The Duchess Page 8

  She bent to look at the titles of the books on the bottom shelf as Trevelyan’s eyes ran over her body. He so much wanted to put his hands on her waist that his fingers itched.

  “Is it your own advanced age that makes you constantly point out Harry’s youth? My father does that with younger men. I believe it makes him feel superior.”

  She straightened and nearly hit Trevelyan’s face with her head. “All of these books were written by Captain Baker.” She turned to face him, bending backward a bit to look up at his face, as he was standing very close to her. Claire looked up at him and for a moment she stopped breathing. No man had ever looked at her as Trevelyan was now. In fact, she wondered if any man had ever looked at any woman as he was looking at her. His eyes, usually full of mocking laughter, were now full of…She wasn’t sure what was in his eyes, but it wasn’t laughter.

  She stepped away from him. “I believe you’re fascinated with the man, too, aren’t you?” she said hastily. “That’s why you take such offense when you think I’m criticizing him.”

  “What’s that thing on the back of your skirt?” he asked, his voice low.

  Claire gave a nervous little laugh. “It’s a bustle. Where have you been that you don’t know what a bustle is?”

  “I’ve been out of the country for years.”

  “You must have been.” She turned back to the shelves, took a few deep breaths and calmed her heart. “Here, I’ll take this one. I’ve read it at least ten times.”

  He took the book from her and read the title, The Search for Pesha, then replaced it on the shelf. “If you’ve read it ten times then you must be bored with it.”

  “I’m not bored with it, I—”

  He put his hand over hers and stopped her from taking the book down again. “I have something of his that you haven’t read.”

  Claire snatched her hand away. “But there’s nothing of his that I haven’t—”

  “It’s a manuscript of his. Never been published.”

  Claire drew in her breath at that, then turned and smiled up at him. “Show me, please.”

  She has the most readable face in the world, Trevelyan thought. Everything she thought or felt showed on her face. And now her eagerness, her desire to know was infectious. He would like to teach her more than she could learn from books. Reluctantly, he moved away from her, went to a small chest against the wall, withdrew a handwritten manuscript, and handed it to her.

  “The Scented Garden,” Claire read. “Translated by Captain Frank Baker.” She looked up at him and smiled her thanks as she held the thin manuscript to her bosom as though it were a precious and revered object.

  Trevelyan frowned. She smiled at him in delight, as a child might smile at its father, and he fought to control himself. This young woman was his brother’s. This was no woman of easy virtue who could be his for an afternoon. If he touched her there would be endless complications and repercussions. “Go sit over there and be quiet,” he said sharply. “I have my own work to do.”

  She didn’t say another word as she made her way to the window seat and climbed onto it. It took her a few minutes to figure out how to decipher Captain Baker’s small, spiky handwriting, but it didn’t take her ten minutes to realize what kind of book Trevelyan had given her. It was a translation of a treatise on lovemaking.

  There was a chapter on the beauty of women and it included descriptions of all parts of a woman. The next chapter described men. There were chapters describing positions one took in lovemaking, and following were funny little stories about adultery and various other forms of promiscuity.

  Claire read without so much as blinking. Somewhere around five, the tall dark man in white handed her a tray of fruit and some kind of bread and something in a tall metal goblet. She took the food, murmured, “Thanks,” and didn’t so much as look up from her reading.

  At one point she laughed out loud.

  Trevelyan startled her by asking what had made her laugh.

  “Here,” she said. “This sentence. It says that under all circumstances small women like…” She looked up at him. “You know, better than large women. It says small women are better at…it, you know, making love, than large women.”

  He looked at her five-foot-tall frame, her knees up, the manuscript balanced on them, her nose close to the pages, and smiled at her in an inviting way.

  Claire locked eyes with him for a moment. There were many images running through her head of couples locked in embrace. She shook her head as though to clear it, then started reading again. She read several stories that told of the treachery of women. Those stories made her frown. She looked through the rest of the small book but could find no corresponding chapters on the treachery of men.

  At one point, she gave out a loud “ha!”

  Trevelyan looked up at her askance.

  “It says that men and women can’t be friends, that it’s an impossibility. I don’t believe that and I don’t think Captain Baker did either. He—”

  “It’s a translation, not his own words. You should have known that by the fact that there’s not a dimension in it. Not one wagon wheel.”

  She ignored him as she continued reading. The tall man handed her a tiny glass full of liquid. She drank of it, then gasped.

  “Slowly,” Trevelyan said.

  “I don’t think I should drink whisky.”

  “Nor should you read what you’re reading.”

  She smiled at him, for he was right. She gave a little shrug, began to sip the whisky, and continued reading. The whisky made her warm and the contents of the book made her even warmer.

  At last she finished the book, shut it, and turned to look out the window.

  “Well?” Trevelyan asked. “Is it worthy of Captain Baker?”

  Slowly, she turned to look at him. Her head was full of what she’d read, things she’d never dreamed of before. She looked at Trevelyan, with his dark eyes, his broad shoulders. She looked at his hands, at his long fingers. “I—” she began, then had to clear her throat. “Of course it should be only privately published,” she said in a businesslike way. “But I think it could make money.”

