The Reluctant Duchess (12 page)

She knew that, but she didn't want to hear it. And she certainly didn't want the duchess to think that she had feelings for Ross—even if it might be true.

It had taken all of Sara's nerve to go down to dinner that night, only to find that Ross wasn't eating with them. The duchess kept the conversation light, mainly about those who visited earlier that day. She made some attempt to get Sara to go calling with her the next day, but Sara murmured that she had no idea what her schedule would be. After the debacle of the afternoon, she was surprised Elizabeth would even ask her along.

After dinner, as they were walking out of the dining room, the duchess stopped Sara with a touch on the arm. “I fear I may have bungled our conversation earlier today. I don't want you to think—”

Sara shook her head, not wanting to go back to that again. “I understand what you're saying. Please know that I'm not like those girls who visited today. I didn't come here with the purpose of becoming the next Duchess of Rossmoyne. There is no possible way I could leave Hadley Springs or my father.”

The duchess lightly squeezed her arm. “What about you, Sara? You cannot attend to your father for the rest of his life.”

“Someone has to.”

“That is what your mother is for.”

But her mother had left them and, in doing so, had left that task to Sara. “If you'll excuse me, I find I'm not feeling all that well. I believe I will retire for the night.”

Even though it was bad form, Sara fled, practically running up the stairs to hide in her room. She sat on her bed and stared blindly at the wall. Of course she hadn't come to London with the hopes of becoming Rossmoyne's duchess. So why was she always thinking of Ross? Why did she get warm and tingly when she thought back to their kiss? Yes, he'd been drunk, but it still affected her far more than it should have.

But there was more. There was the banter when they were returning from the nethersken. Ross had shown her so many facets of himself. Did others see what she saw? Did others fathom his depths?

Or course they did. She could not be the only one who saw him that way.

And no matter how much it might hurt, Sara had to admit that Elizabeth was right. Sara was not cut out to be a duchess. She preferred to stay in when everyone went out. She preferred to sit against the wall during balls while everyone danced. She preferred to curl up and read a good book while others went calling. That wasn't at all what a duchess should be.

Besides, there was her father. Who would take care of him if Sara permanently moved to London? A duke was not able to live in the country when he had so many commitments in the city.

Elizabeth had been right to set Sara's mind straight. And as much as she didn't want to admit it, she needed the reminder of who she was and who Ross was.

By the time the many clocks at Rossmoyne House chimed midnight, Sara was restless. Her body was tired, but her mind refused to settle, and she was weary of being cooped up in her room. She ventured out into the silent hall. By now she knew the way to Ross's study and found her feet moving in that direction.

He was there, sitting at his desk and scratching away on a piece of paper. His hair was hanging loose. His frock coat was long gone, as was his cravat, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone.

The door was open, and he hadn't heard her enter, so complete was his attention on what he was doing. She took the opportunity to study him in a way she hadn't been able to. If society could see him now, they wouldn't recognize him, cloaked in all this seriousness.

His pen stopped scratching, and he looked up to stare at the opposite wall and run a hand through his long hair. Maybe he sensed her presence, because he glanced over at the door and paused. “Sara,” he whispered.

“If I'm intruding, I can leave.”

“No. Not at all. Please come in.”

She shouldn't do this. After all, Elizabeth had warned her off, and Sara secretly agreed that she should stay away. But in her heart, she had known what she was doing when she left her room. She had hoped to find him here.

Sara found herself sitting on the settee and pulling her legs beneath her in a very unladylike but very comfortable way.

Ross poured two fingers of whiskey into a heavy tumbler and held the bottle up to her in a silent question.

“No, thank you.”

He sauntered over to the settee and looked down on her for a long moment before settling in beside her. There was the middle of the settee between them, but it seemed both not enough distance and too much distance.

For a long time they stared into the fire. It was good, the silence. Comfortable. Sara had never been one to feel the need to fill silence. Especially this one.

“Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon?” he finally asked.

“Do you mean with your mother and the endless procession of young misses hoping to become the next duchess?”

His head jerked around to her, and he appeared speechless until he laughed. Sara couldn't find it in herself to apologize for her caustic tone.

“I told you that the callers were more interested in visiting with an eligible duke,” she said.

“Is that so? Truly?”

“Truly. There were so many of them that I lost count.”

He considered her for a long moment. “I don't believe you.”

She shrugged. “Ask your mother.”

“No, thank you. Then I'll have to hear about how I have a duty to the dukedom and it's beyond time I thought about finding a duchess and filling the empty nursery.”

Something deep inside her belly squeezed at the thought of filling the duke's empty nursery.

“Oh, yes. That.” She didn't bother to conceal the sarcasm from her voice.

Ross looked at her more closely. “I take it none of them was to your liking?”

