Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 8

  Her brain wasn’t being entirely true to her at the moment, however. For overpowering the dusty air was the scent of — well, of a man. Valentine smelled of musk, of leather, of spice that she couldn’t put a finger on. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see the whole of him. She knew she would be able to sense his very presence in the darkest of rooms.

  Never in her life had she seen so masculine, so virile a man. He was not the typical member of the nobility. When his hand had brushed up against hers, it was rough, calloused, the hands of a man who worked with them and not simply by holding a pen.

  She breathed in deeply in an attempt to calm herself and chase the thoughts of him from her mind. He is not for you, she reminded herself. He is a duke. A duke who has hired your father. Who is to marry a wealthy noblewoman. But the closer his body pressed against hers as they made their way up the narrow steps, the more the thought was being crowded from her mind, pushed out by images of the two of them together in an entirely different way.

  She was saved from herself when they reached the top of the stairs, a fact that became apparent by the longer landing, at the end of which was a door.

  “Well?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in her ear that sent trembles down her spine. “Shall we see what lies at the end of this journey?”

  “I can hardly wait,” she said, her voice sounding breathy even in her own ears. “But, Valentine…”

  “Yes?”

  “If the house plans are correct, this should be your own chamber, assuming you reside within the main bedroom.”

  “Impossible. I am sure I would have noticed a door within my own room.”

  Rebecca said nothing, not wanting to argue — he had a point, but she couldn’t see where else they could be.

  He dropped her hand from his arm as he used both hands on the doorknob, needing his shoulder to push open the door, which had obviously not been in use for years now. It finally gave under his forceful shove, and he opened the door into further blackness. Val reached back for Rebecca, taking her hand as they entered the room. A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine, knowing that it was just the two of them somewhere unknown.

  She breathed in for a moment as Val crossed the room. The scent was familiar. In fact, it smelled exactly like—

  She yelped when something soft brushed against her back, but soon light spilled into the room after Valentine opened the door and she looked around, now realizing why the scent was so familiar.

  They were in Valentine’s dressing room, his clothing surrounding them. A shirt had brushed over her back as they walked.

  “As I thought,” she said, smiling broadly with the knowledge and relief that both her instincts and her memory had been correct. She ignored Val’s dark look for a moment, turning around to explore the opening beyond.

  “I can understand why you wouldn't have noticed the passage,” she said, turning and running her hands over where the seams were. “The door had been papered over — it was why it was difficult to open.”

  She turned around now to look at him, his frame silhouetted in the light of the door.

  “The first duke," she said, biting her lip, “why do you think he built such a passage?”

  “I wouldn't know,” he said with a shrug and a raised eyebrow as he stepped back into the dressing room closer toward her. “For whatever reason could someone create a secret passage to a bedchamber?”

  “Perhaps he liked to escape parties when they became rather dreary,” she said with a half-smile so that he would know she was teasing, as she matched his step by moving toward him in turn.

  “Or maybe he wanted to escape fortune-hunting mothers when hosting balls,” he said, coming ever closer.

  “He could have been hiding from demanding family members,” she suggested, leaving just a couple of feet between them.

  “Or,” he said, close enough now that he was able to reach out and twist a lock of her hair around his finger, “perhaps there was a maiden he loved, or who he desired, but couldn’t have. And so he decided that in order to be together, they would find another way.”

  Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat and she could barely speak, as the duke’s face was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek.

  “That is utterly romantic,” she finally managed in a low voice, and she could feel his grin against her skin.

  “If that is romantic,” he said, leaning his forehead in against hers, “what do you think of this?”

  In the dim light, the final descent of his lips upon hers sent a shock through Rebecca, though one she eagerly welcomed.

  Since he had kissed her late last night, she had lain awake imagining it over many times in her mind, but nothing could quite do it as much justice as the true feeling of his lips upon hers. The only problem was, this pressure from him was not enough. She needed more from him, but she wasn’t entirely sure of just what that was, or how to ask for it.

  But he knew.

  When his tongue probed her lips, she opened to him, in equal parts thrilled and terrified when it swept her mouth. She was thrilled by the sensations that coursed through her at the action; terrified as she had no idea what to do in return.

  He didn’t seem to mind.

  He gripped her tighter against him, his hands sliding up and down the sides of her body, from her shoulders down to her waist and back again. The next time, however, they rounded her hips to cup her bottom, pulling it flush against him. Something very hard, very rigid nudged against her, and Rebecca knew she should push back away from him, should leave this dressing room and find her father once more.

  But her instincts told her otherwise. They told her to press farther into him, to take all that he was offering her.

  He groaned and wrenched his mouth from hers, taking a step back away from her, though he kept his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place.

  “Rebecca,” he said, her name grunted out of his mouth, though whether in praise or in supplication he had no idea. “You… are exquisite.”

