The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
shed in a futile bid for freedom.
“Miss Burke?”
She opened her eyes, lifting them only enough to focus on his high-shine black boots. “I beg your pardon. I—I was looking for… I’ll just go—”
The boots took two deliberate steps toward her, one for each word. “Go where?”
Why on earth had she imagined she would find her journal in his private chambers? “To—to look elsewhere?” She hated that note of doubt in her own voice. The satchel had contained important papers, and a duke surely had a study or an office or some other room where the business of the estate was conducted. But she would just as surely get lost trying to find it. Who knew which wing it might be in?
“I think not.”
Her chin jerked up again, seemingly of its own accord. “I beg your pardon?”
“I would not wish to impede your search, Miss Burke. Whatever it is you may be seeking.” Something, not quite humor, glimmered in his eyes, though it did not displace their usual dark intensity. “But I fear you are in some distress.” Now his gaze darted over her before coming to rest on some piece of furniture behind her. Was that a flush of color across his cheeks? “Hence, I presume, your…dishabille.”
Oh, no. She’d been distracted. But she couldn’t possibly have rushed from her room without…
As she clutched her arms instinctively across her chest, she felt the sides of the dressing gown gaping open. The braided silk cord designed to hold the garment closed had worked its way loose. She was standing in the private quarters of a gentleman with her shift on display. Briefly, she considered diving into one of the suits of armor to hide.
And never coming out.
Instead, he turned away, back toward the door through which he’d silently entered. “One moment, please.” He was gone long enough for her to tighten the sash of her dressing gown, but not long enough for her to think of escaping. When he returned he held her journal in his hands. “Could this be what you’re looking for? I intended to ask one of the servants to return it to your room.”
She hardly heard him. Yesterday’s encounter in the inn was replaying in her mind. Though Tristan readily extended the book to her, he maintained his grip for a moment longer than necessary, after her own fingers had clasped the cover. Her panic must have been visible on her face, for he said, a little defensively, “You may rest assured I am not in the habit of reading young ladies’ secret diaries.”
“It’s not a—”
Well, it was a diary, if by diary one meant a book containing private thoughts not meant to be shared. More accurately, though, it was not only a diary. She’d begun it to keep a scientific record. On occasion, however, other things found their way into the journal, with the result that its pages were a cryptic jumble of lists, memoranda, notes, and illustrations. She’d been forced to create her own system—if system it could be called—to keep track of it all. If anyone ever did decide to look into the book, she took some solace in the idea that no one else would be able to make heads nor tails of it.
“It contains the botanical observations I’ve made over the last few months,” she said, clutching the journal in one hand and the opening of the dressing gown with the other.
“Botany, eh?” There was surprise in his voice. It might have been matched in his expression, but she would never know. She could not bring herself to meet his eye. “Following in your father’s footsteps?”
Papa was a dabbler, a dilettante. She was serious. A scientist. Still, she hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
“I’m sure he is gratified by your interest.”
Gratified? Perhaps. She wanted to make him proud. Her given name might belong to a common shrub, but she intended someday to pin her surname on something extraordinary.
Of course, a botanical discovery was never easy to make. An unmarried young lady who wasn’t even allowed to walk through a manicured park without a chaperone might find it impossible.
“Though I suspect he would advise you to take better care of your notes,” he added.
She folded the journal against her breast like a shield. But the words had already found their mark. What must it be like to be so blessedly sure of one’s self? “You’re right, of course. I shall endeavor to do better.” She curled her fingers tighter around the book’s cover, feeling her fingernails dig into the soft leather. If it were not so precious to her, she might have lobbed it at his head. Instead, she turned toward the double doors, which still stood open behind her, intending to take her leave.
A youthfully pretty woman, clad all in black, stood on the threshold. Under ordinary circumstances, Erica might have taken her for Tristan’s elder sister. But based on what he had revealed about his family, this elegant woman of not quite middle age must be his stepmother, the duchess.
Gathering her wits, her courage, and the trailing skirt of her dressing gown, Erica sank into a deep curtsy, from which she did not rise until the duchess said, “You must be Miss Burke.”
If she did not speak, Tristan would speak for her. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Dean told me of your arrival. How frightened you must have been to discover yourself stranded.” The Duchess of Raynham was one of those rare women whose spark was not dimmed by the unrelieved black of mourning. Instead, the black crape set off her porcelain skin and fair hair. She studied Erica with lively blue eyes. “I’ve sent my maid to your room with some necessary items I hope will fit.” There was amusement in her gaze, but no judgment, as she took in Erica’s current state of undress. “I know you must be exhausted and terribly worried about your sister, but if you’ll join us for dinner this evening, we shall try to supply a few hours’ diversion, won’t we?” Her eyes flashed to her stepson for confirmation.
Dinner? With the duke? Erica swallowed hard. Frankly, she’d rather have been left to starve in the cottage.
Nonetheless, she forced herself to answer in the affirmative. Because the duchess seemed to expect it. As she also seemed to understand that being alone might be worse. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, risking another, shallower, curtsy. “You are too kind.” Despite her caution, the dressing gown slid off one shoulder, baring her shift to view.
Behind her, Tristan made a gruff noise in his throat. Disapproval, whether at the invitation or her acceptance of it, she was not sure.
Without waiting to be dismissed, without even begging the duchess’ pardon, she hurried through the door, head bowed, as if charging back into the storm, praying she would be able to find the shelter of her room.
Chapter 5
Only vaguely aware of his movements, Tristan stepped forward, once more wondering which posed the greater danger: letting Erica walk away, or going after her.
His stepmother settled the question by taking his hands in her own. “Tris! Thank God you’re home.”
Her words and the gentle pressure of her fingers drew his attention to her face. People could be forgiven for wondering whether his father had married his second wife late in life solely because she was young and pretty. Others no doubt assumed that her inheritance, in both property and funds, had been the particular point of interest. But Tristan had always suspected her name.
He bowed over their clasped hands. “Guin.”
The former Miss Guinevere Shepherd, now the Duchess of Raynham, turned her head obligingly to receive his kiss on her cheek. But even after he had straightened, she continued looking over her shoulder.
“Miss Burke seems rather a wild thing. Is it possible you stumbled upon a brownie?”
Tristan gave a small smile. Brownies were domestic spirits, helpers around hearth and home. The creature in this case seemed more likely to cause mischief and mayhem. “A will o’ the wisp, I’d say. Or perhaps a leprechaun.”
“Ah,