A Debt of Dishonor Page 4

  Kate looked at her icily. This woman, the mother of that boorish idiot, had the temerity to chastise her? Then she saw her aunt shake her head quickly and remembered that she was supposed to be in hiding, and that meant hiding her birth. So she said, with a stiff smile, “Thank you for your instruction, Lady Wilton. It was, no doubt, most kindly meant. I shall endeavor to bear that in mind.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Darling,” said Lady Merton with a laugh. “Pay no attention to such foolish advice. A woman who pretends to be a fool in order to catch a husband will end up with the fool she deserves.” She took Kate’s arm and reached out for Franny as well. “Now, would you ladies please be so kind as to join me over on that settee in the corner where we can have a pleasant chat?”

  Lady Talmadge looked after Kate as she walked away. She had noticed the girl’s initial prideful reaction to Lady Wilton’s words and the aunt’s silent warning. She had spent enough years of her married life sitting dutifully silent while observing others to know there was some mystery here. However, she had no intention of giving any support to her aunt’s nonsense, so before she left, she looked into the distance and commented to no one in particular, “It is amazing, is it not, how foolish a man appears when he pretends to have knowledge he does not possess?” She turned and smiled at her aunt. “Perhaps if George were to listen more and speak less, he would not make quite such a spectacle of himself.” Then she excused herself and strolled over to join Lady Merton and Kate.

  While Lady Wilton continued to simmer, the other women all gathered around Kate to chatter happily, ignoring earlier events. Once Mrs. Darling made mention of her intention to take Kate to the local dressmaker, the others all chimed in with advice.

  “You are truly fortunate in your coloring,” said Lady Talmadge, looking at her consideringly. “You can wear virtually any color except perhaps scarlet.”

  “What about me? Could I wear scarlet?” Lady Clara looked hopeful.

  Her mother laughed gently. “Someday, perhaps, but I’m afraid that for the next few years it is white for you, my pet, or very pale colors.”

  The ladies’ warmth and friendliness had almost made Kate forget the embarrassment of the dinner table by the time the gentlemen came in, chatting cheerfully. At least, most of them were chatting cheerfully, Kate noticed. Mr. Wilton rather pointedly avoided looking at her, and went to sit apart from the others with his mother.

  When Kate wandered over to admire one of the paintings, a rather fanciful depiction of classical ruins, Ashleigh came over to join her, a slight frown on his face. He must expect an apology, she thought. He was entitled to one, she supposed, since it was at his table that she had caused that little scene. She would not, however, apologize to that contemptible worm Wilton, even if the duke asked her to. So she held her head high and spoke to the duke’s cravat. “I must apologize, Your Grace. It was wrong of me to embarrass Mr. Wilton in company that way.”

  Ashleigh shook his head, flushing slightly. “Not at all. It is I who owe you an apology, Miss Darling. Merton told me what I should have noticed, that my cousin was making himself offensive to you at the dinner table.”

  Kate looked up at him in surprise. She wished that she did not have to look up quite so far—his height made her feel at a disadvantage. Nonetheless, a duke apologizing? “You need not apologize for Mr. Wilton, Your Grace. You are not responsible for his behavior.”

  “But you are a guest in my home. I should not have allowed him to make you uncomfortable. Had I realized…”

  Ah, he was apologizing because she was a guest in his home. Was it the offense to his position that rankled? That made some sense. Kate smiled slightly. “Nonetheless, it was not well done of me to embarrass him.”

  Ashleigh also smiled slightly. “I doubt you managed to do more than put even a small dent in his self-esteem, and I am certain his mama is presently repairing any damage. By tomorrow, he will be fully recovered, though I fear he is unlikely to renew his attentions to you. But then, I do not think you will find that too great a loss.”

