The Duchess of Love (7 page)

She elbowed her sister. “See?” she whispered. “Greycliffe has been watching for you. He can't look at anyone else.”

“Oh.” Ditee flushed a deep red. She smiled shyly, and Greycliffe grinned back at her. Angels might as well have broken into song and hearts and flowers rained from the sky. Clearly as far as the two of them were concerned, there was no one else in the room.

It would be rather revolting if Venus didn't love Ditee so much.

Of course Mr. Valentine, standing to the duke's left, hadn't noticed Venus's existence. He was bent over slightly, listening to something Mrs. Fedderly was saying.

And when he did see her—

Panic closed her throat. She couldn't greet him amid all these people, especially after the way she'd left him yesterday.

“I think I'll go around this way,” she whispered to Ditee. “I'll see you in the garden.”

“All right.” Ditee clearly hadn't heard a word Venus said; she was too focused on Greycliffe.

Fortunately, the door to the dining room was just to Venus's right. She slipped through without Mama or Papa noticing—and almost bumped into Mrs. Edgemoor.

“Oh, Miss Venus,” Mrs. Edgemoor said, looking more than a little harried, “I'm so glad you're here. I know you're a guest, but I was wondering if you might help me with Cook?”

“What's the problem?” Venus asked, taking her arm.

“Cook isn't used to managing for so many people. One of the village girls I hired in to help knocked over a plate of cheese by accident, and Cook started shouting. She is threatening to quit on the spot. Mrs. Shipley is trying to calm her, but we thought perhaps you could do a better job of it.”

Venus would tame wild animals if it meant being somewhere Mr. Valentine was not. “I'll be happy to see what I can do.”

 

Where the hell was Venus?

Drew smiled at the wizened little woman—Miss Wardley?—who was, he hoped, the last guest he had to greet. Nigel had deserted him as soon as the Collingswoods—minus Venus, damn it—arrived. Apparently Venus had come with them; Mr. and Mrs. Collingswood looked dumb-founded when they discovered she wasn't at their side.

A dancing bear could have appeared and Aphrodite wouldn't have noticed; she had eyes only for Nigel—eyes that widened when she realized Nigel wasn't the duke. Nigel wasted no time in reassuring her and starting a discussion about some obscure Latin translation with her and her parents. The four of them then vanished into the study, leaving Drew to do the welcoming by himself for the last fifteen minutes. But the end was in sight, he hoped.

“You're really a duke?” Miss Wardley—or perhaps the name was Woodley—asked.

“Yes, madam, I am.” And he was never going to pretend otherwise. If she would just move along, he could find Venus, confess, and, with luck, persuade her to forgive him. He only hoped she hadn't realized the truth already and consigned him to the devil.

“You look too young to be a duke.” Miss Whatever-her-name-was blinked up at him suspiciously.

He would definitely have to take to powdering his hair even if it caused him to sneeze his head off. “I assure you I've had the title since I was thirteen.”

“Hmm.”

He forced himself to keep smiling. There was no one ascending the stairs behind Miss Wardley-Woodley yet, but the longer he stood here, the higher the odds became someone else would arrive. Damn Lady Mary for spreading the word through her friends in the
ton
. As bad luck would have it, there was an infestation of society sprigs at a house party only a few hours' ride away.

Hopefully those “guests” wouldn't linger. He'd already told one fellow it would be completely impossible for him to stay overnight.

Miss Woodley was examining him as if he were an animal in the Royal Menagerie. If he showed her his signet ring, would that satisfy her? He raised an eyebrow and tried for his haughtiest expression.

That did the trick. She broke into a wide smile and clapped her hands. “Oh, wait until I write my sister. She won't believe I met a real duke—and a young, handsome one to boot!”

With that, she finally toddled off. Drew waited until she'd moved about ten steps away, and then he fled his post.

Where was Venus? It was infernally difficult to look for her. In every damn room someone wanted to talk to him. He endured the twaddle as patiently as he could; he didn't want to raise speculation by dashing around as if he'd lost something … which of course he had.

He came within an ames-ace of being trapped by Mrs. Higgins and her annoying daughter at the dining room sideboard and had to dodge into the parlor to miss Lady Mary. He did Nigel a great favor by misdirecting the Widow Blackburn when she inquired as to his cousin's whereabouts. Finally he found Venus in the blue drawing room, talking to Mrs. Fedderly.

He paused on the threshold. She was partly turned away from him; he could see her elegant back and profile. Rather more hair tendrils than strictly fashionable had escaped from the knot on the top of her head; she swatted at them as she responded to something Mrs. Fedderly said.