  A strange sense of pride swelled within Rebecca at his words. Which was silly. She had never been a woman to seek out a man’s approval — unless it regarded her work.

  The fact that a man such as Valentine, a duke who could have whatever and whoever he wanted, would choose to be with her — even for just this moment — was nearly incomprehensible.

  Perhaps it was best she quit this encounter before she said or did something that would remind him of who she was.

  “I, ah, I best be going back,” she said, hearing the awkwardness in her tone. “Perhaps I could explore this passage again? For my own interest. Not to use the passage. For I wouldn’t be coming to your rooms. Unless, that is, I was assisting my father. Not that, I mean, I would be interested to bring a candle and see more, that’s all.”

  She could have slapped a hand over her face for how idiotic she sounded. One kiss with this man and she had lost all ability to think or speak rationally.

  Rebecca wasn’t exactly experienced in the ways of men, but she was certainly not a naive innocent girl either.

  “You are welcome to explore the passage… any time you’d like,” Valentine said with a slow smile, one that warmed her to her very core.

  “Yes, I… thank you,” was all she managed, and he held out a hand beyond her.

  “Why do we not go back the way we came?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be seen exiting my bedchamber.”

  “Of course not,” she murmured.

  “Allow me to find a candle to light the way,” he said, leaving the dressing room for his chamber, returning in moments.

  He held out his arm once more.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, hardly trusting her voice.

  “Ready.”

  12

  Valentine had never been more pleased to have his friend beside him.

  He had fought the idea of a valet for quite some time. But in the end, after realizing the extent of dress that would be required in his role
as a duke, he had decided that if there was going to be another person seeing him at his most intimate, dressing him and providing for the care of his person, it was going to be someone he could trust.

  Which was why, as he stood in front of the floor-length mirror staring at himself and the man beside him, he had asked one of his closest friends to work for him. He had been somewhat surprised when Archie had agreed.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Archie Thompkins asked him as he tied his cravat. It had taken some time, but he had finally perfected it after much practice.

  “I have to.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first noble to be in debt.”

  “I would be the first St. Vincent.”

  “Listen, Val—”

  “You don’t have to say it, Archie,” Valentine said, turning from his friend toward the door. “I already know.”

  “You obviously don’t,” Archie said as he finished readying Valentine’s clothing for later that evening, “or else you wouldn’t be continually trying to prove yourself. You’re not Matthew, and you don't have to sacrifice yourself in order to make up for his loss.”

  Val had no wish to argue any further, but it was more than that — he also had no real argument to make. Archie was right. And yet he owed it to his family.

  “I have to do right by them — to do what Matthew would have done.” He paused. “If it wasn’t for me, he would still be here.”

  Archie began to argue until Val turned a dark look upon him, causing Archie to throw up his hands.

  “All right! I’ll say no more. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  Val nodded before looking at himself just one more time in the mirror.

  “I can dress up as much as I want,” he murmured, “but I will never look the part of a nobleman.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Archie grunted. “Why would you want to look like one of those fops?”

  “I’m beginning to second guess my choice of valet,” Val said with a snort. “Isn’t he supposed to be the one ensuring I look my best?”

  Archie shrugged. “You were the one who asked me.”

  “So I did,” Val said as he good-naturedly cuffed his friend. “I’m off to dinner. If only you could take my place.”

  “Perhaps I would,” Archie said with a wink as he gathered Val’s clothing from earlier in the day to have washed and pressed. “The architect’s daughter is a mighty fine beauty. Can’t say I would mind staring at her through all of those ridiculous courses.”

  A hard knot began to form deep in Valentine’s stomach, and his fist involuntarily clenched. He had to remind himself that Archie had no knowledge of anything that had gone on between him and Rebecca — nor would he have guessed that there would have been.

  But Archie knew him as well as any other.

  He eyed Valentine knowingly.

  “Unless you have already laid claim to her?”

  Valentine scoffed. “She’s the daughter of the man I have hired to see to my estate and my London home. Of course I would not be dallying with such a woman. I need to find myself a wife who will redeem my family in the eyes of all of the nobility.”

  Archie shrugged. “That doesn’t mean you cannot have your fun with others.”

  Archie had a point. Valentine wasn’t exactly a rake, but he wasn’t shy around women either. The thought of simply dallying with Rebecca, however, just didn’t sit well with him. Besides that, she didn’t seem to be the type of woman one could easily forget after having any sort of relations with her — he should know. He couldn’t rid her from his mind after just a couple of kisses.

  “I’m going down to dinner,” was all he said, walking out the door without looking back at Archie. “Then we will prepare for tomorrow.”

  * * *

  This was now the third dinner Rebecca had taken part in at Stonehall Estate, and her nerves were becoming quite fraught at the thought of her father saying the wrong thing, which would divulge the reality of their current circumstance.

