The Scandalous Love of a Duke. Jane Lark
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risked her reputation by sending this.
Oh the arrogant, selfish man.
Angry, she turned to her small travelling desk and withdrew a quill and paper.
No thank you, Your Grace. On all accounts, I am afraid I may not accept.
K
~
John stared at the rows of facts and figures in annoyance. There were no anomalies in the ledgers. He could find nothing wrong. Yet something did not make sense. There was the inexplicable loan and then there was the way Wareham behaved.
This morning the man had come to John with a taunting smile on his face, as if he wished to know if anything had been found in the books and then had been gloating over the fact it had not.
He’d asked John if he wished to ride along one of the estate’s boundaries. John had accepted and so he’d had the pleasure of Wareham’s insolent company for three hours.
They had ridden mostly in silence but when they’d met tenants, John had had to correct Wareham’s words on two occasions. It obviously infuriated the man, but John could hardly let things slip when Wareham was deliberately being facetious. Wareham needed ruling with an iron hand. This could be a powder keg if John let any spark be lit. The man had influence in every one of John’s estates.
The morning had merely made John decide to ask Harvey to employ an investigator and track the loan Wareham had made from the other end, to investigate why it had been given.
A light knock hit the sitting room door.
“Come in,” John called, glad of the interruption and sick of the accounts.
“Your Grace,” Finch’s deep tone echoed into the room, as a footman entered bearing a parcel.
John’s brow furrowed and he rose as the footman set it down, then undid the string and lifted the lid.
It was the bonnet he’d sent to Katherine, carelessly thrown atop its wrapping with a scrawled note cast on top of it.
He laughed when he read it. No indeed. God, the girl amused him. She had not said no to his kisses, and he was not inclined to accept it now. She had liked the bonnet. He wished her to have it. He wanted her to favour him over her vicar. Perhaps the cherries ought to be apples and her, Eve, because Katherine Spencer was temptation.
“Finch!” John called.
“Your Grace?” The door opened again.
“I am going out. Have my curricle made ready.”
Half an hour or so later, John drew his curricle to a halt before the Spencers’ small manor house and then looked back at the groom who’d accompanied him.
The man jumped down and ran about the curricle to hold the horses.
John climbed down and then lifted the hatbox from the seat.
His heels crunched on the gravel as he crossed the drive to the door.
He felt light-hearted, glad to be escaping his duty for a brief interlude.
The door opened immediately and Castle, their butler, greeted John with recognition. “Your Grace?” He bowed. “I am afraid Mr and Mrs Spencer are not at home.”
Excellent. John smiled. “I have come to call on Miss Katherine Spencer, Castle, is she home?”
The man’s eyebrows lifted and he glanced at the box John carried. Of course, he’d probably seen it before.
Well, let the man speculate, Katherine was Phillip’s sister, the gift could be explained away.
“Will you wait in the parlour, Your Grace?”
John walked along the hall, glancing up the stairs. If she was not in the parlour, she must be up there. He would much rather be going to her chamber to visit her. A sudden imagined vision of Katherine, hair tussled, half asleep and languid-eyed, came into his mind.
The butler left John in the small receiving room at the back of the house, with a look of disapproval as he went to fetch Katherine.
John set the hatbox down in an armchair, took off his hat and gloves, and then tossed them there too.
The room was decorated in light blue and cream, and was probably the size of Wareham’s office.
A large portrait hung on one wall: Phillip in his wig. John smiled, looking at the miniatures on another wall: Jennifer, Phillip and Katherine’s parents. There was a later miniature of Jennifer too, probably painted recently. There were no images of Katherine.
John walked across the room, his hands settling behind his back, and looked through the French door out into the garden.
A sharp breeze swept at the flower heads.
He felt uncharacteristically nervous.
After a few moments, he heard her footsteps on the stairs and then in the hall.
He turned.
She looked beautiful when she came in. Her cheeks were pink and her bright-blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair was loosely held in a topknot, with wisps of it falling to her shoulders and about her face; a mix of bright-yellow sunshine shades, and duller damp-wheat hues. She wore a faded blue short-sleeved summer dress, which moulded to her figure. His eyes were drawn to her arms. It was the first time he had seen her without a pelisse or a spencer and her bare, slender arms were exquisite pure pale, milk-white skin.
His English rose. His, not her vicar’s.
He crossed the room, took her hand and bore it to his lips.
Thank God those tired kid leather gloves were not on them. Her skin was beautifully cool and soft and he let his thumb run over her palm as he breathed in the scent of her soap.
Clearly uncomfortable and colouring up again, she pulled her hand free.
“I brought your bonnet back,” he whispered, without preamble. “I am afraid I was offended by its return.”
Blue fire flashed in her eyes instantly, as it had done on the road the other day. There was a hidden zeal tucked away within Katherine. He wondered how many others saw it or if it was just him she showed it to. She wanted more from her life, he could tell. He longed to give it to her. He knew she could give him what he wished – release, freedom, moments of escape.
Varying shades of blue warred in her eyes. “What do you think you are doing, John?” It was a harsh, accusing whisper. “You cannot buy me gifts. What if my mother saw it?”
“You are Phillip’s sister, why should I not buy you something you wish for. No one need think it odd!” He smiled. He wanted to laugh. Not because she was funny, but because the passion in her outburst struck him so intensely. She was not the shy quiet person she portrayed herself to be, not in the least.
“Did you wish me to send for tea, Miss Katherine?” Castle asked from the open door, having followed her.
Katherine turned bright pink, but John grasped the opportunity to stay longer. “That would be welcome, Castle, thank you.”
Katherine’s gaze bored into John when the butler turned away.
“You should not be here,” she whispered once the man had gone.
She was right. John only hoped Castle could be discreet, but John did not admit it. “If you are afraid of this being misconstrued, say I brought the gift from Phillip.”
“And when Mama writes to him and asks why he bought me it, and Jenny nothing, what then? Besides Phillip does not have money to waste on bonnets.”
Still disinclined to accept refusal, John picked the box up and held it out.
It was suddenly extremely important to him that she accept it. If she accepted it, she accepted him. She could save him from