When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,33
For those moments, holding still so she could straighten his cravat, Duncan’s mind had been empty of thoughts. He’d been a purring tomcat, purely enjoying physical closeness to a comely female.
Enjoying being cared about personally, however mundane the expression of that caring.
“They will ask about your Miss Maddie,” Stephen said. “The sisters, Quinn, and Jane. Even Bitty likes to know what’s afoot with Cousin Duncan.”
Bitty—Elizabeth—was Jane and Quinn’s eldest, a busy little sprite of five. Duncan adored her, despite her tendency to climb on his person, investigate his pockets, and demand stories by the dozen.
“Stephen, you will respect my confidences where Miss Maddie is concerned or you will no longer be welcome in my house. Whether I am employing a female amanuensis, a French under-gardener, or three running footmen from darkest Peru is nobody’s concern but my own.”
Stephen’s horse came to a halt and lifted its tail. “So she’s a damsel in distress.” Stephen rose in his stirrups and leaned forward while equine flatulence joined the morning breezes. “Duncan’s damsel in distress. How can I possibly keep that miracle to myself?”
The horse resumed its plodding.
“You taught yourself to walk,” Duncan said, “when every physician in London claimed the cause was hopeless. Surely you can manage to maintain silence on one very dull topic.”
Stephen changed the subject to the various trees flourishing on Brightwell’s acres, until Duncan drew his horse up in the sawmill’s main yard. The place reeked of mud and the pungent tang of cut lumber. The morning air was punctuated with male voices singing to the rhythm of the saws about a frog marrying a mouse.
“Why did we travel all over the Continent,” Stephen murmured, “when we could have instead enjoyed the many wonders of nearby Berkshire?”
They’d traveled for different reasons. To prove that Stephen’s disability was an inconvenience, not a death sentence. To broaden their minds. To escape the increasing respectability of Quinn and Jane’s household, and all the domesticating that went with it.
Also to put distance between Duncan and the past.
“Morning, gentlemen,” a large, blond fellow said. “Tobias Pepper, at your service.”
Duncan touched his hat and remained in the saddle. “Duncan Wentworth, late of Brightwell, and my cousin, Lord Stephen Wentworth.”
“Plymouth!” Mr. Pepper shouted. “Take the horses for the fine gentlemen.”
If somebody took the horses, then Stephen would have to dismount. He rode with his canes affixed to the saddle by means of a leather scabbard such as soldiers used for a rifle or sword. Even with a pair of canes, heavy muck was slow, uncertain going.
Stephen kicked his feet from the stirrups and slid down the horse’s side, meaning Duncan was to do likewise.
“Always a pleasure to meet a new neighbor,” Pepper said. “Heard you was come to Brightwell. Fine old property like that needs tending.”
Pepper’s observation held more curiosity than reproach. Would Pepper and Brightwell’s steward transact more business? Would Brightwell open its own sawpit? What exactly prompted members of the ducal family to call upon the mill owner in person?
“You have a fine property too,” Stephen said, doing his impression of the Eager Young Lord. “Have you considered installing a circular saw?”
If an invention had been patented, Stephen knew of it. If the military was designing a new weapon, Stephen often sent them critiques of the proposed features. Circular saws powered by steam were popular among the Dutch, and the Americans were using them too. The navy had a few, though such modern machinery had yet to find its way into the countryside.
“The circular saws make a damned lot of noise, your lordship,” Pepper replied. “Pardon my language. My men are hard workers and we turn out good lumber.”
“Your men can turn out a dozen boards a day, assuming they’re working elm or ash,” Stephen replied. “The circular saws can turn out two hundred boards a day, even working oak.”
Duncan was about to send Stephen the “stop showing off” look, except Stephen wasn’t merely displaying his head for facts and figures. He was putting Pepper on the defensive, a possible prerequisite to obtaining honest answers.
“If your worship is considering opening a sawpit and getting one of them fancy saws, isn’t that a discussion to be had with Mr. Trostle?”
“My steward is otherwise occupied this morning,” Duncan said. “If you can spare us a few minutes in your office, I’d like to put some matters to you directly.”
The singing stopped—a cat had devoured both the frog and the mouse, though first the couple had spoken their vows—and only the rhythmic whine of a saw