“The question is, will they be to your liking?”

“I haven't met them, so I cannot say.”

“Truly? You haven't attended balls? Almack's?”

“Good Lord, no,” he burst out, then shuddered.

“It's very difficult to pick out a duchess if you don't attend the same social functions.” Oh, he would be beyond angry when he discovered that the duchess expected him to attend the Plainfield ball.

“Maybe I should prevail upon you to pick one for me.” He raised a brow in challenge.

She snorted. Very unladylike, but she was sitting with her legs tucked under her in the study of the Duke of Rossmoyne, alone with Rossmoyne himself. What did it matter at this point?

“You don't want to rise to the challenge?” he asked.

“No. But thank you for the consideration.”

“It was worth a try,” he said in resignation.

“In all seriousness,” she said, “how do you propose to find a duchess?”

“In all seriousness, I don't care to discuss this any longer.”

“So what would you like to discuss?” Despite her earlier thoughts about staying away, and Elizabeth's words to the same effect, Sara found she was enjoying herself. She always enjoyed herself when she was with Ross. He was easy to talk to.

“What are you thinking right at this moment?”

She jerked, not expecting that question. All sorts of answers came to mind, but she decided to settle for the truth. “I was thinking how much I enjoy your company. You're easy to talk to.”

He looked down into his drink and she wondered if she'd said too much, had been too candid.

“I like talking to you, too,” he said, looking at her in such a boyish way that she had to press her lips together to keep from smiling. “You're refreshing.”

“You mean odd.”

“Not odd in the least. Well, maybe a bit odd in that you like to spend time with me and we talk about odd things.”

“And don't forget that I won't measure your windows for new curtains.”

He laid his head back against the settee and smiled. “There is that.”

“Truth is, I'm not much of a decorator. I simply don't care enough about such things.”

“I'm liking you more and more. You will not beggar your husband with frivolities.”

“No.”

They fell into silence again. Ross stretched his legs out in front of him, such long muscular legs, which looked magnificent in the well-made trousers. Then he stretched his arm out along the back of the settee. His hand was inches from her shoulder. Sara was so aware of how close his hand was that she froze, all of her concentration settled on the blunt fingers resting so casually beside her head.

“I haven't heard from Montgomery,” he said before taking a sip of whiskey.

Maybe she should have asked for a glass as well. She'd never had the stuff, and it probably would have gone straight to her head, but she needed the calming effect. Ross's proximity was doing nothing to relax her.

“What does that mean?” she asked, trying to concentrate on the conversation.

“Probably nothing. He has other cases he's working, so he cannot dedicate all of his time to me.”

“Even though you would like him to.”

“Yes. I want this solved.”

Did he want it solved because he wanted her out of his house? No, she couldn't believe that. Except for the first day she'd arrived at his house, he'd never indicated that he wanted her gone.

“As do I. I just want to know. I want the answers to questions that have been haunting me for two years.”

He looked over at her. His fingers moved but didn't touch her. “Will you tell your father what you know? Provided we discover any of our answers.”

“The same questions haunt him. He deserves to know.”

“It won't change anything.”

“I know. My greatest fear is that the person has done this before and has killed since Meredith's death. If that's the case, then maybe we can save someone's life.”

He turned until he was facing her, pulling his hand back, much to her regret. “That was my thought as well. How many has he killed? Or was Meredith an isolated occurrence?”

“Why? Why her?” she whispered the question that had plagued her for two years. They might never discover the answer, or they might be closer than they thought to the answer. Hopefully, the information they'd gotten from Mrs. Kettles would give them the direction they needed.

Ross took another sip of whiskey.

“I can't stop thinking of the children,” she said.

“None of the children belong there,” he said.

She was glad to hear that he felt the same way. Most who lived a life of privilege never thought about those who struggled on a daily basis, except to maybe start a charity for which they could host balls to raise money, but they were so far removed from the problem that it wasn't real to them.

The clock chimed once. Sara and Ross looked at each other.

“It's late,” Ross said.

“Yes.”

“We should retire to our respective bedrooms.”

“Yes.” But she didn't want to move. She could have sat there all night talking to him.

“We cannot stay here,” he whispered.

“No.”

He put his glass on the side table and rose to stand before her. He held out his hands, and she put hers in them and let him help her stand. He crowded her against the settee, their toes touching, their thighs brushing. Sara's breath hitched. She was eye level with his lips, and she couldn't help but stare at them.

He groaned and leaned down to kiss her. This was no tender kiss. This was pent-up frustration from the constraints that society put upon them, and God help her, she answered in kind.

“I've wanted you to kiss me all day,” she whispered against his lips. “If that's wrong, then so be it.”

“God, Sara.” He kissed her again, his lips devouring hers. He pulled her closer until her bosom was pressed against his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight, afraid to let go, afraid for this to end.

