Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess (20 page)

“What is what?” Strathavon was confused, thrown off the path of his argument with that innocuous question.

“That mewling!
I think there is a cat in the garden – stranded in the rain, poor thing.”

The next moment, a
terrible yowling spilt the air.

The duke’s gaze f
lew to the French windows at this eldritch wailing.

“
Quick!” Holly shot to her feet and, before he could stop her, she was out through the glass doors, and into the rain, careless of her silvered muslin gown.

With a rising irritation, he followed her, only to find her standing beneath a tree, peering up, while a yapping from the next garden suggested the culprit
behind this sorry tableau.

“I was right, it
is
a cat,” Holly asserted.

“I can see that. I can also see that you are getting soaked.” He did not mention that her dress would be ruined and that it suddenly struck him that she was at her most beautiful during such moments of kindness.

“The poor thing is in the terrors.”

“
It’s that beastly poodle of Sir Harold’s,” agreed the duke.

Holly
gave him a wide-eyed, pleading look. With a sigh, Strathavon peered up into the shadowed greenery. It was too dark to see much more than a pair of yellow eyes peering back at him.

In his opinion, the damned
thing looked more enraged than terrified and the hiss that promptly followed easily confirmed this theory.

“I hardly think the cat is the one at a disadvantage here,” he drawled
.

“Really
, Sylvester, how can you?” Holly exclaimed. “You are being a beast. The dear thing is terrified and must be rescued. Cats are never very good at climbing back down. My mother’s cat wasn’t.”

It took Strathavon a moment to work out what she wanted of him, because
his mind was still reeling at her unprecedented use of his first name.
Rescue?
he thought in disbelief, wondering if she was quite right in the attic, and then applying the same examination to himself.

“Certainly!
It cannot be left up there. I won’t have it.”

He sighed. “Very well, then. I shall ring for a servant.”

Holly, however, did not seem mollified. She shook her head. “Oh, no! There would be a to-do and a crowd, and the poor thing would feel even worse. You’re distressing it.”

The duke stared down his considerable nose at her.
“You don’t mean for me…” he began, only to shortly discover that she did indeed mean just that.

He wondered when it was that he had decided to join her in her obvious madness.

Strathavon’s coat was the latest masterpiece from Weston, just arrived that morning. It was nothing short of blasphemy to ruin the thing by picking up a clawing feline.

“As you will, then
,” he sighed, with a most put-upon air. He only hoped his tailor should never hear of this travesty, else he would undeniably send the duke from his doors in disgrace.

Strathavon would never after be entirely certain how it was that he
had found himself clambering up the tree in the dark, dressed in his superfine coat, in quest of a spitting feline. He was only glad that Avonbury was not there to see it.

“Don’t hurt it!” the
duchess exclaimed when the cat issued a particularly ferocious yowl.

Ten minutes later, he had
miraculously managed to apprehend the creature without himself falling out of the tree or being fatally wounded.

Strathavon felt more than a little miserable, his hands scratched and his coat ruined to such an extent that he was not certain his valet would ever speak to him again.

A
t Holly’s instruction, he deposited the creature in the parlour and shut the door. Holly, however, seemed unimpressed by his dishevelled state, choosing instead to croon over the cat, which was still giving him vicious looks from the carpet, eyes flashing undisguised hostility.

The duke felt ridiculous as he ordered up a meal for what appeared to be a mangy feral cat. It did not seem to realise that Holly was the one to blame for the whole absurd set-up.

When he remarked on this fact, Holly dismissed him with a laugh. “Nonsense – he merely wants a home! Or she, in fact. Calico cats are always female. Some warm milk and a basket near the fireplace should do her wonderfully. Cats are naturally very clean animals. ”

“
Hmph.”

“
I do think she likes you.”

The duke did not dignify that with an answer.
“My coat is well beyond repair,” he remarked casually, hoping to draw some attention to this unfortunate state of affairs, but to no avail. It was a pity that he was too well-bred to concede annoyance.