  She did not know quite how to respond to that slightly flirtatious remark, so she turned back to the painting, and Ashleigh did the same. There were groups of figures, in costumes of perhaps two hundred years earlier, set in a landscape of ruined columns and arches. In the distance was a city of red-tiled roofs and ochre buildings. “It is a scene in Rome,” he said, “perhaps by Claude, more likely only a copy.” He smiled deprecatingly. “But I have always liked it. Does it appeal to the classicist in you?”

  “I am hardly a classicist, Your Grace.”

  “There is no need for modesty. You seem to have a familiarity with Virgil that is unusual for a young lady, Miss Darling.”

  Kate regretted again having spoken out, not because she had been rude to Wilton but because she had drawn far too much attention to herself. It could be dangerous for her to stand out in any way, especially in any way that might be identified with Katherine Russell from Grassington. But then, she could not deny that there was a part of her that did want the duke’s notice. She certainly noticed him. Who could not?

  She tried a dismissive shrug. “Our vicar was a scholarly gentleman, exceedingly fond of the classics. There was no one else in our village who wished to study with him, so he taught me.”

  “He provided you with a respectable start. There are not many young women who have mastered enough Latin to be able to read Virgil.”

  He seemed to think he was paying her a compliment, but his amused smile was a bit too condescending for Kate’s taste. She drew herself up and snapped, “To say nothing of Caesar and Livy and Tacitus. And enough Greek to be able to read Homer and the playwrights.” She thought better of it a second later—would she never learn to hold her tongue?—but pride did not allow her to wish the words unsaid.

  Ashleigh seemed taken aback, but not insulted. A bit of amusement remained in his face, however, and he said, “You had indulgent parents, then, to allow their daughter to have such an unusual education.”

  She chose her words carefully this time. “My mother considered that education was a benefit to children of both sexes, and my father did not concern himself with my upbringing.”

  “He must have been startled, then, to find himself with a daughter who recited Homer to him of an evening rather than play a minuet on the pianoforte.”

  She could not suppress a bitter sniff. “I cannot recall that my father ever passed an evening with us. My mother and I spent our evenings with our needlework or reading when we could.” Needlework sounded more ladylike than mending, and they did read whenever someone had lent them a book.

  “You must allow me to show you the library here.” Ashleigh led her to an enormous room with space enough for massive columns of pale gold marble dividing it into sections and case upon case of books. The room was so high that a spiral staircase led to a balcony giving access to the upper shelves. Kate had never seen so many books. She took a deep breath. She could smell the leather bindings and the slightly dusty scent old books could not avoid, the most glorious perfume in the world, she thought.

  “They are not all of great interest.” Ashleigh grinned at Kate. “The north wall is devoted to collections of sermons and theological debates of the past few centuries. I suspect that the only person to so much as touch them in the last fifty years has been the housemaid assigned to dusting.” He picked up a candelabra and led her to a section off to their side. “This is where you will find the classics.”

  Kate followed and once she was close enough to see what was there, she could not restrain a gasp. It was not only that there were so many books, but that they were such beautiful books. Here was everything that Dr. Finley, the vicar who had been her teacher, had even so much as mentioned. His own library had included only a few dozen volumes, and those in the cheapest board bindings. But here, everything was bound in leather, in jewel colors of red, green and blue, stamped with gilt letters. The very scent was the smell of luxury. “The plays are all here,” she half
-whispered. “You have Aeschylus, Euripides, the comedies of Aristophanes—and all of Sophocles.” She turned back to look at him. “I have read only his Oedipus. Dr. Finley did not have any of his other plays.”

  She saw the startled expression on his face. It did not last long—he covered it well—but it was enough to betray him. She knew. He had not believed her when she said she read Greek. He had assumed she was boasting. After all, ladies do not read Greek. He had thought she would not be able to even decipher the Greek letters on the spines. The insult stiffened her spine.

  He reached out to remove one of the books. “This is the Antigone of Sophocles. I have always thought that it poses profound questions about duty. If you would care to read it, I would be interested to hear your thoughts.” He proffered it to her, perhaps as an apology for his doubt.

