The Duke Conspiracy (39 page)

The brief kiss they had shared previously,
although thrilling, held nothing in comparison to the warm embrace
they now shared. Alex poured all his feelings into the connection
of their lips while Rose accepted and returned them with her
fervor. Although inexperienced in matters of love, she made up for
her lack of skill with her enthusiasm to demonstrate her feelings.
They broke apart at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

Blushing and laughing, Rose gazed at the man
before her with wonderment. “Have you truly asked me to be your
bride or am I dreaming? And are you certain my father will be
accepting of this?”

“You worry too much, my darling. You are soon
to be a duchess. Everything will work itself out.”

And it did.

Wendy May Andrews
has been reading
whatever she could get her hands on since the age of five. She has
been writing for almost as long but hasn't been sharing those
stories with anyone but her mother until recently. Wendy lives in
Toronto with her own real-life hero. When not writing or reading,
they love to travel wherever the mood takes them.

Chapter One

Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in
her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an
undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her
throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown's
simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough,
but since he started this fiasco, surely he'd endeavor to bear it.
Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be —
was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain
and Aunt Helen's sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned
notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their
insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they
refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband,
her
husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the
contretemps that ensued.

Hopefully the housekeeper wasn't listening
behind the closed drawing room door.

A deep breath, and Clara softened her
clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself
to meet the Viscount Maynard's black eyes, unblinking and
glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek
and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

“It distresses me to cause grief in anyone,
particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find
no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle.” She
paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was
the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on
before she could be interrupted. “However, the selection of a
lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to
any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise
nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and
tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my
lord's offer of marriage.”

Viscount Maynard's gaze drifted from her
face, drifted lower. “The child has an opinion of her own.” When
he'd asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct;
now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple
sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable.
“How precocious.”

Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and
mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for
meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her
inheritance, in Papa's money, than in her or her hand. “My lord,
your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded.” She dropped
her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him
eat cake; just not hers.

After the drawing room's sun-drenched warmth,
the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot.
If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she'd run in time.
With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments.
But on the curved stairway's far side, the library door stood ajar.
That would be Uncle David's temporary retreat and he'd be listening
for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow,
approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

Clara composed her expression as she ran up
the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin
skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony
banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where
Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she'd compose
herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy
canvas covering they'd sewn for it, pointing as he'd left it, to
the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she
held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it
seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching,
so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but
did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She'd
always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled
twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her
heart.

Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs,
almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen
from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out
her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen,
with her superb taste, hadn't presumed she'd accept that man?

“Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I
wish you joy.”

Inexplicable. But horribly true. “In regard
to my fortunate escape, I'm sure.” The tart words tumbled forth
without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had
been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen's shock, seeing it only added a
cold edge of satisfaction to Clara's anger.

“You didn't — you didn't refuse him? Clara,
how could you?”

“With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear
aunt, how could you imagine I'd agree to marry anyone so cold and
arrogant?”

“But he is a viscount. The ways of the
nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings,
dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of
entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an
excellent husband for you.”

The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters
rushing from a collapsing dam. “I am no entitlement. And Aunt
Helen, could you marry without love?”

“Oh, Clara—” Aunt Helen tucked the fallen
curls behind her ears. “Not that again. We've had this discussion
over and over—”

“You will never convince me.”

“—and while it's a wonderful, romantic notion
to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position,
it's simply not practical. You must have a husband—”

“An encumbrance I know only too well.”

“—and it will not be the Frenchman.”

That was a new voice, a masculine, booming
one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David
had approached to within two steps, and she hadn't heard his
footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His
blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned
like chips of Arctic glacial ice.

“Uncle—”

“We are at war with France,” Uncle David
said, “a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every
hour, waking or sleeping. Your father's ships — your fading
inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your
father's sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon's prison
hulks.” He stepped closer, and while he wasn't a tall man, in this
tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed
smaller. “I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow
you to wed a Frenchman.”

His declaration rang through the stairwell
and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara
gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not
allow him to win.

“Viscount Maynard has been so good as to
accept my invitation to supper and cards.” Uncle David's voice,
while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. “We both
agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute
no.”

Again her knees threatened to deposit her,
this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She
would not cry, no matter what he said.

“You will go to your room and consider the
viscount's proposal in greater depth.” He turned and clattered down
the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with
each step.

No tears. And he would not win.

* * * *

Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress
onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that
rag away, Nan, please.”

The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands
folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”

“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse.
Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I'll never wear it
again.”

Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of
those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and
again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he'd leered at
her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be
checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best
symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual
set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she'd met during the
too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd
manner. It was not to be borne.

The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory's
term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich,
fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to
not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as
they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the
horrifying stories she'd told; poor Harmony Barlow's jaw had hung
open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe
distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.

Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a
clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress —
short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached
into the wardrobe, it wasn't to her other morning gowns, on the
left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her
favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go
to her room and think. He hadn't told her to stay there. And she
was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was
concerned. Yes, she'd vanish for a while, until the household's
broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn't simply
vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day
before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.

She tugged on the round dress, the colorless
color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added
the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her
lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The
housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such
low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the
blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite
long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back
window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She
hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach
and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.

The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl
away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her
arms. The bonnet's brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but
welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin.
Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source
of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from
Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to
say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his
intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of
course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore
everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the
popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally
on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as
worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the
affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.

It was impossible to think on private woes
while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping
her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the
Dock, the ocean's scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke.
The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before
respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side.
Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low
building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul,
Papa's stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during
their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one
hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.