  Thus far, he had primarily droned on about past projects — which was by far his favorite topic of conversation, and yet a safe one so long as he didn’t suddenly believe he was in the midst of one of those renovations as opposed to those at Stonehall Estate or Wyndham House.

  Mrs. St. Vincent far preferred to discuss members of the nobility, though Rebecca wondered whether she knew many of those she insinuated she was great friends with. Not that it mattered to Rebecca who one was friends with. In fact, she rather wished she had the chance to have close friends of her own, but she and her father had never stayed long enough in any one location, and if she did make friends, it was usually with noblemen’s daughters who enjoyed her company while she was there but would never further any acquaintance. Much like her current situation with the duke and his sister.

  Though there was something about Jemima that was rather different from most of the young ladies Rebecca had become acquainted with in the past…

  “Are you tired of us yet?” Jemima asked now, leaning over from her seat beside Rebecca.

  “Of your family?” Rebecca asked in surprise.

  “Why, yes,” Jemima said, laughing, then lowered her voice so that no others could hear, though it would be difficult for them to do so over Rebecca’s father’s droning on or Mrs. St. Vincent’s lilting voice. “Surely you must be tired of hearing Mother regale you with all of the ladies she has recently met, and with Valentine’s brooding over the fact that he has had the awful misfortune to become a duke.”

  “Your brother is… interesting,” Rebecca said carefully, thinking of all the other emotions that came along with Valentine St. Vincent — ones that she certainly was not going to share with his sister.

  “So he is,” Jemima said carefully, giving no family secrets away. “I am most fortunate. Most brothers would scoff at my work and suggest that now, as a lady, I might prefer needlework or water colors.”

  The pointed look she directed toward her mother explained just where she had heard such sentiments.

  “However,” she continued, affection filling her face, “Val has been more than understanding. He has provided me all that I have needed, including materials and workspace. But it’s more than that,” she said, her blue eyes glinting. “He believes in me. That, Rebecca, is worth more than you can ever know.”

  Rebecca nodded slowly, a pang of pain striking within her breast. Even in his more lucid moments, her father was in denial of her work. She knew she possessed some skill, but his approval would mean the world to her. To know that her work was not only admired by a world-class architect but by her father — her idol and her tutor — would mean everything. Instead, he acted as though she was simply drawing his ideas instead of creating her own.

  “I understand,” she said, and Jemima must have read the sincerity in her voice for she clapped her hands, just once, excitedly in front of her face and smiled enthusiastically. “I actually have a friend I am very close with who I am sure you would get along well with. Her name is Miss Keswick and she is, of all things, an astronomer.”

  “An astronomer?” Rebecca repeated, feeling like a dunce.

  “It’s all right, I wasn’t particularly well versed in it before, and Celeste has taught me quite a bit — well, as much as I am interested in knowing,” Jemima said. “We have formed a bit of a partnership, I suppose you could say. We discuss our aspirations, our challenges, the difficulty in doing what intrigues us without a proper education nor any hope of being recognized for our ideas.”

  “You never know,” Rebecca said optimistically. “Men might come around one day.”

  Jemima sighed. “You are pretty, Rebecca, and you seem quite intelligent, but sometimes you just have to accept something as truth instead of holding onto optimism.”

  “So tell me this,” Rebecca said, holding up a finger. “If you make an astounding discovery one day, you will not be able to claim it?”

  “Yes and no,” Jemima said. “I will try, though my best chan
ce is to do so under my brother’s name.”

  “No!” Rebecca said, loudly enough to capture the attention of others at the table and she calmed slightly.

  Jemima smiled. “I agree, it is quite provoking. I will try, though, Rebecca, I promise you that. But first,” she raised a glass, “to discoveries!”

  As they clinked glasses, Rebecca smiled at Jemima, understanding her completely. She longed for recognition of her work, for people to look at her own designs — not those of her father — and say, “Ah, this must be the work of Rebecca Lambert.”

  But in order to continue doing what she loved, she would likely have to allow all to think her work was her father’s. No one would ever take a woman seriously, let alone hire one.

  She longed to be able to tell Jemima of her own passion, to share with her both her successes and failures — to have someone to talk to, to understand her. How amazing it would be to not only have friends of her own but to be able to share with them who she truly was and what drove her.

  Although, there was one thing that she certainly could not tell Jemima about, and that was the longings she had for the woman's brother.

  The man who was only a duke in name. Who sat there at the end of this long table with the most uncomfortable look on his face as he surveyed the room, who put more effort into avoiding conversation with the rest of them than into actually making them feel comfortable.

  Who she knew, behind it all, was warm and passionate and could turn her to liquid with one look.

  He caught her eye and before she could even pretend that she hadn’t been looking at him, he slowly turned his lip up in a smirk, as though to tell her he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

  He held her gaze as he pushed back his chair and rose. “My apologies, but I would ask you all to excuse me. I must turn in early, for there is somewhere I must be tomorrow. I will be out all day, so please do not look for me.”