The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11) Page 8

  If she became his duchess, he’d go about introducing her to lovemaking properly in an oversized bed covered in yellow satin sheets—because, after all, yellow was her favorite color. He’d fill 19 Bedford Square’s gardens with yellow roses and every other imaginable yellow flower there was.

  Sunflowers. Foxgloves. Primroses. Daffodils. Dahlias. Daisies. Marigolds. Hollyhocks…

  The current owner of the house had insisted on meeting with Fletcher in person, which meant a trip to Warwick. Elliot Pritchard, a lean, handsome, soft-spoken man at perhaps the end of his sixth decade, desired to know why Fletcher wished to buy the house.

  Quite irregular, truth be told.

  Typically, sellers only cared about how much they could gain from the sale of their property. Though Pritchard’s request struck Fletcher as unusual and the timing was inconvenient for a long day trip to Warwick, he’d acquiesced.

  Mostly because he wanted the damned house.

  Wanted it because of the minx who lived next door.

  Every night, often with a tumbler of whisky in hand, he stood in his—well, Pritchard’s— fragrant garden and gazed toward 17 Bedford Square. It had taken Fletcher three days, but he’d finally identified Rayne’s third-story bedchamber. Centered between the other chambers, hers looked out onto the gardens.

  He’d suspected it might, and his diligence had paid off.

  She often pulled the draperies aside and, in her nightclothes with that glorious hair, a burnished curtain around her slender shoulders, gazed out onto the garden. Or mayhap, it was the night sky that intrigued her. Or…perchance—and he desperately wished that were the case—she looked into his gardens, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

  Over a cup of delicious oolong tea, he’d shared the story of Rayne’s visits to the gardens with Mr. Pritchard. How, in such a short time, she’d come to mean a great deal to him. That, Fletcher admitted aloud for the first time, he was seriously contemplating making her his duchess.

  “Honestly, Mr. Pritchard, I canna bear the thought of anyone else livin’ in the house now.” Chuckling, Fletcher raked his fingers through his hair. “The place has bewitched me.”

  Och, the vixen in the house next door had, for certain.

  One knee flung across the other as he relaxed into the tufted cranberry-red velvet chair he sat in, Mr. Pritchard took a sip of his steaming tea, intently regarding Fletcher over the rim of the dainty cup the whole while. A nascent smile tipped his mouth upward as he effortlessly placed the cup into its matching saucer.

  “You haven’t asked about the stairs on either side of the wall, Your Grace.”

  Fletcher paused in bringing a Shrewsbury biscuit to his mouth.

  “I had assumed they were installed when the houses were built.” Fletcher quirked an eyebrow upward. “Do ye ken their origins?”

  “I do indeed,” Mr. Pritchard replied with another one of his sad, distracted smiles.

  Och, out with it, man. Do I have to beg ye?

  Fletcher cleared his throat and opened his mouth, prepared to do that very thing. He needed to be on his way soon if he meant to reach London by nightfall.

  “Many years ago—oh, it must be close to three-and-thirty now—two people fell in love,” Mr. Pritchard said.

  Fletcher settled back into his chair, prepared to listen to what was in all likelihood a long tale. If that was what it took for Pritchard to sell him the place, he’d stay all bloody damned night.

  “Their families would’ve heartily disapproved had they been aware,” Pritchard said, the merest bit of cynicism or conceivably it was bitterness leeching into his words. “Society would have as well. It didn’t matter to them. They bought houses side by side on Bedford Square and installed the steps so they might secretly rendezvous.”

  Now that took some ballocks.

  Usually, discretion was expected, even for affairs or the keeping of a mistress. Fletcher had never kept a paramour. Oh, he’d enjoyed bed sport on many occasions, but he didn’t go around swiving everything in skirts.

  “For nearly three decades,” Pritchard continued softly as if he was seeing into the past, “they were as happy as anyone in their situation might be.”

  Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder why the lovers didn’t just use the kitchen doors. It was much easier than climbing the wall, particularly as the people had to be nearing fifty if they carried on an affair for thirty years.

