if he learns of it. Where do you think he has got to, miss?”

“I was rather hoping you could tell me, Tunley,” she said.

He shook his head. “Then we are two ignorant people, miss.” She turned to go, but Tunley called her back. “Miss, I almost forgot. Do come and see what wandered into our stable this morning.”