His spirits—and something else—lifted. He must be grinning like an idiot.

But he couldn't smile yet. He still had some very rough ground to get over. He approached cautiously.

Mrs. Fedderly saw him first. “Well, look who's here.”

Venus glanced over her shoulder and then turned to face him. “Mr. Valentine.”

Venus couldn't see Mrs. Fedderly's expression, but he could. The woman's eyebrows shot up to disappear into her coiffure, and then a look of amusement crept over her face. The blasted female was looking forward to seeing how he got out of this mess.

“Mrs. Fedderly, Miss Collingswood.” He bowed. “I was sorry to miss you when you arrived, Miss Collingswood. I saw your parents and sister—what became of you?” Blurting out his identity in front of Mrs. Fedderly wasn't at all appealing.

Venus suddenly looked vaguely unwell. “Mrs. Edgemoor asked my help with a problem.”

“Oh? And were you able to assist her?”

“Yes.”

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. They stared at each other while the silence stretched out—and Mrs. Fedderly giggled.

They both glared at her.

She cleared her throat. “Sorry.” She made a sort of strangled noise. “I suppose you both are wishing me at J-Jericho.” She covered her mouth, but wasn't entirely successful at muffling her mirth.

Drew smiled as politely as he could. He was not going to deny it. “I'm sure there are plenty of other people you should speak with.”

“Ah, but none of the other conversations will be half as amusing.”

Drew had no reply to that.

As soon as Mrs. Fedderly left, he and Venus both spoke at once.

“Mr. Valentine, I should apologize—”

“Miss Collingswood, I need to beg your pardon—”

They stopped. Venus flushed and looked down at her hands.

Drew grinned. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all. “Miss Collingswood, I will grant you the choice—which of us should apologize first?”

She laughed then and looked up. “Oh, I suppose I should rather get it over with. I—”

“There you are!”

Drew stiffened. Bloody hell, why did Lady Mary have to find him at this precise moment?

He refused to look over his shoulder. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would go away.

And perhaps pigs would sprout wings and fly.

“I've been looking all over for you, your grace.” Lady Mary put her hand on his arm in a damn propriety fashion and gave Venus her most condescending look. “Oh, I see you are talking to one of those Collingswood girls.” She laughed. “Which one are you?”

Venus looked from Lady Mary to him with wide, shocked eyes. “Your grace?” she whispered.

“What's the matter with—” Lady Mary began.

Drew glared at her, shaking off her hand. “You are interrupting a private conversation, madam. I will thank you to take yourself off immediately.”

Lady Mary drew in an indignant breath, but Venus filled the silence first.

“That's not necessary. I was just leaving.”

He was the duke.

Venus pushed her way out of the room, ignoring Mr. Valentine's—no,
Greycliffe's
—call to stop. If she didn't get outside immediately, the walls were going to close in on her.

He was the
duke
.

Oh, God, how he must have been laughing at her all this time. The silly little provincial. The girl so green she could pass for grass. The little idiot who'd fallen in love with him.

She burst through the terrace doors and struggled to get a deep breath. Damn it, her chest was too tight. She panted, looking around.

All the elegantly dressed strangers were staring at her.

Her eyes met Mrs. Blackburn's. The widow's lips twisted into a smirk, and she bent forward to say something to the tight knot of people around her. Everyone sniggered, and two men pulled out their quizzing glasses to examine her from head to toe.

“You think
this
was what caused Greycliffe to leave Town so abruptly?” the fatter one asked. His tone left little doubt he found the notion beyond astounding.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Blackburn said. “She's at most a small diversion—a way to pass the time until Lady Mary arrived.”

Venus wanted to scratch the harpy's eyes out, but she was shaking too much to do so. And the London people would just laugh at her anyway … the way Greycliffe had been laughing at her.

“Oh, there you are, Venus.” Mrs. Higgins, a tart in her hand, waved to her from a refreshment table set out farther down the terrace. “Will you tell Mrs. Edgemoor the food is running out here? Esmeralda would like more biscuits.”

“Yes, hurry on, do,” Esmeralda said, her mouth only partly clear of crumbs.

“You see,” Mrs. Blackburn said. “She's really little more than a servant.”

Damn, damn, damn. She had to get away, far away, as quickly as she could. She rushed across the terrace and down the steps to the gardens.

“Miss Collingswood! Venus!”

Mr.—the duke—must have got free of Lady Mary. He called to her from the terrace door, creating an even larger spectacle. Mrs. Blackburn and her London friends must be memorizing every detail to relate at all the balls and routs and soirees once they returned to Town.

