Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Read online

  “So soon?” the duke asked, and his mother must have heard something in his tone, for she turned to him with a sharp look.

  “I am sure Mr. Lambert is eager to get to work,” she said, looking to Rebecca’s father, who seemed somewhat perturbed.

  “Well, I’m not entirely sure—”

  “How long it will take, but we will be sure to send you a note,” Rebecca cut him off. He was a proud man, but at the moment there was far more at stake than his pride. If he wasn’t careful, he would lose his legacy entirely. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  They passed through the ballroom-turned-laboratory on their way out of the mansion, though the duke’s sister seemed too engrossed in what she was doing to pay any attention to them. She gave a brief wave as she measured something out in front of her, and the moment they passed through the room they heard her give a shout of glee.

  Mrs. St. Vincent pretended nothing had occurred, while the duke chuckled under his breath, though loud enough that Rebecca could hear him. It did show strength of his character that he didn’t feel the need to hide his sister’s eccentrics. Rebecca wasn’t exactly the conventional lady herself, so she understood the importance of working without judgment.

  Dexter fetched their cloaks and, for the briefest of moments, the duke brought his hand to the small of Rebecca’s back. The heat of his touch scorched through her gown, and a tremor ran through her. Then it was gone and she was left bereft.

  “You will be in touch then?” he asked, and Rebecca was about to respond when she saw he was looking at her father — as he should be.

  “I will,” her father said with a nod. “Farewell, your grace.”

  And as they walked down the drive toward the massive gate holding all back from Wyndham House, it took everything within Rebecca not to turn around and search him out once more.

  He was not the man for her. She had best remember it.

  4

  “Hurry, children, we are going to be late!”

  Valentine and Jemima exchanged looks of shared misery as they each took a sip of brandy to fortify themselves.

  “Do you suppose there are any other dukes referred to as ‘child’ by their mothers?” Valentine asked dryly, and his sister laughed.

  “Do you think if we sit here and say nothing, she will go without us?” Jemima asked hopefully, but Valentine shook his head.

  “Never. She’s relentless.”

  “She wasn't in the past,” Jemima said grimly. “Not about us, at any rate.”

  “No,” Valentine said abruptly, all humor vanished, not caring to speak of their older brother at the moment. “She wasn’t.”

  But things had changed. Everything had changed when Matthew was killed.

  “Valentine! Jemima! Where in the name of— oh, there you are.”

  “She found us,” Jemima sighed as their mother walked in the door.

  “She was bound to eventually,” Valentine said out of the corner of his mouth. “Hurry and finish your drink. Let’s get this over with.”

  Jemima downed the brandy in one gulp, impressing Valentine who quickly followed her, though he couldn’t help but grimace. His sister was apparently much heartier.

  “When was the last time you were at Almack’s, Val?” Jemima asked as they donned their cloaks.

  “Ages ago,” he said, careful with his words as his mother was within hearing. “After the one time, I decided never to go again.”

  “Matthew would have loved Almack’s,” their mother said miserably. It had been a few years now since her eldest son’s death, but she frequently let it be known that she missed him like it had been yesterday. Every time she mentioned him, guilt laced through Valentine.

  “Of course he would have, Mother,” Jemima said gently, placing a hand on her sleeve. “But we are happy to accompany you tonight.”

  “Accompany me?” their mother responded with a sniff. “We are going so that the two of you can spend time with your peers. We must ensure our respectability among this set, my dears, and both of you will do your utmost to find partners who will help raise our status and make others forget our past.”

  “I’m a duke, Mother,” Valentine said dryly. “What does status matter?”

  “It just… it just… it matters,” she finally finished, and Valentine wondered whether she was going to stamp her foot to emphasize her point, so adamant she seemed. “I don’t want those women looking down on me as though I am less than worthy.”

  “You could never be less worthy than anyone else, Mother,” Valentine said gently. “Title or not.”

  “I am the mother of a duke,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “And I deserve to be treated as such.”

  “Very well,” Valentine said wearily as they entered the carriage, unwilling to argue with her any longer. “We will show you respectability.”

  As he climbed into the elaborate carriage with the beautiful pair of horses in front, all Val saw were the figures that all of this was costing him. The dresses his mother and sister wore were of the finest quality and all their visits to the most popular modiste were quickly eating into the funds Valentine had earned for himself. Not for the first time, he wished that he had the ability to ask one of the previous dukes just what he was supposed to do in order to keep the dukedom in its finest order.

  A noble wife would help, he knew, as they pulled up to the plain brick building, light spilling out of the six second-story round-arched windows.

  “What time is it?” Val’s mother fretted.

  “Quarter past eleven, I’d say,” Jemima said, and Mrs. St. Vincent sat up so straight that Val wondered whether the ostrich feather on her hat would go right through the carriage roof.

  “Quick! Hurry!” she said, waving a hand to shuffle them out of the carriage. “The doors will be closing soon, and we must be sure we gain entry.”