  Mr. Pritchard fell silent, tapping his long fingers upon his grey-striped clad knee as he stared out the window, sorrow etching shadows in his features. He’d fallen into several of those weighty silences during the visit.

  “I presume one of them, or perhaps both, were already married?” Fletcher said in an attempt to get him speaking again. He had a long ride ahead of him, and that seemed the most logical reason for two people unable to marry and make a life for themselves.

  Mr. Pritchard brought his grey-eyed gaze to meet Fletcher’s squarely, a bold challenge in his eyes.

  “No, Your Grace. Neither was ever married.”

  What?

  Never…?

  Fletcher regarded him, then comprehension dawned.

  Och. That was the way of it then.

  He made an affirming sound in his throat. Sensing that this wasn’t the end of the tale, he waited uncomplainingly for Mr. Pritchard to go on.

  “Five years ago, Terrance Blakely died from cancer. His death came swiftly, with little warning. Three-and-twenty days, in fact. It gave me far too little time to prepare for life without him.”

  That bloody quickly?

  “I simply couldn’t bear to remain in London, in that house, and so I moved here.” Mr. Pritchard’s attention flitted to the window again and the serene courtyard beyond. “It’s really quite lovely.”

  “I understand,” Fletcher murmured, compassion deepening his voice.

  “Do you, Your Grace?” Mouth quirked sideways, Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “I don’t think you truly can.” He straightened in his chair and, after noiselessly placing both feet upon the floor, set his cup aside. “Nevertheless, it does my heart good to think another may know love at 19 Bedford Square. The house is yours if you are still interested.”

  “Why wouldna I be?”

  Pritchard raised a cynical eyebrow.

  “Och, I’m truly grateful to ye, Pritchard. I promise ye, the house and grounds will be well taken care of.” Fletcher stood and extended his hand.

  Mr. Pritchard also rose, and they shook hands.

  “I do hope to find love and happiness there as well, Mr. Pritchard. My man of affairs will be in touch.”

  “If I might, I would ask one thing of you, Your Grace.”

  Fletcher finished straightening his jacket before glancing upward. “Aye?”

  “Don’t remove the wisteria. I know it’s a lot of work to maintain, but Terrance loved it.”

  Giving a nod, Fletcher grinned. “It’s grown into the plane tree. I’ll only trim it enough to keep it from choking the life out of the tree. My lèannan also adores the vine.”

  “Lèannan?” Two neat lines puzzled Pritchard’s high forehead, made more so by his thinning hair. “I’m not familiar with the word.”

  “It’s Gaelic for sweetheart,” Fletcher told him.

  Was Rayne his sweetheart?

  Could she be?

  19 Bedford Square

  The next day

  Fletcher tapped his fingertips atop the too-small-for-his-frame but serviceable desk in the salon he’d turned into a study because it overlooked the gardens. If all went as expected, the house would legally be his by next week.

  When Leith MacKettrick was assigned a task, he accomplished it with commendable haste and precision. He had every confidence his man would not fail him in this.

  Once the papers were signed, Fletcher could begin the renovations and refurbishing he’d contemplated in earnest. First on the list: a new desk. One he could get his knees under without practically upending the thing.

  He stopp
ed drumming his fingers on the desk and instead balanced both elbows on the surface, creating a vee, and cradled his chin atop his folded hands. The wisteria blossoms had faded, and soon the trailing blooms would be no more.

  Yesterday, he’d sent Rayne a note explaining the previous owner’s fondness for the wisteria and suggested Pritchard might appreciate a sketch. Fletcher bent his mouth into a droll smile. He’d resorted to manipulation in order to see her. Though, in all fairness, he honestly did think Pritchard would value a rendering of the garden.

  Perhaps it would bring the still grieving man a degree of peace.

  Rayne had finally allowed Fletcher to view her drawings, and she’d blushed prettily under his praise. She possessed talent—tremendous skill—in truth.

  Of its own volition, his attention gravitated to the stone wall at the garden’s far end. The majestic chimneys of Sheffields’ manor were visible above the treetops.

  Was Rayne at home?