She would give them one more thing to talk about.

She picked up her skirts and ran.

 

“Lost something, your grace?” Chuffy Mannard called. He was standing with the Widow Blackburn and the other unwelcome London visitors.

Drew had always thought Mannard a fat boil on the
ton
's arse, but he hadn't until just this moment realized how stupid he was. Did the nodcock
want
him to shove his annoying grin down his throat? He would be more than happy to oblige.

Mannard must have realized his peril when Drew took a step toward him. “Er, no offense meant, of course, your grace.”

“I should hope not.” Drew swallowed—with great effort—the rest of what he wished to say. His words would not be at all appropriate for mixed company, and in any event he had more important things to do than castigate Mannard. He had to catch Venus.

Lady Mary slipped by him and linked her arm through Mannard's. “Don't mind his grace, Chuffy. He's
in love
.” She might as well have said he was insane. She turned to Mrs. Blackburn. “This party is sadly flat, don't you agree, Constance?”

Nigel must have given the widow her congé for she nodded immediately. “Yes, indeed. Such a collection of rustics. I don't know how I've kept from falling asleep.”

“We should have room for you at Beswick's party,” Mannard said. “What do you think, Nanton?”

“Right-o.” Nanton wasn't as cabbage-headed as his companions. “Let's leave now.”

“Very good,” Drew said. “Don't let me keep you.”

Lady Mary sniffed. “I'll have a word with Mrs. Higgins about fetching our things,” she said as she and her group of annoying Londoners left.

Thank God. Drew had never been so happy to see the backs of a set of people in his life. Now he could go after Venus. She had quite a head start, but—

“Greycliffe, I've been looking all over for you.” Nigel came up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder.

Drew bit back his impatience with effort and turned. Damn, Mr. and Mrs. Collingswood and Aphrodite were there, too. Why the hell did they have to choose this of all moments to emerge from the study? Venus would be all the way to the Colonies before he could go after her.

He forced himself to smile. “I hope you are enjoying the party?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr. Collingswood said. “Far more than we expected, I'll admit. Mr. Valentine is quite the classics scholar, you know.”

“I know. He puts me to shame.”

Nigel snorted. “I should tell you that his grace is a far better mathematician than I could ever hope to be.”

Drew kept smiling. Surely they were not going to waste precious time trading compliments?

Aphrodite came to his rescue. “But where is Venus? I thought we might find her here with you.” She blushed furiously. “I mean, we didn't see her inside.”

“I believe I saw her heading into the gardens,” Drew said. “I was just on the point of following her to offer my escort.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Collingswood frowned. “She did say she wasn't feeling well, but I thought she'd improve once we got here. Venus is never sick, you know.”

“Perhaps she went home,” Mr. Collingswood said. “It's not far.”

“Nevertheless, I must make sure she's come to no harm,” Drew said. It was unlikely now he'd catch her before she reached the vicarage, but he would knock on the front door when he got there and try to persuade her to listen to him.

“That's not necessary,” Mrs. Collingswood said. “Venus is used to walking all over Little Huffington by herself. It is quite safe. She's never met with unwanted attention.”

Except when she'd encountered him naked at the pond.

“And you can't leave your guests,” Mr. Collingswood pointed out.

“I'm afraid I can and I must,” Drew said. “There is something I need to speak to your daughter about. It can't wait.”

Mr. and Mrs. Collingswood gaped at him, and even Nigel looked surprised, but Aphrodite smiled broadly.

“Then of course you must go, your grace,” she said. “Don't let us detain you another moment.”

He was so appreciative he could have kissed her—if it wouldn't have shocked her and likely earned him a drubbing from Nigel. “Thank you.” He bowed. “Please excuse me.”

He crossed the terrace and descended the stairs, keeping himself to a brisk walk until he passed out of sight.

Then he ran full tilt toward the vicarage.

 

Venus stumbled down the narrow path through the trees. Branches caught her dress and tangled in her hair, pulling out her pins. Her lungs ached from running, and somewhere along the way, she'd got a pebble in her shoe. Now it was digging into the ball of her foot.

And she was crying. Damn it, she'd cried more in the last twenty-four hours than she had in her entire life. She wiped her nose on her sleeve—she still didn't have a handkerchief—and sat down on a rock at the edge of the woods. She could just see the pond through the tree branches.

She tried to take in the calming scent of water and pine and dirt, but her nose was too stuffed from the blasted crying. All she managed was a dismal snuffle.

She jerked off her shoe and shook out the pebble. It bounced off her foot and vanished in the pine needles. Such a little thing, but it had felt enormous.