  Trevelyan smiled at her in a patronizing way. “And what do you know of earning money?”

  Claire returned his patronizing smile. Maybe it was the light, but right now he didn’t look as old as she’d thought he was. “Unlike the British way of inheriting money, we Americans earn ours. In America a man—or a woman—can start out with nothing and earn millions. It merely takes hard work and foresight.”

  “Yet you’re going to marry money when you marry your young duke.”

  “You must not know much about the family or you’d know that Harry doesn’t have a dime.” She turned and put her feet on the floor. “I thank you so much, Mr. Trevelyan, for lending me this manuscript. It was most interesting. But now I must go. It must be getting late and I…” She broke off as she looked at her watch. “It’s nearly seven o’clock. I’ll miss dinner if I don’t hurry.” She put the manuscript on the nearest table, called “Thanks” one more time, then ran from the room.

  As soon as she left, Oman entered the room and picked up Claire’s empty dishes. Trevelyan looked at her empty whisky glass and at the manuscript she’d been reading. “She likes whisky and books about sex,” he said softly, smiling to himself.

  “She is a beauty,” Oman said in his own language, a language that Trevelyan had spent some time learning.

  “She belongs to my brother,” Trevelyan said as he turned away. “She belongs to his world, not to mine.”

  Chapter Five

  After a long, tedious dinner, Harry asked Claire to walk in the garden with him. She was very pleased, for all through dinner she’d thought about her day—and the man she had spent the day with. He was such an odd man, like no one she’d ever met before—and he caused such a range of emotions in her! One minute she hated him, the next minute she was looking at…at his hands.

  “You looked particularly fetching this ev
ening,” Harry said. “You looked as though you were in a dream world. What gave you that look?”

  “Nothing special,” she said, lying. “I was thinking about something I read today.” She was glad that, in spite of the cold temperatures within the large drafty rooms, she’d worn one of her more daring Worth gowns. It was low on her shoulders and left her arms bare—frozen but bare. If the gown earned her a compliment from Harry it was worth a few chill bumps.

  “So they finally allowed you in the library?”

  She stopped walking and looked up at him. “How do you know about that?”

  He just smiled at her, tucked her hand over his arm, and started walking again.

  “Harry, do you think men and women can be friends?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said tentatively.

  She looked back up at him. “Are we friends? I mean, can you and I talk to each other about things?”

  “What is it you’re trying to say?” he asked cautiously.

  She took a deep breath. “When I’m the duchess, may I change the rules? May I allow people to eat in their rooms and visit the kitchens if they want? May I allow talking at meals?”

  Harry laughed, but in a guarded way. “Of course. When you’re the duchess you may do whatever you like. It will be your house.”

  “May I rebuild the west wing?”

  Harry was silent for a moment. “What do you know of the west wing?” When she lowered her chin and didn’t answer, he stopped, put his fingertips under her chin, and lifted her face to look at him. “Have you seen Trevelyan again?”

  He smiled at her look of astonishment. “I told you that I know what goes on. You mustn’t tell anyone about Trevelyan. No one but the two of us is to know he’s here,” he said firmly.

  “Why?”

  “He has his reasons. Did you spend the afternoon with him, is that why you missed both luncheon and tea?”

  “I was reading in his room.” Her eyes brightened. “In the prince’s room.”

  “Do you like Trevelyan?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “He’s an odd duck, isn’t he?”

  Harry laughed at that. “More odd than you can imagine. Trevelyan didn’t touch you, did he?”

  Claire looked horrified. “Not in the way you mean. He was a perfect gentleman. Well, not perfect. He makes me very angry sometimes, but he has some interesting books.”

  “I imagine he does,” Harry said sarcastically, frowning into the darkness. He was in a dilemma. He couldn’t very well forbid Claire to see Trevelyan. She’d want to know why, and if Harry didn’t give her an answer, Trevelyan might. Harry wouldn’t put it past his brother to say, “My little brother is afraid you’ll find out he isn’t a duke.” Harry stopped and turned back toward the house. “We have to go in. I have to leave early tomorrow and I won’t be back for a couple of days.”

  “Oh Harry, couldn’t we spend a day together? Couldn’t you take even one day off from your work? Maybe I could go with you.”

  “Not this time. This time I leave very early in the morning, long before you wake up.” He touched the tip of his finger to her nose. “But maybe the next time you can go with me. And I promise that after I return we’ll spend some time together.” As Harry said these words, he frowned. He thought he’d finished with courting, but now, thanks to Trevelyan, he saw he was going to have to do more. He smiled down at her. “How about a kiss?” He leaned forward to press his lips to hers but, instead, Claire exuberantly flung her arms around his neck and pressed her closed lips against his. He found her kiss very unsatisfactory; he didn’t like virgins and had no desire to teach one what to do. He liked women who could teach him.

  When Harry pulled her away from him, she still had her eyes closed and her lips puckered. He was frowning. “I’m almost afraid to allow you out of my sight. I think I should talk to Mother about setting a wedding date.”