  The volume was a thing of beauty, bound in dark red calf with heavy, deckled pages. Her irritation dissipated as she found herself hungering to touch the book itself, to caress that smooth leather, not just devour the contents. When she looked up to meet his eye, she saw no mockery there, no condescension, only interest and curiosity. Perhaps too much curiosity. Perhaps too much interest. “Thank you, Your Grace. It would give me great pleasure to read it. And I assure you, I will take the greatest care of your book.”

  Their fingers touched as she took the book, and her eyes widened. She could have sworn she felt something in that touch, some reaction she did not recognize or wish to acknowledge. She did not want to feel any attraction to him, to feel any spark between them. It was impossible. That was a complication she did not need in her life. She should feel nothing but wariness. Anything else was dangerous, foolishly, stupidly dangerous. It would be safest to have nothing—or at least very little—to do with him. She offered him a polite smile of thanks and hurried away.

  *

  He watched her walk away, head held high. She had felt it, too, that spark between them, that connection. Had he expected that? Perhaps he had. Certainly, he knew he had been aware of her the moment she arrived, and he thought she had been equally aware of him. There was the way their eyes had locked as soon as she entered the room.

  It was inappropriate, he knew. He had tried to avoid looking at her during dinner, but all that effort had accomplished was to allow that pig, Wilton, to paw at her. He smiled as he remembered the shocked look on Wilton’s face when she corrected him, and the tiny little bit of smugness on hers. It shouldn’t have been necessary. He should have prevented her discomfiture, but he had to admire the way she had defended herself.

  She was an odd little creature, with her unusual learning, odd but fascinating. He could not remember ever being so intrigued by a woman. She spoke and behaved like a lady, and had the pride of a lady of high birth, though the shabby dress betokened a lack of fortune. Her father had, it seemed, taken little care for her future. The difference between her breeding and her present circumstances might explain her quickness to take offense. She was fortunate to be taken in by Frances Darling, a generous woman and a sensible one.

  Whatever her fortune, she was remarkably lovely. There was that mass of pale hair, with glints of gold in the candlelight. There was so much of it, it would tumble past her waist when she took it down, he thought. And those green eyes—it was the way they tilted slightly at the outer corners, and the slant of her brows that gave her that elfin look. She was not tall but she moved with grace. Still, she was so thin that she appeared fragile, in need of care, in need of protection. In need of a protector?

  He stopped smiling and mentally shook himself. That was no way to be thinking of Andrew Darling’s niece. The Darlings had been the sole source of warmth in his childhood. He had escaped to their house whenever he could to play with the dog, to be fed jam tarts, to be a child. Later, when he had inherited the dukedom, Andrew Darling had helped him make sense of it, to bring it back to order.

  Most of all, Andrew Darling had taught him to be an honorable man.

  Now he was the Duke of Ashleigh. He was not some careless libertine like Wilton who would prey on innocents. And Miss Darling was clearly an innocent. He could offer her the protection of his friendship, of his interest, but nothing more.

  *

  The next day, Wilton asked for an interview with the duke. It was granted, and some twenty minutes later, Mr. Wilton could be seen leaving the duke’s office with hasty steps, his face flushed with humiliation.

  Shortly thereafter, Lady Wilton marched angrily into the duke’s office. It required only ten minutes for her to march even more angrily out.

  Within the hour, their coach was carrying them down the drive, followed by the second carriage, carrying their bags, her lady’s maid and his valet, all tossed in hastily. Lady Talmadge watched this from the window of her sitting room with no little surprise. It was not that she regretted their departure in the least, but good manners normally required parting guests, even uninvited ones, to at least bid farewell to their hostess.

  She returned to the menu the cook had sent up. If they no longer had the Wiltons to entertain, and no other guests were expected for dinner, a much simpler meal would suffice. She crossed off the second soup, three of the side dishes, and one of the roasts. When the footman came in response to her ring, she handed him the revised menu and asked him to tell the cook that there would be only four for dinner.