“Yes, it was very good of you to climb
up that tree – I would have done it myself, but this is hardly a good gown for such pursuits,” Holly replied absently, still fussing over the creature. She instructed her husband to ring for the milk and maybe a fish from the kitchens.

And that was how the Duke of Strathavon unintentionally acquired a cat. The most irritating part of it was that the
feline seemed to take to Holly instantly and, having been provided with nourishment, it had the audacity to let her stroke it and even purr as it curled up next to her.

“I do not think you should be sitting so near to it.”

“Why ever not? She’s hardly a leopard. And she didn’t mean to scratch you, of course – she was frightened. But I think you had better have a glass of brandy and water. Cold, with a little sugar is best. For your nerves.”

The duke gave his wife a dark look, which made her chuckle.

An amused smile still playing at the corners of her mouth, she sent for a styptic to be brought so that she might tend to the scratches on his hands. Her eyes lingered warmly on the duke’s, who instantly decided that fetching the damned cat from the tree had been worth the trouble after all.

“You see, it’s not so bad. Just a silly scratch,” Holly said to him as she held his long
, elegant hands in her little ones. Her voice was low and husky, her eyes appeared hooded in the candlelight.

*

After a week living at St James Street, Holly became convinced that Lady Louisa had been correct about the educational value of sharing a roof with the duke.

Admiral Nelson himself could not have picked a more fortuitously strategic location from which to plan
her next step.

She could ob
serve Strathavon’s habits, gain as much intelligence as she possibly could – it was exactly like staging a military campaign. One had to scout the territory and learn whatever one could, then plan accordingly.

This
was the surest way to decide how best to proceed, how best to marshal one’s troops. But war could lead one either to felicity or ruin: Holly knew that she had to play to win.

When she met Lady Louisa for hot chocol
ate, the woman listened to Holly with great interest, though she did not say what it was that had amused her enough to elicit the small, secret smile with which she took a bite of her biscuit.

“
I think you are doing splendidly. You must always think creatively, my dear, and keep your eyes open. Avail yourself of any helpful circumstance – no matter if it breaks the mundane rules of the polite world. One must always know when a rule wants breaking. Think on your feet, and adjust your plans as you go along!”

“Is
that how you conquered the Duc d’Orleans?” Holly asked, recalling the tale of that impressive coup.

“Oh! That – no, that was merely a very good dress and an even better corset. Monsieur
d’Orleans was ever a man susceptible to splendour. Your Strathavon, on the other hand, must be won with strategy and fun. Though a good corset may help matters along.”

“Fripperies?”
Holly asked, disappointed. She had been envisioning a grand seduction.

“But of course. Love, like war, is based on illusion. On deception. It is a game – that is exactly why you must be ready to cheat and to break rules wherever necessary.”

This
advice was unlike anything Holly had ever been told before: was that really how one ought to play at love and marriage? She would never have thought to liken love with deception. Which she supposed was exactly what made the advice so valuable. Yet this strange world of seduction, in which Lady Louisa had lived most of her life, was entirely foreign to Holly.

Her greatest
object was victory.

Quite aside from laying out her strategy,
the things she learned about the duke also made her fall even deeper in love with him – was such love even possible?

She was learning
a great many unexpected things about the man. She now knew, for instance, that the duke always slept late in the mornings and was awfully grumpy until he’d broken his fast.

He staye
d up late at night, reading and sometimes writing letters and notes. He always kept a coffee pot nearby, to the precise preparation of which he assigned an almost spiritual importance, and he drank enough of the brew to make him most touchingly frenetic.

He could talk about horses with Avonbury for hours on end and he was part
icularly fond of rhubarb tarts, though he could not abide marmalade.

She knew that the duke, while he dressed in fabrics of the finest quality to be had in all of London, could never preside as a
true leader of fashion, because of the unfailing practicality of his appearance. Nor was he even remotely wicked, no matter what some gossips said of him.

The Dastardly Duke was not
all that dastardly. She hoped that he knew it too – just as she hoped that he would one day discover his own capacity for love.

Holly had seen enough of the melancholy man beneath the implacable façade to know that he was quite human. She would almost have preferred it if he were wicked because
then she would not be overcome by the urge to help him defeat his sorrows.

