Page 16 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Some long dormant corner of her heart, steeped in foolish feminine fantasy, clattered into wakefulness and sent a rush of blood through her limbs.

Slowly she lifted her gaze from the intricately patterned marble floor to her hand, where it lay along Tristan’s sleeve. Mama would scold her for forgetting her gloves. But at least she had scrubbed and pared her nails. No grime remained, though her skin was still rough and nearly as red as his coat. Not quite a fairy-tale princess, then. But as close as she would likely ever come, and anticipation squeezed through her tightly corseted ribcage.

When at last she worked up the courage to raise her eyes and survey the room, she found herself drawn instead to Tristan’s profile, the Roman nose of an English aristocrat and the strong jaw of a man accustomed to getting his way. The meager glow from the stub of a tallow candle had already revealed those traits to her. But the brilliant light of the dining room’s chandelier made it far more difficult to deny how attractive he was. She found herself wishing after all he were merely handsome. At least then her fascination might have been easier to understand, if not accept.

But no, she could find no more fitting word than attractive to describe him. In the sense of magnetic. Compelling. Undeniably so, though she did so want to deny it. Surprisingly dark brows and dark stubble—although surely he must have shaved not long ago?—shadowed a face carved by a sculptor who favored sternness, as she herself never had. His hair, which gleamed like polished bronze, more golden than brown, could do little to soften those granite-hewn features, tied as it was in a ruthlessly neat queue at the nape of his neck.

As if he felt her studying him, he dropped his gaze to hers, and at last the candles’ glow revealed something she had not known. His eyes were not black nor even brown, but blue. Dark as sapphires and inscrutable as the night sky.

“Miss Burke.” The Duchess of Raynham swept toward them, across a room even statelier than Erica had feared. Erica released Tristan’s arm and curtsied, while the duchess surveyed her critically. “That color suits you better than it did me.”

Generally, Erica chose her garments based on practical considerations, dresses and shoes and even stockings that could be worn out of doors and would withstand the strong soap and vigorous scrubbing her work sometimes made necessary. The last four months, in particular, had demanded the darkest, dullest colors she could find—not just because of the dirt, but because of Henry. Not widow’s weeds, for her mother had forbidden it, as they had not been married. But as close to it as she could manage.

She had forgotten, or perhaps had never known, that dyed silk could compete with Nature’s palette. How difficult it must have been to capture the precise blue-violet of the cornflower at its peak, the moment before the delicate blossom began to fade.

“Come,” the duchess said. “Let me introduce you to my guests.”

With a quick, shallow curtsy to Tristan, whose attention had been drawn by a pair of gentlemen standing nearby, Erica dutifully followed his stepmother to a loosely grouped trio of two women and a man.

“Lady Lydgate, may I introduce to you Miss Erica Burke? Mrs. Newsome, the vicar’s wife. Lord Beresford.” Someone else signaled to the duchess and she tipped her head to those standing before her. “If you will excuse me…”

When she had gone, Erica made another round of curtsies, conscious each time of the maid’s promise that her bosom would not, in fact, overspill the top of the dress, though it threatened every moment to do so.

Lady Lydgate’s quick, bright eyes took in every detail of her appearance. “So you’re Raynham’s waif.”

Waif? She sucked in her breath in embarrassed surprise, forgetting for a moment how tightly the maid had insisted on lacing her corset. At home, she rarely wore one at all. “If you will have it so, ma’am. I would say rather, a stranded traveler. Like yourselves, I understand.”

Lord Beresford’s lips twitched at her pert reply. He was a man of middle age who might still pass for handsome, his dark hair only beginning to silver at the temples. Before he could speak, however, Mrs. Newsome broke in. “You were fortunate in his delay.” The stress she laid on the first word made it clear that she did not consider herself similarly lucky. “A fortnight…” She shook her head sharply, lips twisted as if to prevent them from speaking words better left unsaid.