  Val and Jemima exchanged another look as they followed their mother, understanding flowing between them. They would rather be anywhere but here, but they would do this for her. Their newfound status as the Duke of Wyndham and his family may have been unwelcomed by Valentine, but it had returned life to their mother following the deaths of first their brother, Mrs. St. Vincent’s beloved son, followed by their father shortly thereafter.

  Valentine steeled his shoulders as they walked up to the door where they presented their vouchers.

  “Very good, your grace, my ladies,” the doorman said as he allowed them entry.

  Valentine nearly took a step back into the darkness upon their entry. Even down here on the ground floor, the foyer was filled with gowns of every color, of the chattering voices of ladies and the scents of floral, citrus, and musky perfumes and colognes intermingling.

  Now all eyes turned upon them.

  Val forced a smile as he led his mother and sister through the throng to deposit their cloaks and continue upstairs to the ballroom.

  Jemima firmly settled herself in a chair in the corner of the room, where Val knew she would likely spend the evening studying the people present and their interactions as though they were specimens for her latest experiment.

  His mother had other plans for him.

  “Oh, Valentine, over there,” she said, pointing across the room, clearly not concerned with the fact that she might be spotted doing so. “That is Lady Rosthern. Her daughter is of marriageable age, and I believe she has quite a large dowry. And then over there…” She droned on and on, pointing out each woman in the room who might interest Valentine and restore their fortunes while he barely paid attention to anything she said. After she had made sure to consider each and every candidate, she slipped her arm through his and instructed him to take her for a turn about the room so that they might speak to some of the women.

  Val looked longingly at the door to the corridor. He would far prefer to find himself a refreshment and enter the card room instead, but he wouldn’t disappoint his mother. Not tonight. He had disappointed his parents enough in his life. His father had died believing
that his second son was nothing more than a no-good fighter who lacked the wit or intelligence to do anything with his life, whose actions had destroyed their family.

  He hadn’t overly cared when he had known that Matthew was there to please his parents. But now all rested on his shoulders.

  So he placed a smile on his face and greeted the first pretty young woman his mother introduced him to. She had pale blonde hair, blue eyes shining out of her angelic face.

  But all Val could see was a woman with midnight hair and piercing hazel eyes.

  He tried to make conversation as best he could, but he was distracted, his mind elsewhere. When, he wondered, would Albert Lambert have his drawings ready? Would Rebecca accompany him once more when he came to present them? Did the fact that she worked with her father mean that she was unattached? And why was he still thinking of her as Rebecca?

  He was brought back to the present when his arm began to shake and he heard his mother’s voice in his ear.

  “Valentine,” she hissed, and he turned his attention back to the conversation.

  “My apologies,” he said, asking the young woman to repeat herself. After requesting a later dance, which he felt was his responsibility, particularly after he had ignored her so, his mother began to pester him as they walked away.

  “What is the matter with you?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “You are acting as though you’ve never made polite conversation in your life!”

  “I cannot say I have ever been particularly skilled at it,” he said apologetically, but his mother was already shaking her head.

  “You know what you must do, Valentine,” she said, stopping and turning so that she was standing in front of him. “You must find a wife who will be able to raise our esteem among the ton and provide us the funds to support our family until you can sort out this dukedom. I know you have it in you to do what needs to be done.”

  Her face and voice softened.

  “Your father would be proud of you were he alive, Valentine,” she said, cutting through deeply to what she knew would most affect him. “You are proving yourself to be an excellent duke. Just do this one thing, Valentine. It’s all I ask.”

  Then she assumed the persona of the elegant titled woman once more and continued on, Valentine following in her wake with an ache in his gut that had nothing to do with his earlier brandy.

  * * *

  “The Duke of W— was finally seen last night at Almack’s, making the rounds in his search of a wife,” Rebecca read aloud. “Judging by his conversations and dances with Lady A—, Lady P—, and Lady R—, one can assume he is looking for a bride who will bring a fortune with her into the marriage.”

  She threw the paper back down upon the table. “Disgusting. He is practically selling himself.”

  “Which means we will be paid,” her father said with a grin as he finished his plate of eggs and toast. Rebecca pushed aside her own meal, no longer hungry.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” her father said, quite lucid this morning. “You’re always going on about how the most important thing is that we look after our finances.”

  “Yes, but this seems wrong.”

  “It’s what they do, Becca. You know that.”

  Rebecca knew very well who he meant by they — the aristocracy. The very people who they relied on to continue their work.

  “Anyway, I’d best take a look at the drawings this morning.”

  “I spent most of yesterday on them,” Rebecca said. She and her father had developed a good working relationship. When he had moments of genius, he would add to her work or draw an idea that had been swirling in his mind. Their roles had gradually switched over the years. No longer was she the apprentice, learning from him. She now spent most of her free hours teaching herself the latest styles and modernizations. They visited every new building, taking careful stock of each new design and what was in high demand.