There were too many outside forces pulling them apart, too many reasons why this could never be, but for now she wouldn't think of any of that. She would live for the moment and not think of tomorrow or yesterday. There was only now. Only here. Only Ross.

It was Ross who pulled away first. He was breathing deep, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against hers.

He ran his hands up and down her sides, as if he couldn't get enough of touching her, and pressed his forehead against hers. Their fingers found each other and intertwined until they were desperately holding on.

“I don't want this to end,” she whispered.

He huffed out a laugh. “You have no idea how much I agree.”

“This can only end in heartache.” She was forcing herself to remember Elizabeth's words.

And it worked. Ross pulled away. Their hands fell apart and they stood looking at each other for several long heartbeats.

“You should go,” he whispered.

She nodded, too choked up to speak. She hesitated, hoping he would rescind his words and ask her to stay. She would. All he had to do was ask and she would throw it all away for him.

But he didn't and she walked away.

Watching Sara walk out of his study had been difficult. He'd fought against the urge to call her back, even knowing that was the wrong thing to do. If she complied, then she was not leaving the study for the rest of the night, and he would do far more than kiss her.

But he let her go because he had to. Because his mother's remarks still stung. He had no business being alone with her in his study, and yet he could no more have denied her access than he could have cut off his right arm.

There were so few people he could speak candidly to that he found he craved her presence and her quick mind. Among other things. But those other things he would not think of.

Instead of going up to his room, as he should have done, he collapsed back into the settee, which was warm from her body, and finished off the last of the whiskey. The servants found him the next morning passed out, still dressed, his head pounding.

Montgomery arrived a little while later, took one look at Ross, and smirked. “Too far into the bottle last night?” he asked.

Ross grunted. He sat on the edge of the settee, the empty bottle at his feet, the glass next to it tipped on its side, and ran a hand through his hair. “What news do you bring today?” he asked with a thick, furry tongue.

Montgomery looked at him for a moment, the smile turning into a frown. “What's wrong?”

“I'm suffering from too much drink. What do you think is wrong?”

Montgomery's gaze went to the tipped-over bottle and glass, then centered on something else on the carpet. Ross looked down and wanted to groan. There were three hairpins hidden almost under the settee. Leave it to the investigator to find them. Ross swept them up and deposited them in his trouser pocket. “What did you learn?” he asked a bit more harshly than he intended.

“Please tell me those weren't Lady Sara's.”

Ross pressed his lips together, and Montgomery swore. “Ross.”

“I don't need your opinion, too. My mother was quite clear on what I should and shouldn't be doing.”

“Your mother doesn't know that Lady Sara has come to you for protection. This isn't wise.”

“You don't think I know that?” Ross grimaced when his voice rose. “I'm well aware.”

“Should I remove her from your protection and put her somewhere else?”

“Try it,” Ross nearly growled.

Montgomery's eyes narrowed. “Don't trifle with her feelings.”

Everyone was worried about Sara's feelings, but no one gave a damn that he might have feelings as well.

“What did you learn?” Ross asked through clenched teeth.

Montgomery stared at him for a few more moments before turning his attention to the matter at hand—which was not Ross's love life or lack thereof. “Through some questioning of your servants and a talk with our little urchin friend Thomas, I discovered who delivered the letter to your home.”

“And?” Ross perked up.
Finally,
a lead.

“And I found him dead. Or rather a fisherman found him floating in the Thames.”

Ross cursed, feeling sick from a combination of too much alcohol and the fact that every time they got a lead, it petered out to nothing. Now a person was dead. This was becoming more and more dangerous, and if Montgomery thought Ross would allow him to take Sara away, then he would have a fight on his hands. Sara belonged here, where he could watch out for her.

“There has been no other letter?” Montgomery asked.

“Not yet, but I have every faith there will be. He's not done with us yet.”

“I concur.”

Ross related the events of yesterday morning and the trip to the nethersken. Montgomery had settled into the chair Ross usually sat in before he became enamored of the settee, and listened intently.

“He goes by the name of Charlie,” Montgomery said thoughtfully.

“At least when he's at the nethersken he does.”

It was true that you couldn't trust any information in a nethersken. People used fake names there all the time and for various reasons, the most common being that they were hiding from someone.

“Interesting that he disappeared for two years and has now returned,” Montgomery said.

“I thought so, too. Mrs. Kettles said he claimed he was on a grand tour.”

“A grand tour would indicate that he is from a well-off family. Why float in and out of a nethersken if that is the case? It doesn't make sense.”

“He was probably lying.”

They fell silent, each lost in his thoughts, shifting around the pieces of the puzzle.