She also learned that
he secretly liked the cat, whom Holly had named Mittens for her white paws, even though he pretended that he did not. They were often to be found together near the fire, and he had even taken to carrying about a length of wool for Mittens to chase.

She also liked to explore
his lordship’s private library, which he had given her permission to do at leisure. One morning, when she found herself free from any plans or engagements, she ventured down there in search of some novel to occupy the quiet hours.

The library was
empty. There was a sole open window that let in a ray of pale autumn sunlight over the rich Persian rugs and the tall bookshelves that covered the walls.

She opened the
other curtains with a flourish, before turning her attention to the heavily laden shelves. As she browsed, a little green book caught her eye – it seemed innocuous next to its neighbours, but Holly drew it out regardless and opened the slim volume at random.

T
hen she blinked, and stifled a gasp, feeling her breath quicken and her skin warm.

The illustration was
like nothing she had ever seen before.

She remembered what Lady Louisa had told
her about the art of seduction.
You must seem artless: weak one moment, yet perfectly in control the next.

Looking at the colourful
tableau of a lady and gentleman in what was a most imaginative pose, Holly was at once fascinated and appalled. More scandalous yet, next to the illustration, there appeared to be
instructions
. Despite herself, Holly looked closer. Was that what her seduction must entail? She felt short of breath just considering it. How could she ever appear artless and in control in the face of such a thing? Was that even possible?

She knew that she ought to
be a lady and close the book. And she would, any moment now. Holly turned the page and examined the next illustration.

D
id Sylvester really read such things? Was this what occupied his attention during his nightly hours in the library?

The thought of the duke
carefully examining these self-same pictures thrilled her in a most secret, feminine corner of her soul.

She could hear the grandfather clock in the entrance hall, echoing through the house. Eyes closed, Holly counted along with it in her head.
One. Two.
Turning over yet again, Holly gazed hopelessly at the curtains, which fluttered gently in the moonlight that seeped through them into the room.

It was her own fault
for reading Mr Hoffmann before bed but she couldn’t seem to fall asleep at all. The tales had been marvellous, but they were also dreadfully chilling in a way one couldn’t put a finger on – much worse than ghosts and mysterious castles.

She’d only read that many in order to distract herself from that green book. But this was worse. Now, s
he couldn’t seem to get to sleep at all.

Rising from her bed, she drew a
blue and white gingham dressing gown about her shoulders and padded downstairs to the library on yet another pilgrimage.

This time, s
he hoped that she could find something dry and unmarvellous enough to calm her nerves and send her to sleep. A lengthy treatise on the migratory patterns of birds of the West Indies might do.

Holly
did not expect to find the library alight with a soft, inviting glow. She hesitated a moment before going in, and found Strathavon seated in a chair next to the fire, reading quietly. He looked up at her with great surprise.

“I…I couldn’t sleep and I thought to find a book,” Holly said, feeling she was expected to explain her strange appearance. Then she felt ridiculous, because what else would
she have been doing in the library? His expression was unreadable and she wondered if she was trespassing.

Remembering the last
time she had ventured there to find a book, and the amount of time she had spent browsing that little green volume brought a hot flush to her cheeks. Noticing this unusual reaction, the duke raised an eyebrow.

“Please, don’t let me deter you.” He indicated the vast shelves behind him.

“Thank you,” Holly said quietly and quickly moved toward the books, feeling even more self-conscious under his unreadable scrutiny.

“It is unsurprising you are restless, my dear.
”

“It is?” H
er words came out absurdly high-pitched and she winced.

“Oh, yes.
The sudden break in your social schedule must be very unsettling,” said his dry voice behind her.

Holly
spun around, surprised and a little relieved that he didn’t know about the book. “Oh, no… It is Mr Hoffmann who is to blame,” she said before realising he was teasing her.

Holly supposed that
she was sleepier than she had believed, not to have noticed something so unusual as teasing. She had grown to believe that the man never teased: he was always so grimly unapproachable that he surely had to be incapable of much levity.