  In the gardens?

  Was she thinking of him too?

  A jay perched on one of the plane tree’s lower branches and arched its neck, releasing a raspy cry. With a graceful arch of its gray-brown wings, it took to the air and disappeared over the rock wall.

  Upon spying a blue butterfly drifting near the wisteria, he sat up straighter.

  Was it another holly blue?

  Snorting, Fletcher conceded he was hopeless.

  His thoughts constantly migrated to Rayne.

  Tomorrow was the Gravenstones’ much-touted ball. And by George, Asherford had somehow wheedled Fletcher into attending as a peacock.

  A bloody, damned peacock.

  In fact, all of their ducal friends had agreed to go.

  “An ostentation of peacocks for an ostentatious gathering,” he muttered drolly to himself.

  At the awful jest, he snorted aloud again.

  Each duke was to wear a peacock feather domino and a vibrantly colored cloak—purple, green, blue, or turquoise—over their black evening attire.

  Fletcher’s had arrived only this morning—a shimmering aquamarine overlaid with silver and gold sequins. He couldn’t help but be impressed. The color reminded him of the gown Rayne had worn that first day he’d encountered her sneaking into his garden.

  Of more import, however, was that Sheffield had agreed to attend as part of the ducal alliance, and that meant Rayne would also be there. According to Sheffield, his niece disliked masked balls but had agreed to come dressed as a rose. Her first choice of costume, according to a bemused Sheffield, had been that of a nun, but the duchess had talked her out of that stark decision.

  Fletcher and Rayne had shared three more clandestine meetings—all in Sheffields’ gardens. She steadfastly refused to come over the wall again. He hadn’t even been able to tempt her with news that the folly and surrounding area had been left naturalized.

  Forcing his attention to his desk, he scowled at the neatly folded rectangle laid atop his correspondence. He lifted the letter between his thumb and forefinger, and his grimace deepened when he recognized the looping handwriting, smelled a hint of lavender and lilac, and spied the telltale purple wax seal.

  He gave a disgusted growl.

  Another from his mother. One had arrived daily for a week. Twice yesterday, in fact.

  Fletcher supposed she deserved credit for persistence and tenacity.

  He unwaveringly refused to respond to her missives or answer her summons that he attend her at once. He’d been so infuriated at her and Lady St. Lavelle’s highhandedness—and likely Cecelia’s too, though she protested her innocence with tears and a lace handkerchief dabbed daintily upon her rouged cheeks—he’d almost threatened to cut Mother’s funds off.

  Except that meant she’d have to take up residence in the dower house. And God help him for being a wretched son, he didn’t want her anywhere near Levensyde House. How a woman could birth three children so wholly opposite her in every way was beyond him.

  A sharp, evenly spaced knock, knock at the study door broke his unpleasant reverie.

  “Come.”

  Wofford, the newly hired footman, as stiff and formal as ever a man intent on becoming a majordomo someday had ever lived, entered.

  One, two, three steps.

  Heels together.

  Polished shoes perfectly aligned.

  Never two steps or four steps. Just three. Unless Fletcher requested Wofford to remove or bring him something. Then the man moved with the measured precision of clock hands.

  Tick-step. Tock-step.

  Tick-step. Tock-step.

  Given MacKettrick’s irregular sense of humor, he’d likely thought the austere servant a hysterical addition to the household. As had been the one-eyed gardener with a penchant for whisky, the maid with a lisp and two different colored eyes, and the flame-haired, buxom, former prostitute—now acting as Fletcher’s cook.

  Just how recently Tildy Flanney had abandoned her previous profession, MacKettrick hadn’t been precisely clear about. In fact, he’d been downright evasive.

  “Your Grace, you have a visitor,” Wofford elucidated in artfully practiced neutral tones. “A female visitor.”

  Shoulders squared impressively, Wofford looked directly ahead like a well-trained soldier. So much starch stiffened the cravat cutting into his chin, he probably had no other choice but to look forward.

  Fletcher narrowed his eyes.

  How did he manage to turn his head or to look down?

  Wait.

  What?