“We're no closer to an answer than we were two days ago,” Ross said in disgust. He stood and stretched. His stomach churned and he grimaced. “I'll try to find Thomas and tell him not to take any jobs that require him to deliver a message to my house. It seems that is a deadly occupation.”

Montgomery pushed himself up from the chair. “I have meetings for most of the day. I'll see if I can discover whether there were similar murders on the continent. If this man truly was on his grand tour, he could have killed again in another country. It would be almost impossible to link him to the murders if one wasn't looking for a link.”

The two men separated, Montgomery to his duties and Ross to his, which was first to take a bath. Then he was off to the palace to see if he could meet with the queen. There was still the matter of India to discuss and his plea to return posthaste. Returning seemed less and less important now that Sara needed him. Nevertheless, he had to meet with Her Majesty.

His mother cornered him just as he was leaving the house. He dearly wanted to slide out the door and ignore her, but she would find him some other time and he would have to pay for that slight as well as whatever else she wanted to say to him.

“Will you return by this evening?” She looked far too innocent for his peace of mind.

“Why?”

Her gaze shifted and she refused to look at him, which caused his already protesting stomach to cramp. “Mother.”

“I have accepted an invitation to the Plainfield ball. For all three of us. I thought it would be good for Sara to attend a few balls while she is in town.”

It was one thing for Elizabeth to drag Sara around to balls and teas against her will—and he had no doubt it would be against her will—but to accept an invitation on his behalf was beyond the pale.

“I don't attend balls.” The thought of all those women circling him, wanting their daughters to be his duchess, or wanting him for themselves, made his skin crawl. He was entirely disgusted and finished with that life and had hoped to avoid it. However, he was pragmatic and knew that in order to find a wife, he would have to reenter society. Just not now. Now wasn't a good time.

The duchess raised her chin. “Well, it's high time you did.”

“That is not up to you, Mother.”

“Nevetheless, Lord and Lady Plainfield are expecting you. You cannot let them down.”

“I haven't attended a ball in over two years.” She was well aware of that and knew precisely what she was doing. It seemed the Duke of Rossmoyne was back in circulation—much to his disgust. “What time do I need to be back?” he bit out. His only consolation was that Sara was going, against her wishes, too, most likely. He could spend time with her, and he could be there to protect her if need be.

His mother's smile was bright, not with victory but with excitement. “No later than ten o'clock.” She stood on her toes and bussed his cheek with a motherly kiss. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

Ross found Thomas loitering outside the Langham, sizing people up as they passed him. His blackened eye had taken on a yellowish cast and was no longer swollen.

“Good day, guv.” He smiled impishly at Ross.

“Good day, Thomas.”

Thomas peered behind Ross. “Where's the lady?”

“I needed to speak to you alone.”

Sara need not know that someone was dead at the hands of the letter writer. Of course, they didn't know that for certain; whoever had delivered the missive had no doubt been involved in other nefarious duties, but Ross was taking no chances.

“If someone approaches you and asks you to deliver a letter to Lady Sara at my home, I want you to refuse.”

Thomas nodded solemnly.

“No matter how much they say they will pay you.”

Thomas frowned, clearly not liking the idea of giving up some blunt.

“Promise me, Thomas.”

“Why?”

He should have known the lad would not blindly follow his commands. What was it with the people in his life suddenly not listening to him? “Because it's dangerous. And I don't want you to get hurt.”

“How much blunt he be offerin'?”

“I don't know, but I will double it if you don't accept the job.”

Thomas's eyes went wide. “Yes, sir, guv.”

“And keep your eyes open. We're still looking for our man.”

Thomas saluted him. “Yes, sir.” He scampered off and fell in step behind a finely dressed lady who was about to have her dangling reticule snipped from her arm.

Ross knew he should stop Thomas, but he didn't. Not that stealing was right, but he knew that Thomas's family lived on what he brought home.

Much to his disgust, but not at all surprisingly, Queen Victoria was not willing to see him today. He was told this after cooling his heels for a few hours. Frustrated, he left the palace and spent the rest of the day at his club, reading the papers and talking to friends. He kept an ear to the ground for word of any young noble who had just returned from a grand tour. It was a long shot. Surely someone of the nobility had not murdered Meredith. And yet he found he couldn't dismiss this Charlie's claim too easily, so he listened and watched and asked discreet questions. At least he hoped they were discreet questions. It had been many years since his own grand tour, and it would be odd to take too much interest in someone else's at this point, but he tried.

He ate a light meal with Lord Hastings and another good friend, Lord Newsom. It had been a while since Ross had spent time in White's. He'd been in India for most of the past year, and before that had been too soon after Meredith's death. He discovered that he missed the gentlemanly atmosphere and told himself that he needed to come more often.

He was heading out the door when, on a whim, he stopped and did something he hadn't done in far too long. Something well overdue.