“Doubtless Raynham could not help it,” Lord Beresford chimed in, one hand smoothing his embroidered waistcoat over the beginnings of a paunch. “We must all be grateful for the inscrutable workings of Providence, mustn’t we, Mrs. Newsome? Certainly He must be held responsible for the rain, at least.” The vicar’s wife looked chagrined by his mocking rebuke. “And Miss Burke might have been troubled by vagrants, or worse, if Raynham had not happened by when he did.”

His words echoed Mr. Davies’s. Perhaps there were greater dangers in Westmorland than she had imagined. Or perhaps Tristan had taken care to circulate a version of events in which he had rescued her, rather than risk having others learn the truth: She had stumbled upon his hiding place.

A general move toward dinner began, and she found herself seated at table between Sir Thomas Lydgate and the vicar. Sir Thomas was a sportsman, busily bemoaning how the rain had curtailed his shooting. “Knew Raynham wouldn’t begrudge me a few of his birds—a chap must do something to pass the time.”

When Lord Beresford on his left claimed Sir Thomas’s attention, she turned to Mr. Newsome. “Did I understand your wife to say you’ve all been at Hawesdale Chase for a fortnight?”

“The duchess kindly invited her neighbors to a modest celebration of Raynham’s homecoming,” he explained. “When he did not appear, Sir Thomas elected to wait for him. Of course, no one had any notion he would be delayed so long. As the Lydgates were kind enough to carry us with them from Summerfield, we were obliged to stay as well.” Although he did not seem to share his wife’s obvious displeasure at the protracted visit, nor did he seem to be entirely pleased by the situation. “One does not wish to take advantage of another’s hospitality,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I suppose the storms kept Raynham from leaving London when he intended.”

“But it is not raining to the south,” she corrected unthinkingly. Across the table, a fair-haired gentleman whom she had not yet met took in her reply with interest. Quickly, she amended her words. “That is to say, it was not raining in Shropshire the day before yesterday.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Newsome said, absently. A half-smile lifted his lips. “Well, if the weather were more predictable, on what should we depend for conversation?”

For a homecoming celebration, the whole affair proceeded with unnatural solemnity and stiffness to Erica’s mind, perhaps because the family was still in mourning. Or perhaps because she was accustomed to the boisterous dinners of home, enlivened by her little sisters’ chatter and tales from her father’s most interesting cases. Her mind rattled about, searching for the rules her mother had cautioned her to observe on more formal occasions; most, however, had disintegrated through disuse into a sort of mental dust.

She had not yet been introduced to half the party, most of whom sat too far away for conversation in any case. Across the table a young woman a few years Erica’s elder drew her spoon back and forth through her soup, never lifting it to her mouth. She must be Miss P—something, and the other older couple, each seated in a place of honor beside their hosts, must be her parents. Lord—something, wasn’t it? The one who meant for Tristan to fulfill some promise? She longed to be able to write all the names in her journal to help her remember. So the blond man must be—

“Captain Whitby.” Lady Lydgate turned abruptly and spoke to him. “What was it you were saying about spies in the neighborhood?”

The muted clatter of conversation and silver fell silent as every ear strained to catch his answer. Captain Whitby laughed.

“Why, Lady Lydgate, I spoke in the strictest confidence.” But his scold was delivered with a smile, and his pale blue eyes twinkled. Even on short acquaintance, Erica could guess that it would be unwise to trust Lady Lydgate with secrets. Captain Whitby clearly understood that too.

“Spies?” When Tristan repeated the word, it took on a more serious cast. The inevitable effect of his uniform, she decided, combined with his unsmiling demeanor. Tension crackled around the table like an electric spark.

“Actually, no.” Captain Whitby laid aside his spoon and scanned the assembled company. “Poets.”

A murmur of relieved laughter swelled and subsided. Though she still had not taken a bite of food, Miss P. blotted her lips with her napkin to mask her smile.