Maybe that's what this problem with Mr. Valentine—no,
Greycliffe
—would feel like in a week or two: a little, insignificant pebble instead of a large, heavy, crushing rock.

It was possible. Time healed all wounds, didn't it?

She swiped at her nose again.

Everything about him, every word he'd uttered from the moment she'd met him, was a lie. So her feelings for him were a lie as well. They must be, no matter how true they felt now. She couldn't love someone she didn't know.

She pulled her shoe back on.

And what about Ditee? Dear God, it was her fault her sister had fallen into the clutches of the duke's cousin. He must be as culpable as the duke; he hadn't corrected them when they'd met him in the village.

Ditee would be heartbroken, and it was all Venus's fault. She was never going to play matchmaker again.

She walked over to the pond. The water looked as cool and calm as it had when she'd met the blackguard duke. Well, calmer, actually. Archie wasn't here to splash around and disturb the birds.

Had it only been—

Damn
. Something—someone—was coming. She heard branches snapping in the woods behind her. She whirled around just as Greycliffe, the weasel, erupted from the trees.

Her foolish heart leapt to see him. He had leaves in his hair and mud on his breeches and he had never looked so handsome—except, of course, when he'd been naked.

She took a step back and raised her chin, daring him to even try touching her. “Why are you here,
your grace
?”

He flinched at her tone and stopped a good five yards from her. Her foolish feet wanted to go to him.

She turned to examine the pond instead.

“I'm here to apologize,” he said, “and to explain.”

Had he taken a step toward her? She would not look.

“You do not need to apologize, and there is nothing to explain. We have young men in Little Huffington. I've seen them play j-jokes before.” She swallowed more tears. “Someday I'm sure I will find this all very f-funny.”

And if she said another word, she'd burst into tears again and prove she was as great a liar as he.

“It wasn't a joke.”

He sounded so bloody earnest. He stepped nearer, but at least he didn't have the effrontery to touch her. She gave him a cold look to keep him in his place and then turned her attention back to the pond. The ducks were upending themselves to feed on the plants and insects under the surface.

“You see, Mrs. Edgemoor mistook Nigel—that's my cousin—for the duke when we arrived; that's what got the idea stuck in my head,” he said. “People forget dukes can be young.”

She hadn't thought of his age. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Her heart sank. That was far too young for a duke to marry; even she knew that. He would want to sow his wild oats for many more years.

“And then I came upon you, and you assumed I was Nigel, and I saw a golden opportunity, one I couldn't let pass.”

“A golden opportunity?” She sent him a sidelong glance. He'd turned to gaze out over the pond, too, his hands clasped behind his back. He was standing even closer to her, so close their sides almost touched. “What do you mean?”

“A chance to not be Greycliffe for a while.”

She tilted her head to look up at him. His face was unlined; his features still had the curve of youth, but his expression had hardened with knowledge beyond his years.

“Everyone thinks I should be so bloody happy to be a rich duke,” he said, “but they don't know what it's like. They don't know how often the title feels like shackles.”

He turned to face her. His eyes were so blue and clear and … honest.

“My life changed when I was thirteen,” he said. He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, I was no longer me, Andrew Valentine. I was Greycliffe. Men wanted to befriend me and women marry me—or climb into my bed—just because I was a duke. I could have been mad, old, crippled, vicious—it didn't matter. As long as they could call me ‘your grace,' they wanted a piece of me.”

He touched her then, just a light brush along her cheek. He'd lost his gloves somewhere between Hyndon House and the pond. His skin was warm and slightly rough as if he used his hands for more than reading and writing letters. “When I met you, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to be me again. Not a duke. Just a man. Can you understand at all?”

She could. She wasn't a duke, of course, but she'd spent her life wanting people to see her as herself, not as the vicar's daughter or Ditee's little sister.

“Y-yes.” She moistened her lips. She was suddenly breathless. “I suppose I can, y-your grace.”

His brows lowered into a scowl. “Don't.”

“Don't what?” He was so close she could see a faint, thin white line at the corner of his right eye, likely a scar from some childhood mishap.

“Don't ‘your grace' me.”

She put her hands on his chest. “What should I call you?”

“Drew.” He bent closer so his lips were only inches from hers. “Call me Drew, Venus. Please?”

His voice sounded oddly husky. Was he going to kiss her?

She should pull away. She was only the vicar's daughter. He was likely playing with her.

But she didn't think so. She could be wrong, but she would trust her heart in this. Better to risk pain now than spend her life wondering what might have been.

“Drew,” she said, lifting her chin.