The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
think of no rational objection to Lord Easton’s scheme. Percy was gone; no need to wax sentimental upon that point. A woman of Caroline Pilkington’s impeccable breeding and upbringing could prove a useful addition to the corps that managed Hawesdale. In practical terms, a duke needed a duchess. And an heir.
But if today had shown him nothing else, even he could not always be practical.
“Not if she dares to suggest that you and my sister belong anywhere other than Hawesdale.”
Color burned into Guin’s cheeks and disappeared as she rose and moved toward the door. “She had suggested nothing of the sort, and I daresay she would not. You will—you must judge for yourself.” Almost over the threshold, she added, “You shall have ample opportunity to get to know one another—this infernal rain seems determined to hold us all prisoner here forever.”
Though his stepmother had given him much food for thought, her mention of the weather sent his mind straying once again to Miss Burke. Years of gathering information on behalf of the Crown had taught him to be curious. Even, at times, suspicious. No doubt the secrets she kept were perfectly mundane. Nevertheless, he should tell Mr. Armitage, the butler, to post a footman at the entrance to his rooms. He wanted no future intrusions. No surprises.
No tantalizing glimpses of soft linen and softer skin beneath.
With a sharp tug, he straightened a perfectly straight sleeve. If he needed a woman—and obviously he did if he was foolish enough to feel a surge of arousal not just at the sight of Erica’s bare shoulder but, earlier in the day, at even her muddy rump—perhaps he’d better focus his thoughts on Caroline Pilkington after all.
Half an hour later, he descended to dinner. Three steps from the bottom of the staircase, he heard a noise behind him and paused. A rustling sound, the irregular patter of hesitant footsteps, a quiet “oh, dear.” Erica emerged into the sconce’s light, looking over her shoulder as if fearful someone might be following her.
She was wearing a shimmering blue gown, something Guin must have put aside during her mourning. When compared to how Erica had looked in her mud-stained traveling dress, the transformation was extraordinary. And he’d been attracted enough—dangerously so—to the dirty, disheveled version.
He tried to shift out of her path, but too late. Another few steps and they collided.
“Oh. Your Grace. I’m dreadfully sorry. Sorry for bumping into you… Although…well, actually, I’m rather glad I bumped into someone.” As she shifted slightly from side to side, her skirts swayed and caught the light. “I wonder if you could…or rather, if you would, for of course you must know the way to the dining room in your own house…”
He fought the urge to mutter an imprecation against Guin’s generosity. Who was this woman in the garb of a duchess with titian curls tumbling down her back? Half lady, half…he hardly knew what. Siren, perhaps.
Erica caught him studying her. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”
Perhaps he ought to be grateful for the opportunity to keep an eye on his unpredictable guest. “It would be my pleasure to escort you,” he said, holding out an arm.
True to form, she did not take it. “I am sorry about this afternoon,” she said as they walked along the first-floor corridor toward the west wing. “It must have seemed as if I were snooping. You have every right to be angry with me—”
“Nonsense,” he said, a little more adamantly than he had intended. Many things in life were out of a man’s control. All the more reason to keep a tight rein on those things that were well within it. Anger was a reckless emotion that could be easily exploited by one’s enemies.
He was, however, frustrated. Frustrated with himself. He had laid out his life with the utmost care. He didn’t need any diversions. Any distractions. If only he hadn’t… Or she hadn’t… Damn this rain.
“Because of your stepmother’s invitation, then?” she prodded.
“Nonsense.” A surprisingly useful response where Miss Burke—and his interest in her—were concerned. He would repeat it until he was convinced of its truth.
“I have no wish to intrude on a family party. If you’ll make my excuse to the duchess, I’ll gladly return to my room,” she insisted. Panic flickered through her eyes as she cast a glance toward the footmen who stood ready to open the dining room doors. Despite the elegance of the gown, she looked like a wild creature caught in a trap.
Why subject her to the Lydgates’ stares or the tight-lipped disapproval of the rector’s wife? Why compare her side by side with Caroline just to remind himself of the sort of woman a man in his position ought to desire? It would be kinder just to let Erica go.
But he was a duke now. And if he’d learned anything at all from his father, he knew that dukes were rarely kind and sometimes—often—selfish.
“Nonsense,” he told her, his voice softer now. Draping her hand over his arm, he led her across the threshold.
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