  Claire smiled at him, but she remembered the book she’d read, and all the stories of never-ending passion. Where was the passion between her and Harry? The bells and sirens? But perhaps one needed to know how to kiss before one felt passion.

  She lowered her arms from Harry’s neck and sedately tucked her hand under his arm as they walked back to the house.

  When Claire awoke the next morning, it was four o’clock and she wondered if Harry had already left on his journey. Quietly, so as not to disturb Miss Rogers, who slept in the dressing room, she got out of bed and went to the window. It was still dark outside and she could see little. For a moment, she put her elbows on the sill and looked out toward the lake in the distance. As she looked she thought she saw a shadow moving. Maybe it was a deer, she thought, but then she saw it was a man.

  “Trevelyan,” she said, knowing that it could only be him. She dressed in her walking clothes as quickly and as quietly as she could. Even as she dressed, she told herself she shouldn’t run after the man, any man for that matter, but Trevelyan especially. But then she thought of spending the day alone and her fear of loneliness won over common sense. Besides, it wasn’t as though Harry didn’t know she was spending time with Trevelyan. He knew and he hadn’t objected. Pinning her hat on as she left the room, she fled down the stairs. Once outside, she ran around the house and started her search for Trevelyan.

  After twenty minutes she was beginning to despair. He was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t call for him, because someone might hear.

  She turned around, intending to go back to the house, then nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him standing utterly still not eight inches away. “You gave me the fright of my life,” she snapped. “What are you doing skulking about in the bushes?”

  “I had the idea you were looking for me,” he said, one eyebrow lifted. “Excuse my presumption.” He started to walk away.

  Claire was sure he knew she was looking for him, but she tried to keep up the pretense that she hadn’t been. “I was merely out for a stroll. Such a lovely morning,” she said, looking at the still-dark sky. “I find the cool air so invigorating.”

  “Good morning, then,” Trevelyan said and turned away from her.

  Claire cursed under her breath. The infuriating man wasn’t going to invite her inside. “In a way I was looking for you.”

  He turned back to her. “Oh? And what did you want of me? More books? Did you think of a new complaint about Captain Baker?”

  “I saw you from my window and I thought perhaps I might walk with you. I thought you might like a companion. I know you’re here in secret so I thought you might like some company. I was only trying to do my duty as the future duchess. I mean, it will someday be my responsibility to see that all my guests are taken care of and—”

  “If I were to stand here for the next six hours, would you continue to make excuses?”

  At that she turned on her heel and started back toward the house.

  “All right, come on,” he said to her back. “That is, if you can walk. I take no ladylike excursions.”

  She turned back and looked him up and down, noting his broad-shouldered frame that had no excess fat on it, the cane that he carried and the obvious difficulty he had with his legs. “I can certainly go wherever you can go.”

  “We shall see about that.”

  An hour later Claire was almost ready to regret her bragging—almost but not quite. Trevelyan led her up steep, heather-covered hills and across streams. The first time they came to a stream, with its cold, rushing water, she stood where she was and waited for him to help her across. He kept going, not so much as looking back at her. “Wait!” she called.

  He turned back. “What’s wrong?”

  “How do I get across this?”

  “Walk.” He turned away and started up the hill.

  Claire had no desire to soak her feet so she looked for some stepping stones or something else she could walk across.

  “If you’re afraid, try that.” He had stopped at the top of the hill and was now pointing toward a log that had fallen from one bank
to the other. The log was no more than four inches wide.

  “I can’t walk that.”

  Trevelyan shrugged and turned away. “Wait!” she called again. “Let me borrow your cane.”

  Trevelyan looked from her to his cane, then smiled. Something seemed to amuse him. He walked to the center of the cold stream and held it out to her.

  “You could give me a piggyback ride, you know.”

  “Whatever that is,” Trevelyan said.

  Claire took the cane, then nearly fell into the water from the unexpected weight of the staff. She hadn’t looked at the cane before, assuming it to be wooden, but now she saw that it was iron and weighed about twenty pounds.

  She refused to let him see her surprise, but she was also determined that she was going to cross that stream on that very narrow log. She did it. She almost fell twice, and once she cursed him under her breath for not helping her, but she made it to the other side. Smugly, she handed him back his cane.

  “A Scots lass wouldn’t have worried about getting her feet wet,” was all he said.

  Claire stuck her tongue out at the back of him.

  They walked for another hour, and at the second stream, Claire didn’t bother with trying to keep her feet dry: she plowed through the cold stream as though it weren’t there.

  “Why aren’t you walking with your duke?” Trevelyan asked her at one point.

  “Harry had to go away on business. He left early this morning.”

  “And where was he off to?”

  “I told you, on business. It takes a lot of work to run this place.”

  This seemed to amuse Trevelyan to no end. “More likely he’s off to visit one of his mistresses.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Maybe Harry should beg yours.”

  She didn’t talk to him anymore after that, but she wondered if Harry did have other women. The women in London had certainly liked him well enough. But that didn’t mean he was still seeing them. She gave the back of Trevelyan a hard look and vowed she wasn’t going to spend any more time with him. He put bad thoughts into her head.