  A female visitor?

  The last three words finally registered fully.

  Holy hell.

  Fletcher tossed down the unopened letter.

  His mother had dared to show her face here?

  Devil take her and her audacity. The woman knew no bounds. Well, by God, she’d gone beyond the mark this time. It was far past time he set her straight and made the consequences of her meddling in his life known.

  Still seething, a diatribe of unpleasant thoughts parading through his mind, Fletcher stood and pulled on his forest-green, black velvet trimmed coat. “Where is she?”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of showing her to the floral drawing room.”

  As Fletcher hadn’t yet fully furnished the house or seen to redecorating the slightly outdated interior, he supposed that was the wisest decision. The drawing room’s carpet was faded but not threadbare. Though the furnishings were not to his taste, they weren’t in poor repair.

  “Shall I request a tea tray, Your Grace?”

  “Nae, Wofford. She willna be here long enough to enjoy a cup of yer most excellent tea.”

  Wofford prided himself on his tea-making skills the way an artist took pride in a portrait. With the haughty aplomb of the Prince Regent, the servant regally lifted his nose. “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Fletcher could’ve told the loyal servant to toss the baggage waiting in the floral drawing room out on her haughty hind end, and he would have done so without a blink and the same enunciated, “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Marching along the corridor, Fletcher rehearsed precisely what he intended to say to his irksome mother. He’d just remembered a seldom-used—never used, truth to tell—cottage in Scotland she might be banished to. Just the threat of sending her there ought to be enough to curb any further interference.

  Throwing the door open, he strode in. “If ye think ye can waltz into my home without prior notice…”

  His words trailed away at the serene vision before him.

  Rayne sat primly on the floral chintz settee, her hands folded in her lap and a basket near her feet on the floor. The primrose yellow gown she wore enhanced the coppery strands in her hair that her bonnet didn’t cover. Her color high and eyes bright, she looked as lovely and fresh as a dewdrop on a rose petal.

  However, at his abrupt entry, the color drained from her face, and her winsome smile faded.

  A wide-eyed, pale-faced maid wearing a soft gray gown sat straight as a poker in a chair in the corne
r of the room. The curious servant’s mouth sagged, and her eyebrows climbed high on her forehead as she looked between Fletcher and Rayne.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Back and forth like the pendulum of a well-oiled clock.

  “Och, it’s ye,” Fletcher offered clumsily, still slightly taken aback to see Rayne sitting in his salon when she’d been so adamant, she’d not accept his invitation. Was she here because of his request she draw the wisteria for Pritchard?

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t think to send a note around.” Her guarded focus shifted to something behind him. “I misunderstood. I thought the invitation to sketch in the gardens was an open one. You did ask that I draw the wisteria for Mr. Pritchard,” she reminded him primly.

  Och, so that was the reason. Or…perhaps it was a viable excuse she could use to explain why she was here—a benevolent act for a grieving man. No one could find fault with altruistic intentions.

  What twaddle. Of course, they could find fault.

  “Please forgive the interruption. I’m sure you are very busy.” Glancing over her shoulder, Rayne canted her head toward the goggling maid. “Maisy, we shan’t be visiting the duke’s gardens today after all.”

  Rayne made to collect her basket and rise.

  Holding his palms out in a staying motion, Fletcher advanced to meet her.

  “Nae, lass. I thought ye were someone else. Please forgive my brusqueness.” He lifted her hand, pulling her to her feet and lightly touched his lips to her glove-covered knuckles. She was all propriety today.

  Gloves and a bonnet.

  Was that for his benefit or to waylay any possible gossip?

  “Ye are always welcome.” He lowered his voice so the maid couldn’t hear him. “Day or night.”

  Twin spots of color appeared on Rayne’s cheeks, but a radiant smile wreathed her face, and she made no move to take her hand from his. “Thank you. Are you positive I’m not interrupting?”

  “Never. I’ll always make time for ye.”

  “I can come back another day,” she said, glancing toward the doorway. “I just thought if I’m to draw the wisteria, I needed to do so sooner rather than later. The blossoms are already fading.”