When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,40
strangers, my lord.”
“In all those years,” he went on, “Duncan might have allowed himself three private dinners with very discreet, comely widows. The ladies invariably made the overtures, and they were invariably ladies of means and standing of whom he never spoke personally.”
Exactly. Duncan Wentworth was a gentleman. A true, old-fashioned gentleman.
“Duncan’s missing a foot, you see,” Lord Stephen said, nudging the bowl again. “When it comes to the ladies. He had some falling-out with his vicar back in his curate days, something to do with a woman, or misbehaving with a woman. I was too young at the time to even know I had a cousin Duncan. It all went to hell somehow, and Duncan became a teacher.”
“Youthful indiscretions, even your youthful indiscretions, don’t interest me, my lord. Your willingness to malign Mr. Wentworth is of even less moment. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
“I do not malign him, you daft woman. If I love anybody—and I am fairly certain I do not—I love Duncan. He’s short on charm, long on loyalty. Smarter than he’s given credit for because he’s also humbler than your average genius. I should know—I am a genius, in case you’ve overlooked the obvious. I’d be dead four times over but for Duncan. If you mean him any harm at all, whatever you’re running from will seem like salvation compared to what I’ll do to you.”
This diatribe skirted the edges between an adolescent tantrum and an entirely believable threat. Lord Stephen shoved to his feet—he could be nimble, Matilda must not forget that—and he maneuvered around the end table.
“Is that all you wanted to say to me, my lord?”
He fluffed his cravat, which was perfectly centered, the lace falling just so. “If you need help, I can finance a journey anywhere you’d care to go, no questions, cash by this time next week. I’ve already sent for some funds to tend to a few projects I’m planning.”
The offer was tempting, ye gods was it tempting, except Papa and the colonel were doubtless watching every port. Matilda remained seated, because in this instance, she was the lady, and Lord Stephen the presuming young fool.
“You will have to learn to give up your cousin Duncan sometime, my lord. He loves you too. I read that on every page of these journals, so you will have to be the one to let him go. I wish you good day.”
A family resemblance emerged as Lord Stephen’s countenance went blank. Mr. Wentworth frequently wore that unreadable expression, though often all it meant was that he was thinking. He was prodigiously given to thinking, and as much as Matilda loved reading his journals, she also longed to meet him across a chessboard.
More cause for alarm.
“I see why he’s taken notice of you,” Lord Stephen said. “You have the same ability he does to tell the whole tale from a few snippets of the text. Heed my words anyway, Miss Maddie, for everybody’s sake.”
The quiet crackle of the hearth fire was joined by a soft snick and a glint of steel. Then Lord Stephen was holding out a single purple bloom to Matilda.
A warning. The drama was charming, and the loyalty touching. She took the blossom, though the whole discussion had been unnerving as well.
Lord Stephen left, shutting the door behind him, and Matilda moved to a chair closer to the hearth. She was still twirling the little flower beneath her nose and staring at a description of Lord Stephen in the rigging when Mr. Wentworth’s characteristic double knock sounded on the door.
* * *
“Miss Maddie, good day.”
Duncan had dodged breakfast, claiming an appointment with a tenant. The meeting had gone well, inasmuch as everybody had made small talk, predicted snow, and consumed a portion of bitter ale appropriate to warding off the chill, or perhaps to purging the bowels.
Duncan had taken a few cautious sips rather than find out.
“Mr. Wentworth, good morning,” Miss Maddie said, tucking a single purple blossom back into the bouquet on the parlor table. “I’ve been sailing with you from Nice to Rome. Lord Stephen is in the crow’s nest, and the captain is swearing about crazy Englishmen.”
Duncan ought to make up another excuse—looking for Stephen, perhaps, who dwelled perpetually aloft in one sense and frequently provided an occasion for profanity, today being no exception.
“You will think we left a trail of foul language across the Continent,” he said, closing the door. “Might I join you?”
“Of course.” She was safely ensconced in a reading