Ducal Encounters 01 - At the Duke's Discretion (4 page)

Amos stood up and paced about the room. “I wish I knew why I felt so uneasy about the entire incident.” He ran a finger along the spines of a shelf full of books. “There was something else odd about the business. I left the shop, then remembered I hadn’t asked about the necklace Mother ordered for Portia’s come-out. As I turned back I glanced in the window and saw a lad come out of the workroom at the back of the shop.”

“What of it?” Zach frowned. “Have you fallen from the irascible stallion of yours and taken a knock to the head. You are making no sense.”

“It was almost as though the lad had been listening to our conversation.”

Zach shrugged. “I dare say Chesney has an apprentice. What’s so odd about that?”

“Nothing, but there was something very odd indeed about the actual apprentice. Prettiest lad I’ve seen in many a long year−”

Zach waggled his brows. “Don’t tell me your tastes have changed.”

Amos fixed His Grace the Duke of Winchester with a withering glare that made its recipient roar with laughter. “What else am I supposed to think if you’ve taken a fancy to a lad?”

“The lad in question seemed to have a great deal to say for himself in front of his employer.”

“But what did he have to say when you went back into the shop? No doubt the sight of Lord Amos Sheridan in all his splendour gave him pause.”

“I didn’t go back in.” Amos shook his head. “Damned if I know why, but something stopped me. It felt like I would have been intruding.”

“And it sounds to me as though you don’t have enough to do with yourself, if you’re still fretting about an incident that happened a week ago.”

“On the contrary, the stud is keeping me fully occupied. The services of our stallions are increasingly in demand.”

Faraday entered the room. “Mr. Chesney is here for his appointment, your grace.”

“Very good, Faraday. Show him into the drawing room. We’ll be there directly.” Zach stood up. “Well, little brother,” he said. “I shall take a look at this assistant who so bothers you and see if I share your concerns.”

Amos and Zach strolled the length of the vestibule and entered the drawing room. Amos drew in a sharp breath when he was met by Chesney and not Reece but a young lady in a pale green muslin gown and a straw bonnet placed on top of an array of chestnut curls. He and Zach exchanged a glance. Zach moved forward to greet Chesney but Amos remained rooted to the spot, his gaze locked upon the young woman as understanding came crashing in on him. He knew now why the interlude in Chesney’s shop had bothered him so much.

This young woman with the most arresting silver blue eyes was the
lad
he had seen through the shop window.

***

“Chesney.”

Crista watched the duke stride across the room, hand outstretched. His uncle shook it and offered the duke a deferential bow.

“Your grace. May I present my niece, Miss Cristobel Brooke.”

“Miss Brooke.”

Crista curtsied to the duke. He took her hand and raised her from that curtsey, smiling so infectiously that Crista couldn’t help smiling also.

“It is both a surprise and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Brooke,” he said. “I was unaware Chesney had a niece. Where have you been hiding her, Chesney?”

“Crista came to live with me a short time ago, your grace.”

Lord Amos stepped forward, shook her uncle’s hand and turned to her. Once again she curtsied, but this time she also blushed. Lord Amos’s gaze was so intense, so penetrating, it was as though he could see inside her head and read her thoughts. When he took her hand the most peculiar thing happened. A deeply disturbing jolt rocked her body, turbulent heat fogged her brain. She sought for her dignity and self-control, which had chosen a most inconvenient time to desert her, and found herself wallowing in a tangle of chaotic emotions. She fought her deepening blush when, with a knowing smile that implied he was accustomed to making females’ senses reel with his imposing presence, Lord Amos released her hand.

“A pleasure, Miss Brooke,” he said, inclining his head. “What happened to your assistant, Chesney?”

“He is indisposed, my lord.”

Crista was sure Lord Amos muttered something along the lines of his hoping it was nothing trivial, causing her mind to warm to him in harmony with her already overheated body. He spoke in an undertone, and she couldn’t be entirely sure she had heard him a’right. Even so, it pleased her to suppose they were in agreement on the subject of Reece.

“How unfortunate,” the duke said.

“I took the liberty of bringing Crista with me today because she has a happy knack for design,” Chesney said. “She has drawn up a few proposals for your perusal, and we hardly need Reece with us for that purpose.”

