The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
“I hope you did not think it was necessary to invite her to dine with us for my sake.”
“For her own, rather. She cannot stay locked in her room, worrying herself into a shadow.” She swiveled her gaze back to him. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that a stranded traveler is beneath a duchess’ notice?” she asked, one eyebrow bent in a scold.
He knew better to suggest any such thing. Guin had never been one to pride herself on rank, contrary to the gossips’ assumption that she had married a man twice her age solely for the elevation of status that had come with it.
As she studied Tristan, the flash of defensiveness in her eyes was quickly replaced by a flicker of curiosity. “She certainly seems to have caught yours…”
He pushed aside the memory of a vibrant curl caressing a curve of pale skin. No, no. It was her journal that had piqued his curiosity. I am not in the habit of reading young ladies’ secret diaries. Not quite a lie, far easier to tell than the truth. And in fact he’d not succumbed to the temptation to read it, though it was impossible not to wonder what the leather-bound book contained. Something that had possessed her to go searching for it wearing…well, very little at all.
Rather than attempt to deny his interest, he led Guin to a chair. “You are well?”
The abrupt turn in the conversation seemed to draw attention rather than divert it. Eyes narrowed, Guin watched him for a long moment before answering. “Well enough.”
Tristan sat facing her and crossed one booted leg over the other knee. “And my sister?”
“Vivi is…” Guin paused to arrange her inky skirts around her, her eyes following the restless movement of her own fingers. “Vivi.”
“She hinted at some difficulty with her governess.”
“I do not believe Viviane is the first child to sneak away from her lessons for an hour,” his stepmother said with a shrug, though the gesture conveyed defeat more than indifference. “She’s bored, Tris. I cannot find a governess whom the girl cannot outwit. Miss Chatham came with impeccable references, and yet…” Her shoulders rose and fell again. “I have thought of hiring a tutor…”
A young man teaching a girl, the two of them closeted alone together for hours? And not just any girl, but the daughter of a duke, who would one day be a wealthy young woman? No, not even for the sake of Viviane’s bright mind would he countenance such a risk. “Next you’ll be talking of sending her off to Harrow,” he said, hoping the retort would pass for teasing. Truth be told, sometimes he feared that even the esteemed boys’ school would be an insufficient challenge for his sister.
“Nonsense. The public schools exist for the sole purpose of beating the creativity out of children.” If she also teased, the edge in her voice undercut the humor.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Quite literally, I’m afraid. And in any case, you couldn’t bear to be parted from your daughter.”
“No,” she confessed and smiled weakly. “You know me too well.”
“I will speak to her,” he said, leaning forward to pat his stepmother’s hand.
“Thank you. She is not quite old enough for a formal dinner, so I did not ask for her to join us tonight.” Perfectly proper, of course. He hid his disappointment with a nod of understanding. “But Vivi hopes to see you upstairs for breakfast, I know.”
Guilt prickled along his spine, forcing him to sit up straighter. How could he have forgotten their schoolroom tête-à-têtes, mornings of toast and marmalade and giggling schoolgirl confidences? “Of course.”
“The sight of your trunk had her in raptures—the fortnight between its arrival and yours was agony. I ordered the servants not to open it until you gave orders, but I learned later that she was so eager to imagine you here, she saw to its unpacking herself. Truth to tell, I could not fault her enthusiasm. Oh, it is good to have you back.” With a sigh of relief, she looked him up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance, lingering over the showy trimmings of his uniform. “And home to stay.”
The last words rose on a questioning note, but he made no answer to them. Though the matter of the trunk suggested she knew something of the secretive nature of his mission, as had his father, his stepmother could not be expected to understand his current dilemma. His disdain for the role that had been thrust upon him, as opposed to the one he’d chosen for himself. The irresolvable tension between society’s expectation that an officer would of course resign his commission in favor of his obligations as a gentleman, and what Tristan had come to see as his greater duty.
The Duke of Raynham safeguarded the well-being of hundreds of tenants.
Major Laurens, however, safeguarded the nation.
And from the moment he had set foot on Hawesdale lands, he had felt the difference like a weight. While his father had buried himself beneath weighty tomes of Arthurian legends, other men had managed Hawesdale Chase admirably. Doubtless they could continue to do so. To replace an intelligence officer’s unique knowledge of the French army’s movements and intentions would be considerably more difficult. Perhaps impossible. Considerably more was at stake than Tristan’s family could ever know.
He had come home, yes. Duty—and his commanding officer—had demanded it.
But he could not promise to stay.
“I hope you are not angry with me?” she ventured.
“For what cause?”
Once more, she cast her eyes downward. “It is no longer my place to invite guests to this house.”
“Into which house ought you to invite them, then?” he asked dismissively. “Hawesdale is your home, and Vivi’s, for as long as you wish it to be.”
“Your future bride may have her own ideas.” She glanced up. Wondering, he supposed, whether he knew of Lord Easton’s plan to marry him to his daughter. Worry clouded her bright eyes.
His first reaction to Vivi’s announcement had been a huff of laughter. As a second son with a proclivity for finding himself in dangerous situations, he had adopted a philosophy of detachment where women were concerned. Lust was an inconvenience to be dealt with in the most efficient manner possible. Love—messy, unpredictable, unnecessary—was to be avoided. Marriage had never entered into his mind.
“Why do you suppose Percy never came to the point with Miss Pilkington?” he asked, skirting, but not entirely avoiding, the subject.
“Oh, you know Percy,” she demurred, although truth be told, neither of them had known his brother especially well. Percy had always kept a rigidly respectful distance from his stepmother, refusing even her suggestion that he use her given name within the family. An attempt to punish their father for marrying a woman younger than his elder son, perhaps. But the shadow of pain that crossed Guin’s expression as she spoke now made it clear she had also felt the slight. “He always was set in his ways.”
A less charitable analysis would suggest that his brother had simply been too much like his father—focused on gratifying his own desires rather than fulfilling his responsibilities, despite the rapid approach of his fortieth year. But surely Percy had known that marriage would not require a duke’s heir to give up the comforts of town life, his clubs, his mistress. “Perhaps he came into the country in the spring intending to propose,” Tristan ventured.
The merest hint of skepticism played around her lips. “Perhaps.”
“Did you ever hear him express any dissatisfaction with the match?”
“No, never. Anyone would say she is an ideal choice for a man in his position. She comes from ancient and impressive families on both her mother’s and her father’s side.”
“And a substantial dowry, I suppose.” Percy would have made sure of everything.
Guin nodded. “I believe so. She’s also quite lovely,” she added,