  Then she went down to see her brother.

  He was at his desk as he usually was at this time of day, reading reports on his various interests and looking over the recommendations from Stephen Bancroft in preparation for their daily conference. He was also looking cheerful, almost smug. When she stepped in, he stood up and smiled.

  She made herself comfortable in the leather armchair facing him. “I see that our guests have departed.”

  His smile broadened as he settled back into the comfort of his own chair.

  “You look so pleased with yourself that I conclude you had something to do with the discourteous haste of their departure,” she continued.

  His smile persisted. “Wilton asked for an interview to request your hand. I told him that I would never give my permission and that I considered him a totally unfit suitor. Quite apart from his personal failings of character there is the fact that you are, after all, the daughter of a duke. Then his mother stormed in. If he was not high enough for you, she proposed a match with Clara, since her father was only an earl. I told her that even if Clara were not young enough to be his daughter, I would never allow her to marry a dissolute fool like Wilton. Apparently, they took it all amiss.”

  Lady Talmadge frowned slightly. “You seem quite proud of yourself.”

  He gave a deprecating wave. “Merton told me that I have been overly courteous in the past, that I raised false expectations. It seems he was correct in that they were surprised at my refusal of Wilton’s suit. I shall try to avoid raising false expectations again.”

  Lady Talmadge continued to frown. “I do not suppose you stopped to consider that you are not the one to be either raising or lowering expectations? That perhaps I am fully capable of refusing his suit? That decisions about Clara’s future should be my decisions?”

  He stared at his sister and his smile faded. There was a sharpness in her tone he had not heard before. “Really, Alice, you cannot mean to tell me you wished to encourage Wilton.”

  “Of course not. I do, however, think that you are being more than a bit high-handed here.” She blew out an angry breath. “Besides, I had prepared a number of blistering setdowns to give him, and now I will not have an opportunity to use them.”

  Ashleigh relaxed again. “Fear not. I am certain that when we remove to London next spring there will be quite enough insolent creatures hanging about you to give you ample scope for your blistering setdowns.”

  “And I trust you will not interfere. You really must stop treating me like a child. I am quite capable of distinguishing a rake from an honest gentleman, and of knowing a fortune hunter when I see one.”

 
“I am certain that you are,” he said soothingly, “but you cannot think it an insult when I seek to protect you. Is that not what a brother is for? I was unable to do so while you were married to Talmadge. Do not deny me the privilege now.”

  “Yes, but… but try not to overdo it.”

  He smiled.

  She closed her eyes. She knew perfectly well that he wanted only the best for her, but she sometimes felt as if she were suffocating. He was her younger brother, after all. How would he like it if he was treated like a child, an incompetent child, all the time?

  One of these days, she needed to give him a taste of that medicine.

  Chapter Three

  Yorkshire

  Newell stumbled through the front door of his ancestral mansion and grasped hold of the door jamb to keep himself upright. He swayed as he peered through the gloom. Night had not fallen, but he had consumed a large quantity of ale at the Ring o’ Bells, the nearest tavern. That had taken nearly the last of his coin, but after the hellish trip to get here—nearly three weeks on public stages, selling off his spare clothes to pay the fare, with nights spent in fields more often than not—he felt entitled to any comfort he could get.

  Not that there looked to be much comfort awaiting him here in the gloom. God, he hadn’t lived here since the day his father had taken him off to school, and he hadn’t wanted to. Even the few nights he had spent here when he came to see what there was after his mother’s death and when he had come to fetch Katherine had been a nightmare. Sleeping in the bloody butler’s pantry, for God’s sake, because the rest of the house wasn’t fit to live in. The manor, he thought bitterly. It didn’t even have a name. Just the manor. How his mother and Katherine survived it all those years he didn’t know.