  But Rebecca went a step further. The key to designing was to determine just how the space would be used, how the family would live in it. It was more than simply impressing the guests that came to the door.

  Of course, no one could ever know that she was the primary architect, for if they did, she and her father would never work again.

  They now entered their study, which looked nothing like the traditional study found in most homes.

  Their two desks in the room looked like typical writing desks — until their work began. Then they would raise the top of each desk so that it was slanted on an angle, and the chair they sat on in front of it would rise and fall as they wished when they pulled a simple lever.

  Rebecca led her father over to her own desk, and the two of them pored over the plans. Rebecca left her father to his musings while she took a seat at his desk and pulled out much more tedious yet required work — the ledger book.

  The numbers were still written in red, causing a panicky flutter to fill her chest. If only her father hadn’t seen the need to distinguish himself with the latest London neighborhood. If only he had taken a much more cautious approach, building for clients and not on speculation. If only he hadn’t begun to lose his faculties during the project. If only she had seen the issues earlier and taken a greater role in it all.

  If only, if only, if only.

  It seemed to be all her life consisted of at the moment.

  They had to sell these houses. They were sitting there, empty, taunting her. In fact, Rebecca refused to even walk by the redeveloped Mayfair street because they reminded her of what had caused their near-ruin.

  She had to hope that the duke — or his mother — wouldn’t find about their recent failure. He was obviously looking to make a mark for himself in his world, and hiring a failing architect would do nothing to further that.

  The duke. Valentine, his mother had continued to call him. An interesting name, and a fitting one. She was sure he had broken many hearts in his day.

  Rebecca must ensure that her own heart would not be one of them. She had no time for romance, particularly one that was ill fated from the start. Too much was at stake. She couldn’t allow him in close as she held too many secrets close to her chest. It was not as though there was any lasting relationship available to them. Any thought that he would even consider such a thing was fanciful.

  He was already out looking for a bride — as all of London now knew thanks to the gossip columns of the papers — and she was a charlatan commoner who did not have a title nor a fortune to tempt him with, but rather debt of her own.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Keep her distance and her head free of any thoughts of the fascinating promise of a handsome duke.

  5

  Two weeks.

  It had been fourteen days since Valentine had last seen the woman who had captured his attention.

  It was ridiculous that he couldn’t rid her from his thoughts. He had met dozens of other women throughout those days, at the many events that his mother had dragged them to night after night. The opera, the theatre, and numerous balls and parties. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an evening alone to breathe.

  His traitorous sister had feigned illness the last few nights, though Valentine knew she had been busy in the ballroom she used as her laboratory.

  But today was the day. The day when Albert Lambert would return with initial plans for Wyndham House.

  Valentine could only hope that he would bring his daughter with him.

  This time he would not be late for their meeting. In fact, he was already in the drawing room waiting with anticipation.

  “I don’t believe we should be hosting an architect in the drawing room,” his mother opined when he strode into the room, but on this he overruled her.

  “The man is one of the greatest architects throughout all of England. Evidence of his work will live forever, Mother. I will not relegate him to the parlor.”

  “Oh, very well,” she said with a huff.

  “Mr. Lambert and Miss Lambert,” Dexter announced,
and Val shot to his feet. So she had come.

  Valentine sought out her gaze but she averted it, instead greeting his mother and then taking a seat on one of the two sofas in the room.

  “Well,” she said. “My father is pleased to show you his ideas for your home.” Finally, she looked up at him, but there was nothing upon her face but professional courtesy.

  Why her father didn’t speak for himself, Val wasn’t sure, but he assumed it was one of his eccentricities or egoisms.

  Rebecca unrolled the large scrolls on the table, moving around it as she did so. Her light blue skirts brushed against him when she walked by, and just that slight whisper of muslin over his pant leg stirred something deep within him.

  “Valentine?” his mother said, digging an elbow into his side.

  “Ouch,” he muttered. “Yes, Mother?”

  “What do you think of Mr. Lambert’s designs?” Before he had a chance to begin, however, she began to recount her own thoughts on all of it. “I think it is an excellent starting point,” she said. “I do enjoy the many different aspects you have drawn, and I can see how some of it would be very convenient. But I do hope you have additional ideas for something much more… oh, I don’t know… grand and impressive.”

  “You do not like my design?” Mr. Lambert asked, his defenses raised, and Valentine cringed.

  “I think, Mr. Lambert, what my mother is trying to say is that she is looking forward to some additional embellishments to come nearer the end of the project.”

  At a time when he could hopefully afford them, he thought, though he didn’t say it aloud.

  “Er, yes,” his mother said when he directed a pointed look her way.

  Valentine took a closer look, ensuring that this time he was actually concentrating on what was in front of him.

  He was impressed.

  “Smart,” he said, looking at the way the corridors flowed, where they had situated the kitchen and some of the servants’ rooms. They had obviously worked from the initial plans, which he appreciated as it would keep the costs down, but they had added some of their own flair and modernizations.