Page 13 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Botany, eh?” There was surprise in his voice. It might have been matched in his expression, but she would never know. She could not bring herself to meet his eye. “Following in your father’s footsteps?”

Papa was a dabbler, a dilettante. She was serious. A scientist. Still, she hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

“I’m sure he is gratified by your interest.”

Gratified? Perhaps. She wanted to make him proud. Her given name might belong to a common shrub, but she intended someday to pin her surname on something extraordinary.

Of course, a botanical discovery was never easy to make. An unmarried young lady who wasn’t even allowed to walk through a manicured park without a chaperone might find it impossible.

“Though I suspect he would advise you to take better care of your notes,” he added.

She folded the journal against her breast like a shield. But the words had already found their mark. What must it be like to be so blessedly sure of one’s self? “You’re right, of course. I shall endeavor to do better.” She curled her fingers tighter around the book’s cover, feeling her fingernails dig into the soft leather. If it were not so precious to her, she might have lobbed it at his head. Instead, she turned toward the double doors, which still stood open behind her, intending to take her leave.

A youthfully pretty woman, clad all in black, stood on the threshold. Under ordinary circumstances, Erica might have taken her for Tristan’s elder sister. But based on what he had revealed about his family, this elegant woman of not quite middle age must be his stepmother, the duchess.

Gathering her wits, her courage, and the trailing skirt of her dressing gown, Erica sank into a deep curtsy, from which she did not rise until the duchess said, “You must be Miss Burke.”

If she did not speak, Tristan would speak for her. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Mrs. Dean told me of your arrival. How frightened you must have been to discover yourself stranded.” The Duchess of Raynham was one of those rare women whose spark was not dimmed by the unrelieved black of mourning. Instead, the black crape set off her porcelain skin and fair hair. She studied Erica with lively blue eyes. “I’ve sent my maid to your room with some necessary items I hope will fit.” There was amusement in her gaze, but no judgment, as she took in Erica’s current state of undress. “I know you must be exhausted and terribly worried about your sister, but if you’ll join us for dinner this evening, we shall try to supply a few hours’ diversion, won’t we?” Her eyes flashed to her stepson for confirmation.

Dinner? With the duke? Erica swallowed hard. Frankly, she’d rather have been left to starve in the cottage.

Nonetheless, she forced herself to answer in the affirmative. Because the duchess seemed to expect it. As she also seemed to understand that being alone might be worse. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, risking another, shallower, curtsy. “You are too kind.” Despite her caution, the dressing gown slid off one shoulder, baring her shift to view.

Behind her, Tristan made a gruff noise in his throat. Disapproval, whether at the invitation or her acceptance of it, she was not sure.

Without waiting to be dismissed, without even begging the duchess’ pardon, she hurried through the door, head bowed, as if charging back into the storm, praying she would be able to find the shelter of her room.

Chapter 5

Only vaguely aware of his movements, Tristan stepped forward, once more wondering which posed the greater danger: letting Erica walk away, or going after her.

His stepmother settled the question by taking his hands in her own. “Tris! Thank God you’re home.”

Her words and the gentle pressure of her fingers drew his attention to her face. People could be forgiven for wondering whether his father had married his second wife late in life solely because she was young and pretty. Others no doubt assumed that her inheritance, in both property and funds, had been the particular point of interest. But Tristan had always suspected her name.

He bowed over their clasped hands. “Guin.”

The former Miss Guinevere Shepherd, now the Duchess of Raynham, turned her head obligingly to receive his kiss on her cheek. But even after he had straightened, she continued looking over her shoulder.

“Miss Burke seems rather a wild thing. Is it possible you stumbled upon a brownie?”

Tristan gave a small smile. Brownies were domestic spirits, helpers around hearth and home. The creature in this case seemed more likely to cause mischief and mayhem. “A will o’ the wisp, I’d say. Or perhaps a leprechaun.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I caught an Irish lilt.”

“You did.” He fought the impulse to free one hand to fidget with his collar. Had his uniform always been this uncomfortable? “I hope you did not think it was necessary to invite her to dine with us for my sake.”

“For her own, rather. She cannot stay locked in her room, worrying herself into a shadow.” She swiveled her gaze back to him. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that a stranded traveler is beneath a duchess’ notice?” she asked, one eyebrow bent in a scold.

He knew better to suggest any such thing. Guin had never been one to pride herself on rank, contrary to the gossips’ assumption that she had married a man twice her age solely for the elevation of status that had come with it.

As she studied Tristan, the flash of defensiveness in her eyes was quickly replaced by a flicker of curiosity. “She certainly seems to have caught yours…”

He pushed aside the memory of a vibrant curl caressing a curve of pale skin. No, no. It was her journal that had piqued his curiosity. I am not in the habit of reading young ladies’ secret diaries. Not quite a lie, far easier to tell than the truth. And in fact he’d not succumbed to the temptation to read it, though it was impossible not to wonder what the leather-bound book contained. Something that had possessed her to go searching for it wearing…well, very little at all.

Rather than attempt to deny his interest, he led Guin to a chair. “You are well?”