The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
from unwilling sources, and he knew better than to begin by barking at them. But her arrival had caught him off guard. He had never liked surprises.
The silence that stretched between them was eventually broken by her fingers drumming against the cover of the book she’d unearthed from her bodice. She radiated a nervous kind of energy that refused to be contained. When another moment had passed, she plucked up the book, tucked it against her breast, and began to move around the room. Its narrow compass, crowded with ramshackle furniture, prevented her from pacing.
Or perhaps the predictable, orderly, back and forth motion of pacing was anathema to this woman.
She put him in mind of a bedraggled spaniel, with her slight build, rapid movements, and curling hair hanging limply on either side of her face. Though, admittedly, far more attractive than any spaniel he had ever seen. The precise shade of her red hair was difficult to determine under such dim and damp conditions. He tried to imagine what she might look like bathed in the warmth of a shaft of sunlight but gave it up as a bad job. Sunlight was unlikely to be granted them anytime soon.
When her wandering feet brought her within arm’s length of him, he held up one hand in hopes she might cease. Her jerk of surprise made him wonder if she had forgotten his presence entirely.
“The storm doesn’t show any signs of abating. Perhaps we ought to begin again.” He made a crisp bow. “Tristan Laurens.”
Her gaze raked over him, and for a moment he thought she meant not to respond. “Mr. Laurens,” she said after a moment and curtsied.
Ought he to correct her? At the very least, he might have introduced himself as “Major Laurens,” as he’d not yet resigned his commission. “Lord Tristan” was entirely incorrect now, of course. Both Father and Percy were gone, had been gone for some time. Still, it felt strange to think of himself as a duke, stranger still to call himself “Raynham.” Men of seven and twenty did not usually acquire new identities in quite so abrupt a fashion.
In the end, he let her assumption stand. After the weather cleared, they would go their separate ways, and his rank would be irrelevant.
Her fingertips danced over the book she was holding. “Miss Erica Burke.”
“Erica?”
It was not a given name he had heard before, and her inclusion of it hinted at the existence of an elder sister who generally took precedence as “Miss Burke.” Her Irish accent was distinct but not unpleasant. From Dublin, if he had to guess. And his guesses were usually correct.
“Erica is the Latin word denoting the genus to which several common species of flowering shrubs belong.”
She must have given a variation of that explanation many times; it had the air of a rehearsed speech. So she knew at least a bit of Latin and a little botany: the marks of what passed for an educated gentlewoman. Then again, she might be a bluestocking.
Or something more unusual, and more interesting, than either.
His surprise at the explanation must have been evident on his face, for she continued, with a little grimace of resignation, “Heather. It means ‘heather.’ My father named his children using Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum as his guide.”
Though mildly curious about the names with which her siblings had been saddled, he focused his immediate concern on the fact that her family had let one of their number out of their sight. A young woman wandering about alone faced dangers far greater than a little rain, especially in a time of war, when so many were desperate.
Having learned his lesson about speaking sternly, however, he dipped his head in a nod of greeting. “It is a pleasure, Miss Burke, to meet someone else who has known the travails of having been named by an eccentric father. Mine was a student of the Arthurian legends.”
That confession brought the twitch of a smile to her lips, quickly wiped away by a crack of thunder that shook the tiny cottage. “Oh, will this storm never end?” She began once more to move about the room, like a caged bird flitting from perch to perch.
“It will, of course.” He tried to speak in a soothing tone, though it was not something he’d often had occasion to use in the army. “But I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that darkness may fall before it does.”
“You mean, we must spend the night? Here?” A panicky sigh whooshed from her lungs as she sank onto a wooden chair. “Oh, when my sister discovers I’m missing, she’ll be furious.”
Furious? Not worried?
Seizing the opportunity, he righted her chair’s partner—though they matched only in being equally rickety—and seated himself near her. “You are traveling with your sister? How did you come to be separated?”
“We—my sister, her husband, and I—are bound for Windermere. Their wedding trip. There are two coaches in our party, and I believe the occupants of each must have thought me safely aboard the other. But I had—” She leaped up again, fingering the leather-bound book.
Dutifully, he got to his feet, as good manners dictated. He had not been away from polite society long enough to forget everything he’d learned. “I’m sure she will be too relieved at discovering you are safe to upbraid you.”
The candle’s flickering light painted her face with shadow. Was she amused? Skeptical? “It’s quite clear, sir, that you do not know my sister.”
“No. I do not believe I have that pleasure.”
She laughed, a rather wry sound, and sat down again. So did he. A moment later, she was up, trying to peer through the narrow crack around the shutters. “How long will it take for them to reach Windermere?”
“They were driving into the storm,” he answered as he rose. “Several hours, perhaps, for although it’s not a great distance, fifteen miles or so, the roads in that direction are prone to flooding.” She turned from the window and a wrinkle of concern darted across her brow. “I expect they stopped somewhere along the way to wait out the rain,” he added, trying to reassure her.
“Oh.” Once more, she sank onto a chair. This time, he remained on his feet—wisely, it turned out, for she soon resumed her erratic wandering. “But then, mightn’t they have returned to that village a few miles back, expecting to find me? I have to go.”
“Absolutely not.”
The commanding note brought her to an abrupt halt. Her mouth popped open, preparing to issue an argument.
“I will personally see you safely reunited with your sister as soon as possible, Miss Burke.” Already he feared he would regret making such a promise. “In turn, you will not put yourself at unnecessary risk.”
She pressed her parted lips into a thin line and sat, nearly toppling the chair with the force of her frustration.
This time, she stayed seated long enough that he began to think of returning to his own chair. Hardly had his knees bent, however, when she uncrossed her arms and laid one hand on the edge of her seat to rise. His awkward position—somewhere between sitting and standing—must have caught her attention, for she waved him down with her free hand, the one not clutching her book.
“I know it’s the custom for a gentleman to stand when a lady does, but you’ll do yourself an injury if you try to keep up with me.” Three of her quick steps put the breadth of the deal table between them. The candle lit her face, revealing a scattering of freckles. “I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, if you hadn’t already guessed. So why should you worry about acting the gentleman? Not that I doubt you are a gentleman, Mr. Laurens,” she added hastily, looking him up and down where he stood. Color infused her cheeks. “And I certainly hope you will not take my thoughtless remark as a license to—to—”
“Miss Burke.” He stepped into the river of words, hoping to divert their course. “You may rest assured, I am a gentleman. You’re far safer in here than you would be on the other side of that door.”
Her nod