“Quite so. Pray, take a seat, Miss Brooke, and I will ring for refreshment,” Lord Amos said.

Crista had been warned by her uncle to expect great civility from the duke and his brothers, but their willingness to entertain them to tea took her by surprise. She seated herself on what had to be a Chippendale sofa. She recognised the striking characteristics peculiar to that great craftsman−the gracefully shaped back, uninterrupted seat cushion covered in deep cream fabric, and traditionally beaded legs. Crista, who appreciated beauty and skilled workmanship, had never imagined she would ever sit upon such a fine piece of furniture and was terrified she might slop her tea over the priceless fabric.

She glanced around the magnificent, tastefully appointed room, taking in some new aspect to delight her each time she turned her head. The mantelpiece appeared to be of black marble, upon which rested just a few very tasteful, and doubtless rare and expensive, ornaments. An ornate chandelier, probably of bronze and gold and elaborately ornamented, made her yearn to examine the workmanship more closely. The walls were dominated by four large pictures, probably painted by a famous artist, but she was unable to think whom. The decoration leaned heavily towards a Moorish influence, as evidenced by the ceiling, which caught her attention and elicited a gasp of delight.

“I see you are admiring our ceiling, Miss Brooke,” Lord Amos said.

“Yes, indeed. I have never seen anything to compare to it.”

“I am very glad you approve. I believe the inspiration came from Turkish palaces.”

“Ah yes, that would account for the canopy of trellis work.” Her gaze fell upon the border displaying flowers, peacock’s feathers, and ornamentation of a rich hue and delicate texture. “Just imagine the work that went into producing such an ambitious ceiling,” she said in a tone of reverent awe. “It is quite remarkable.”

Lord Amos’s attention was claimed by something the duke said to him and Crista allowed her mind to wander. As the gentlemen chatted briefly amongst themselves, Crista took the opportunity to examine the brothers. The duke was a very handsome, exceedingly elegant gentleman, with easy manners and considerable charm. She had been told countless women had lived in expectation of receiving his address, only to be disappointed. It seemed the dowager duchess quite despaired of him ever finding a wife. Crista could certainly understand why ladies of quality threw their respective caps at him. Even if he had not been such a fine specimen of male beauty, his rank and wealth was such that any misfortunes of nature would be easily overlooked. As it was, Crista imagined she could hear disappointed ladies all over the country sighing with collective regret.

Had she been a denizen of the
ton
, she would not be amongst their number. Appealing though the duke was, it was Lord Amos who held her interest. The connection she had felt to him when she saw him in the shop intensified the moment he walked into this room. Indeed, she had looked up at him, caught his gaze, and felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. It was most peculiar. Crista had had her share of admirers over the years, but she had never felt the need to lose head or heart over any of them. Now she had met a gentlemen who excited her interest, but he was so far above her in terms of status and position, so far out of her league, he might as well have been Chinese. She could not decide what made her even think about him in such terms. Hopefully, the malady was a momentary lapse brought on by the strain of her circumstances, and her habitual common sense would soon reassert itself.

Lean limbed and broad shouldered, Lord Amos wore skin-tight bias-cut breeches in a light shade that showcased well-turned legs. She was absolutely sure his superbly cut green coat, resting so well upon his shoulders, did so without the need for padding. His silk waistcoat was patterned in muted shades of green and cream, and his neckcloth, elegantly tied in an intricate and fashionable manner, was secured with a superb emerald pin. A gold fob chain spanned his waist, disappearing into his waistcoat pocket, whence presumably sat his watch. The chain appeared to be a belcher link, she noticed absently, wondering who had made it for him, and if she could have done a better job of it.

“Ah, here is tea,” Lord Amos said when the butler entered the room, preceding a footman bearing a loaded tray. “Can we persuade you to pour for us, Miss Brooke?”

Crista was surprised by the request and felt a moment’s anxiety at the prospect of being the centre of attention in such splendid surroundings. Her fear of spilling the tea, or worse, dropping the exquisite bone china cups, intensified. Reminding herself of the painstakingly intricate work she carried out on a daily basis without mishap, helped to sooth her skittish nerves. She rose to the challenge with a serene smile.

