Page 40 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“I’m sorry to have to wake you, Miss Burke,” the Duchess of Raynham said gently. Genuinely. “I know you did not have a restful night.” Her kind eyes were shadowed with worry, and guilt rolled over Erica. How unjust she had been to this lady, who had been nothing but generous and who evidently had come herself to spare her guest the silent judgment of Mrs. Dean and every maid and footman at Hawesdale Chase.

When she had stepped far enough into the room that the door could be shut behind her, Erica repaid that kindness and generosity by turning to her and demanding an answer only Tristan could give. “Why did he do it?”

Startled, the duchess drew back from the question, straightening her spine and tucking in her chin. “Vivi told me you had a tendency to be forthright.”

Lady Viviane. The girl would be sent back to the schoolroom and Miss Chatham, probably not even allowed to say goodbye. The realization left Erica feeling hollower yet. “A flaw, I know,” she conceded.

“A quality too few possess, I should say,” the duchess corrected. “Especially women.” Unbending slightly, she folded her hands in front of her, their pallor stark against her black gown. “If you mean to ask why he offered for you, I can only say that for as long as I have known him, since he was a young man, he has always possessed a strong sense of honor and sought to demonstrate it. He tries to do what is right.” Her skirts swayed slightly beneath fidgeting fingers. “And even as I speak those words, I realize how ludicrous such a claim must sound to you, since if it were true, he ought never to have been in such a position to begin with.”

Erica let her breath escape. At least the duchess did not intend to accuse her of having invited him to her room. To her bed. But then, the man Tristan’s stepmother knew did not sound at all like the sort of man who hid in abandoned cottages rather than going home. Who went sneaking about after dark, prying into things that were none of his business. Whereas the man Erica knew had done exactly that.

Which of them had made the truer sketch of his character?

Tempted to scramble for her journal, she instead walked toward the dressing table and reached for the hairbrush to have something with which to occupy her hands. But as her fingers curled around the cool silver, she remembered that Tristan had been the last to touch it, as his fingers passed over the vanity’s contents in the dark. In a flash, the metal grew hot in her hand and she dropped it onto the table with a clatter. “I cannot decide, Your Grace,” she said without turning, “whether you are more relieved at my refusal, or surprised by it.”

“Why must I be either one?”

Not expecting such an answer, Erica sank down into the chair at the dressing table, meeting the duchess’ gaze over her shoulder when she glanced into the mirror.

“There are women who value their reputations above their happiness. And there are women who would angle for a proposal from a duke.” The wry edge to her voice made Erica wonder whether the duchess numbered Miss Pilkington among the latter. “I hardly know you, Miss Burke. But from what little I do know, you seem inclined to show better sense than either. Although Tristan is not my son, his happiness means a great deal to me,” she continued after a moment. “I would wish for him the sort of match that would make him happy.”

Erica dropped her gaze. “And he could not be happy with me.”

The words sounded more cutting than she had intended, she realized belatedly. As if she were challenging the duchess’ assertion rather than confirming it. But she knew she could not make a man like him happy. Lately, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble making anyone happy. Including herself.

The duchess’ reply, when it came, was measured. “It is, I think, more difficult for a marriage to promote happiness when it has not been freely chosen.” She stepped toward the dressing table, picked up the brush, and began to turn it over in her hands. “Though not impossible.” Though her movements were unhurried, Erica recognized in them a familiar sort of nervous energy. The type to which she had always assumed real ladies were immune. Particularly duchesses.

She gave the brush an airy wave with a flick of her wrist. “When Vivi was a little girl, I used to brush her hair every night.” The slight, faraway smile of memory accompanied the words. “Truth be told…I had little choice. She would never submit to having her nurse do it.” Almost absently, she began to run the brush softly over Erica’s unruly mass of hair. Her practiced hands made sure, calming strokes, as if Erica were some wild creature capable of being soothed by it. Domesticated. “I think, on the whole, a woman with your spirit would be an equal match for Tristan,” she said after a while. Erica’s eyes had begun to drift closed, but now popped open, imagining his reaction to his stepmother’s pronouncement. “The question, really, is whether you believe he would make you happy.” One final stroke, and the duchess returned the brush to the tabletop. “And that question you would seem already to have answered.”

Warily, Erica nodded. Oh, yes. She’d left him in no doubt. And if she felt any regret for her hasty reply, what would be the point in wasting energy on the matter? What was done was done.

“Now, wash your face and get dressed, Miss Burke,” the duchess ordered as she inspected her own appearance in the mirror, avoiding Erica’s gaze. “You have a caller.”

“A—a caller?” Erica darted her eyes toward the window, thinking first of her sister. But surely the roads had not yet improved enough for Cami—or anyone else—to travel to Hawesdale.

“Yes. A caller.”

Suspecting subterfuge, an attempt to force a meeting with Tristan, Erica sent her a questioning look as she rose. But the duchess would say nothing more.

* * * *

Even before he saw the stranger, Tristan realized that seeking refuge in the library had been a mistake. It was unlike him, unworthy of him, to avoid the breakfast room merely to avoid an uncomfortable scene with his guests. But he’d done it all the same. And for his pains, he was to be treated to uncomfortable memories instead: Erica sweeping from shelf to shelf in search of a suitable volume, his plot to use his poor sister to keep his mysterious guest occupied, and finally, the fateful suggestion to show Erica the conservatory. All of which had led to last night. Charades and kisses and—Christ—those heart-stopping moments in her bedchamber, even before he realized he’d been caught.

What he ought to do was write a letter to Colonel Scott and resign his commission. Once, he’d fancied himself a top-notch intelligence officer. Though he’d prayed to never have to put such knowledge to use, he’d learned what to do if he were captured in enemy territory. How to stay silent in the face of threats, even torture. What to say if words must be spoken.

None of that preparation had included blurting out a proposal of marriage.

Nor had he been prepared for the wave of disappointment that had crashed over him when she’d turned him down flat.

He was well aware that throughout Hawesdale at this very moment, people were murmuring about last night, in accents ranging from the servants’ northern notes to aristocratic drawls. And every one of those voices was claiming, each in its own way, that Miss Burke must be “tapped.” Out of her mind to turn down an offer from a duke.

But if they could see into his mind—or his heart—and if they knew how he had hesitated at the foot of her bed for a moment too long, remembering the feel of her lips and wondering what it would be like to slip beneath the covers beside her and stay, when all his life he’d only ever wanted to go… Well, they would have known it was he who’d run mad.

At precisely that moment, he spotted an unfamiliar figure waiting near the desk and feared he’d added hallucinations to his disorder.

But surely, if his mind were prone to conjuring visions, it would offer up something more in the line of a certain flame-haired woman? Not a silver-haired man of medium height, somewhere between fifty and sixty years, who turned toward the doorway when Tristan made his way deeper into the room, though he had not made a sound. The carpets were thick as featherbeds in the library; his father had despised interruptions.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “I was instructed to wait here for Miss Burke.”