Page 24 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Vivi weighed her choices. “I should like to finish my book. Miss Chatham disapproves of novel reading too, you see. But…” She closed her book, keeping one finger between the pages to mark her place. “I should also be very glad to understand something of the sciences.”

For the first time that morning, Erica smiled, albeit in the manner of one accustomed to humoring children. But the gentle expression was quickly erased by a flicker of worry. She glanced over her shoulder at the bookcase where her journal had been laid aside, shifting Introduction to Botany in her arms like a burden she was eager to return to the shelf. “If I might have a word in private, Your Grace?”

Vivi’s dark brows shot up her forehead as she looked at her brother. With the slightest lift of his shoulders and a wave of his hand, he motioned her back into her hiding place. She slid obligingly out of sight, back into the depths of the chair. He nodded toward Erica and the bookcase, indicating she should step to the other side of the room. He followed. Neither of them spoke, however, until they heard the reassuring flick of pages from Vivi’s corner of the room.

“I am perfectly willing to teach your sister the rudiments of botany if both you and she wish it, Your Grace,” Erica said, her voice low. She was still holding Introduction to Botany in one arm, her journal now stacked on top of it, and as she spoke, she laid one palm on both books in the posture of one taking an oath. “But I would not wish to proceed without making sure you understand that there are many who agree with your sister’s governess. There is vigorous debate over the appropriateness of the subject for ladies.”

By her expression he could guess his face revealed his bafflement. “Who could see harm in a lady’s careful study of flowers?”

Her lips quirked with something that was not quite humor. “Anyone, forgive me, who knows much about plants.” Carefully, she opened her journal to a pencil sketch of a flower, exquisitely done, every suggestive curve and hollow labeled in Latin terms that needed no translation. “There are those who believe that botany can never be suitable for ladies, because the fair sex must be thoroughly protected from knowledge of, well…” She had been watching his face study the picture; now her gaze flickered away and back. “Sex.”

Suddenly, the library felt much too warm. But the source of the heat was internal, a bright flame burning at his core, casting its glow into every dark corner of his being, and making him weigh the necessity of taking refuge behind the desk to hide his arousal.

Though she had kept her voice low, the last word seemed to reverberate around the room. He shot a glance over his shoulder, but Vivi remained fully absorbed in her book. “I—I see,” he muttered as he turned back to face her, thunderstruck by the direction the conversation had taken and once more craving the cooling touch of the glass. “And your father did not object?”

“He did not. He is fond of saying that those who truly value a woman’s innocence would do better not to promote her ignorance.”

“A sound judgment.” And a comfortable way to rationalize allowing Vivi to get closer to Erica. Never before had he used a child to gain an informant’s trust. Would he be putting his sister in danger—of either the moral or the mortal variety—to do so now? “But my sister is not yet thirteen…”

“And possessed of an admirably curious mind. She will find ways to learn what she wishes to know, Your Grace, both about botany and…other matters.” A pause. “Servants’ gossip can be a dangerous teacher.”

The words struck him like barbs, though of course she could have no way of knowing how pointed they were. “Indeed.”

As if suddenly aware of his discomfort, she closed her journal and her voice took on a curiously formal, distant tone. “You may rest assured that Mr. Lee’s work does not contain anything too scandalous. He does an admirable job of translating Linnaeus’s ideas into more familiar language. Metaphors, if you will. Courtship, marriage, and the like.” As she spoke, she returned the heavy volume to its place on the shelf, sliding it between two similarly dusty tomes. “Of course, the truth of the matter is that many plant, er, relationships are neither especially modest nor monogamous. Those showy blooms are not for naught, you see—not unlike how a lady’s gown, if well fashioned, may catch the eyes of several different gentlemen at a ball.”

Would he ever look at a lady’s dress—at Erica—the same way? Or would he forever imagine her skirts as the curved petals of a flower hiding something extraordinary at their center? He swallowed hard. “Is there no other way to explain—?”

Disappointment flickered in the depths of her amber eyes. He could see she was mentally classing him with Miss Chatham. “I can think of one botanist who instead organizes the plant world into armies engaging in battles. Perhaps, as a soldier, you find that metaphor more suitable?”

From what he had overheard in the schoolroom, he could guess how Vivi would react to further talk of war. He shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. “Between combat and coquetry, regrettably, there is not much to choose.”

Erica mirrored his posture and he was struck, not for the first time, by the notion that she would have made a formidable ally—or adversary—on the battlefield, for all that she was a head shorter than he. “Take heart, Your Grace. I have a theory that the study of botany is in fact the finest means of preparation for a young woman’s entry into the marriage mart. One day, in the not too distant future, Lady Viviane will be paraded about in the finest gowns to catch the eye of the fattest purse with the loftiest title—in short”—her eyes flashed—“like every other delicate blossom, she’ll be engaged in a battle for survival and wary every moment of being crushed.”

Her words made him recall, as he would rather not, his dilemma with Caroline and her family’s expectations, and he responded to Erica’s unanticipated rancor with sharp words of his own. Words that he did not trouble to whisper. Words he regretted as soon as they passed his lips.

“And I suppose your own engagement was a love match?”

As soon as he spoke, he knew he had damaged his hopes of earning her trust, and with it, his plan to gain easy access to her journal. Worse, he was dangerously close to having to admit to himself that her journal was no longer his primary point of interest. Worst of all, he could offer no rational explanation for his callous words—for surely the flicker of jealousy he felt whenever he imagined her dearly departed paramour could not be called rational.

He waited for her to blush with either embarrassment or, more likely, fury. Instead she grew pale—so pale, he feared she might faint. With trembling hands, she snatched up her journal and tucked it against her breast, then swept from the room without speaking a word, without even indulging in the cold comfort of slamming the door behind her. Silence reigned over the room, except for the occasional rustle of paper as Vivi turned a page in her book.

After perhaps two minutes had passed, two minutes that felt like an hour, she closed her volume and unfolded herself from the chair. “Miss Burke has spirit,” she declared. “I like her.”

Tristan nodded. In spite of Erica’s occasional outrageousness, in spite of Whitby’s words of warning—hell, in spite of himself—he liked her too. And what a fine job he had done of showing her how much.

“If you are thinking of a way to apologize, you might offer to show her the conservatory,” Vivi said, stepping closer, and he was struck afresh by the realization his sister was no longer a little girl. She had a knowing looking in her eye, and he suspected she had overheard every bit of his and Erica’s conversation, even the parts that had gone unspoken. “It would be an excellent place for a botany lesson.”

With a grateful smile, he settled an arm around Vivi’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “It would,” he said, and led her from the room.

Chapter 9

Erica set off with only the vaguest sense of her intended destination. Not because she was lost, but because she needed to walk, to work off the energy that coursed through her blood and animated her limbs. If she had not left the library, she would have spoken—or worse, acted—most unwisely. Something about the Duke of Raynham not knowing a love match if one slapped him across the face…followed by actions suited to her words.

All her life, she’d been impulsive. But rarely had she been so intemperate, so angry. Since the spring, however, her emotions had lingered close to the surface. Everything about Henry, including his proposal, was a reminder of what she’d never have. Because Tristan was right, the insufferable prig. It had not been a love match.

She’d known him from childhood, her elder brother’s best friend. He had accepted her for who she was, just as she’d accepted him, and she had told herself it would be enough. More than enough. Her heart still ached, would perhaps always ache, whenever she thought of Henry, the sacrifices he’d been willing to make.

How dare that same heart hammer like raindrops on the roof whenever Tristan looked her way?