“With the greatest of pleasure.” She lifted the heavy silver pot and filled the first cup. “Milk and sugar, your grace?”

“Lemon, if you please.”

Naturally, sliced lemon had been provided in accordance with the duke’s tastes, and Crista added a slice to his saucer before handing him his cup. She was pleased her hand barely trembled, and the cup did not give her away by rattling in its saucer. I shall remember this moment, Crista thought as the duke politely thanked her, and tell Amelia’s children about the time I poured tea for a duke and a lord.

“And for you, Lord Amos?”

“Just milk, I thank you.”

“How do you find life in Shawford, Miss Brooke?” Lord Amos asked when they all had their tea and sat drinking it. “It seems extraordinary you have lived here for a few months, and yet I have not had the pleasure of seeing you in the village.”

She arched a brow. “How can you possibly know that, my lord? The village is always busy. I should be surprised if you would notice me amongst the throng.”

He fixed her with an intense look, his eyes radiating elusive warmth. “Believe me, I would not have forgotten.”

“Oh.”
Lord in heaven, what does he mean by that remark?

“You have designs for us to see, Chesney,” the duke said, casting what appeared to be a warning glance in Lord Amos’s direction. Warning about what, Crista wondered.

“Indeed, your grace.” He picked up the rolled parchments he had brought into the room with him. “Perhaps if we could put these on the table, you will get a better idea of what Crista has in mind for her grace.”

“Good idea.”

The duke rang the bell. It was answered almost at once by a footman who cleared away the tray, freeing up the table for their use without the need to vacate their chairs. Crista felt inexplicably nervous as her uncle unfurled her sketches. It was one thing knowing that she, a mere woman, had come up with the designs, but entirely another for these gentleman to accept them. They appeared enlightened, not unduly concerned a woman was the designer. But still, when it came right down to it, they were probably like most of their sex and would deem her suggestions unworthy for no other reason than that she was their architect.

“This first suggestion calls for rubies and diamonds and is, if you will be guided by me, gentlemen, by far the most suitable.”

Two dark heads poured over Crista’s sketches. Before they could ask any questions, the door opened and another gentlemen joined them. He looked so much like the others that he had to be another brother.

“Ah, Vince, there you are,” the duke said. “We wondered what had become of you.”

“Sorry, I was riding the eastern perimeter with Philson, and time got away from me. We need to start work on that dry stone wall before winter, Zach. How do you do, Chesney.”

Uncle Charles stood up and bowed. “Lord Vincent.”

The newcomer’s glance landed on Crista, and a slow smile illuminated his handsome features. “I say, will someone introduce me.”

“This is Miss Brooke, Vince,” Lord Amos said. “She is Chesney’s niece and responsible for these rather excellent designs. Miss Brooke, this is my brother, Lord Vincent Sheridan.”

Crista stood and curtsied. Lord Vincent bowed over her hand. “Your servant, ma’am.”

“Do sit down, Vince, and stop crowding Miss Brooke,” Lord Amos said. “You must excuse us, Miss Brooke, but we have often been told that as a pack we are a little overwhelming.”

“Just be thankful our brother Nathanial is escorting our mother and sisters to Winchester today,” the duke said, smiling. “Which means you are spared all four of us at once.”

“I am not so feeble I cannot withstand your company, gentlemen.”

Crista was horrified by her spontaneous reaction, which was uncivil, to say nothing of her forwardness in speaking in such a familiar manner. She could see she had surprised the gentlemen and shocked her uncle. Oh well, there was no help for it. Something stronger than her own will had prompted her to speak without thinking, and it was too late to repair the damage now. What cannot be fixed must be endured, as her mother had been so fond of saying.

“I am very pleased to hear it,” Lord Amos replied with an enigmatic smile. “Look at this, Vince. What do you think?”

“Very ambitious, but different enough to stand out,” Lord Vincent replied after taking several minutes to carefully study Crista’s design, stretching her nerves to breaking point as silence reigned and the waiting appeared to go on forever.

“What is all this delicate work around the settings, Miss Brooke?” the duke asked.

“Filigree, your grace, constructed by cutting gold solder into fine chips.”