“Mr Hoffmann? I am all astonishment.
What has he done to cause you a restless night?” the duke asked good-humouredly.

Holly
smiled wryly. “Well, I suppose it is my fault, really. I should not read such things before bed – I am never able to sleep after reading uncanny tales. But the temptation is always beyond me. Rose had a lot of fun with this when we were children – she would tell the most dreadful tales once the candle had gone out, and then fall asleep herself, while I lay there watching the restless shadows.”

“You surprise me. I had believed you to be afraid of nothing.”

Now she wasn’t sure if he was still teasing.

“Nothing?”
She repeated softly.

“Just so.
You cannot blame me for this impression. You have a most remarkable spirit. I have never seen an equal to it. You play the domestic mouse, and yet you leap bravely into a
marriage de convenance
, then you run away to London and captivate society – all in a matter of weeks. Does that not take courage?”

He smiled at her
, a long elegant finger tapping his lip thoughtfully as he considered her, and she found herself completely beguiled. She had never seen a smile like that on him before: it was neither cold nor mocking, but something warm. Something tangible and wholly his.

His
words intrigued her. Did she really appear to be fearless? She felt anything but!

For the longest time
, she had believed herself to be nothing more than that same domestic angel that ladies’ magazines liked to laud. Holly had never consciously tried to be brave: she had only done what she’d felt necessary at the time.

She had been besotted, or angry
, or rebellious all of those times. But brave?

“You have me
at sixes and sevens,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know how I should answer you. If I say yes, then my actions will seem arrogant and contrived, and if I say no, then indeed I shall be a mouse. So I will say nothing and venture a question of my own. Are you generally in the habit of reading so late into the night?”

Strathavon looked openly amused now.
“On occasion. When I find myself unable to sleep: it seems Morpheus has not been kind to either of us this night.”

Holly wondered if she
dared ask the reason for his restlessness.

The duke seemed to read her mind, because he chuckled and shook his head. “It is nothing, I assure you. I have been prone to nocturnal wanderings, since boyhood. My br
other was much more given to mornings – he and father would keep most unfashionable hours, going riding soon after sunrise.”

Holly
was extremely touched that he should share such a thing with her. It seemed that memories were the most precious things he had, and he hardly ever spoke of his brother. She was aware of how heavily the loss of him weighed on this enigmatic man.

It was not that he blamed himself for the loss, she had concluded
after watching him with careful eyes: it was that he wished to lock the memories away and to keep them to himself, afraid that they would grow thin, if shared, or fade away like mist in the sunlight.

“I
, too, have never much cared for mornings,” she said, determined to maintain the strangely open mood between them. “But it is excessively difficult to sleep in with one’s family dashing about the place.”

“You have never been away to school then?”

Holly smiled. “No, never. Papa has a very poor opinion of ladies’ academies and mama wouldn’t hear of our going away regardless. She had despised her own time at school. We had a series of governesses, until papa despaired of them, too. He undertook our education himself once the basics, which he finds so irritating, had been covered.”

Having heard Verity speak
about her own schooling, Holly was glad she had been permitted to grow up among her family, quarrelling, playing and running about the grounds in between lessons.

She had
often heard the opinion that children kept in such a liberal environment tended to grow up like weeds, but their father had been very exacting with the level of education they received, though Holly had never herself been very scholarly.

“That would explain your alarming tendency to adopt animals and people,” the duke drawled, brushing cat hair off his coat.

It was only then that Holly noticed that Mittens was sleeping stretched out on the backrest of the duke’s chair, blending in with the shadows. The cosy scene pleased her very much. She took a seat, her search for a book forgotten along with Mr Hoffmann’s eerie tales.

“Do you really find it alarming?
Somehow I do not think so. It isn’t human nature to exist in a vacuum. Yet, I admit I do have a weakness for creatures in distress.”

“Then I will consider myself well warned – I shall speak to an architect about adding a menagerie to
Pontridge, and hope most heartily that Lady Castlereagh’s leopard does not escape for you to find it.”

“A leopard?
Really?”

“Yes, she has one in the country – I believe it amuses her to introduce it to her guests.”

As Holly curled up on the couch, his eyes caught on her bare feet, peeking from under her long night dress. His expression was peculiarly tender.

“No shoes?”

“Shoes?” she said, abashed. “No, it is so warm tonight…”

“You are a curiosity.”

“Am I?” she asked quietly, caught in his piercing gaze.

“Undoubtedly.”

As she watched him, she wished very much that he would take her in his strong embrace and keep her safe and warm forever. The longing swelled within her like a tidal wave. She was full of wishing suddenly, full to bursting, and yet she forced herself to look unruffled, as though she did not in the least care what he chose to do.

Lost in her thoughts, she did
n’t notice the duke move nearer.

The thrill of his hand on her shoulder made her jump, and her heart was suddenly pounding within her chest with such intensity that she was sure he could hear it.

“You are without doubt the most bewildering female I have ever met,” said the duke, with a strange, serious expression on his aristocratic face.

T
ension rose between them, taut as violin strings, until suddenly Holly found herself overtaken by a tremendous yawn.

Strathavon laughed softly, but did not move away.

“I think you had better retire,” said the duke, “else you will oversleep tomorrow and miss your rowing party. What would society do then?”

“Hah! Continue on, I imagine,” she replied, rising
shakily to her feet, and wishing he would offer to retire with her. His eyes seemed to trail her figure, obviously savouring the sight, and she flushed a little, realising that she wore only her night dress and the
robe de chambre
.

Even now, it was a little hard to imagine that he found her worth looking at.

She was very reluctant to go up. It was so good to have someone to talk to about small amusing things, and Strathavon had proved himself to be an excellent conversationalist. The love that she felt for him seemed to flood her and keep her warm, fed by this unexpected and most welcome intimacy.

Strathavon surprised her by rising also.
He came forward and she observed the lethal grace of his every movement. She felt herself hypnotised by the candlelight and his eyes, made lightheaded by the mood of their exchange.

She wondered what he meant to do. And then she wondered if he meant to kiss her. But he just brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with a surprisingly gentle
touch. His fingertips just barely brushed along the skin of her face and she shivered.

Her surprise must have registered on her face, becau
se he said softly, “You hair has fallen in your eyes.”

“Yes,” Holly said breathlessly, hear
t pounding suddenly.

“Well, goodnight, my dear. I shan’t keep you further.”
He took a step back.

As she stood blinking at him
, feeling rather dizzy, it took her a moment to register what he had said.

Then, she wished
him a good night in reaturn and drifted back up to her bedroom, wondering what had almost happened and what may happen yet. She felt a little confused as she tried to make sense of the strange, though very welcome, turn of events.

*

The next morning, Holly woke full of bubbling good cheer at the prospect of boating, bolstered by the warmth of the previous night. Would the duke say anything about it?

She smiled to herself and thought of the day ahead. It would
be so grand to be out on the water again. She had always adored boats. The party was to take place on the Serpentine lake in Hyde Park, and it promised to be very good fun, taking advantage of some of the last fine days to be had that year.

Buoyed by this good mood and the autumn sunshine lighting up her rooms, she picked out
an altogether rakish bonnet of pale velvet, out of which her dark eyes peeked impishly.

Strathavon examined her appearance at leisure as she descended the stairs, his expression one of wry amusement
.

“I am certain that I cannot sufficiently admire the elegance of your hat,” the duke said
by way of greeting. “I have not the least doubt furthermore that it will pass the inspection of all the ladies on the Serpentine.”

“
I can well imagine that you cannot admire it sufficiently. But you needn’t try – it so happens that I admire it enough for both of us. So you see that your endorsement is unnecessary,” the duchess replied brightly, taking his arm and letting him hand her into the waiting carriage.

Once they’d arrived in the park,
Holly enjoyed the sunshine and the way the duke kept near her as her friends came over to say hello.

Holly was delighted to make the acquaintance of
a young man not much older than herself. Lady Hargreaves brought him over, introducing him as Lord Byron, the son of an old friend down from Southwell.

Holly was struck by his remarkable
countenance, which seemed to draw one in completely, and the intense depth of his eyes.