What a Difference a Duke Makes Page 2

  “You know I could order you to stay here and mind the twins for a spell.”

  “Bollocks,” India replied with a smirk. “I haven’t a motherly bone in my body. And you know I’m preparing for my next archaeological expedition.”

  “How could I forget? Since I finance your reckless jaunts around the globe.” Although he loved thinking of his fearless sister giving the male antiquities experts hell, from Cairo to Athens. She’d only returned a week ago from her last expedition.

  “I’ll spend some time with the children before I leave again,” India promised. “Are they truly so unruly?”

  “Half-wild, really. Arrived on my doorstep without warning two months ago. Wary eyes and shallow breathing. Abandoned by Sophie, raised in poverty in that squalid French seaside village. Why didn’t she tell me about them sooner? I would have acknowledged them in a heartbeat. Given them a better life here in England.”

  The frustration of it hit him square in the gut. Why had she kept the twins a secret from him?

  Not good enough for husband. Not good enough for father.

  “She wasn’t much for family, Sophie, if I remember correctly,” said India.

  “She didn’t like anything hemming her in. Lovers. Children. Walls.” He’d been infatuated with the worldly poetess, ten years his senior, with the epic, unheeding love of callow youth.

  She’d crushed his heart and left him with nothing but a deep-seated belief that love was a twisted, damning emotion that gave another person far too much power.

  Never again.

  Now he had the twins, Michel and Adele, the illegitimate product of their affair.

  And they didn’t seem to want him either.

  “I’ve built this life, India, this useful life that progresses day by day with precision and purpose. My foundry. My steam engines. And now these needful little cogs are stuck in the workings. I don’t know the first thing about children. Isn’t it enough to feed them, clothe them, and provide them with the most expensive damned governesses in London?”

  “One would think.”

  “Yet they terrorize the governesses and run away at every opportunity. They’re off in the park again right now. The coachman will bring them home any moment.”

  “Give them time,” said India with a sympathetic smile. “All of this sudden upheaval must be bewildering to them . . . and to you.”

  “I’m glad Sophie sent them to me, and I’ve vowed to give them every advantage in life, but it’s rotten timing, India. I’m so close . . .” He stared down at the engine plans. “So close to producing a steam-powered fire engine lightweight enough to be drawn by a single horse.”

  “A single horse? Why would that be better?”

  “Because it will arrive at fires faster, and it will pump water farther and douse even the most aggressive blazes.” He traced the troublesome boiler with his pen. “Plus, it won’t show up drunk to the fire, like half of the fire brigade do.”

  “I think it’s wonderful what you’re achieving with your foundry, but certain other people aren’t so thrilled.”

  “I suppose you mean Mother.”

  “Let me see, I want to get this right.” India lifted her nose in the air and assumed the supercilious tones of the dowager duchess. “‘Please tell the duke that his dabbling in trade and commerce is most unseemly, ruinous for his reputation, lowers his station, and will make it more difficult to attract a suitable wife and mother to his heir.’”

  “Ruinous?” Edgar sputtered. “How do you like that? It’s my foundry that lifted this family from the threat of impoverishment after our father nearly ran it into the ground.”

  He held out one scarred, burned hand. “Tell her I’m more foundry man than duke now and nothing will ever change that.”

  “You could visit and tell her in person. It’s been nearly a decade. When you disappeared for those seven long years she pretended not to care, but I could tell she was devastated.” India’s eyes clouded over. “It wasn’t easy for any of us. Not knowing where you were, or whether you were safe.”

  Edgar’s quill dug so hard it cut through the paper. “I never meant to cause you pain. I had to leave. Before I left, she told me she never wanted to see me again.”

  “She’s changed since father’s death. And she’s longing for grandchildren.”

  “Then you’ll have to marry and produce some. I’m too busy at the moment.”

  India lifted her brow and gave him a quelling stare. “Well that’s not going to happen.” She drew a banknote from somewhere beneath her mannish coat. “Fifty pounds,” she said, waving the note.

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “Fifty pounds says you’ll marry first and produce a grandchild for our long-suffering Mama.”

  Edgar threw down his quill and opened the drawer of his desk. “I’ll raise you fifty. One hundred pounds says you’ll be the first to marry.”

  “Ha. May as well burn that note, instead of wager it.”

  Edgar smiled. It would take a special sort of gentleman to match his sister’s unconventionality, wits, and fire.

  “You’d better be careful,” she laughed. “I could ask Mother to draw up a list of suitable debutantes and spread a rumor that you’re on the marriage mart.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  His sister smiled wickedly.

  Oh God. She probably would. He’d better send her back overseas quickly.

  “What I need is a list of suitable governesses,” said Edgar.

  “What are the requirements?”

  “Nerves of steel. Stomach of iron. Eyes like a hawk. Brawny as a boxer.”

  India chuckled. “Why don’t you put Robertson in a gown and have him double as the governess?” She grinned at the butler as he entered the room.

  Robertson gave her a horrified look.

  “For the salary I’m offering,” said Edgar, “there ought to be a line of broad-shouldered, steely nerved governesses at my door vying for the position.”

  Robertson cleared his throat. “There’s just the one, Your Grace. And she’s not particularly broad of shoulder.”

  “The one what?” asked Edgar.

  “The one governess. At your door.”

  Edgar squinted at him. “Dunkirk only left a few hours ago.”

  “Nevertheless, there is a governess here.”

  Edgar had allowed Mrs. Fairfield to screen the other governesses and they’d all been less than satisfactory. “Bring her to me, Robertson. I want to interview this one in person. Test her mettle.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” Robertson bowed and left.

  Perhaps Edgar’s life could progress as planned, after all. “Maybe this will be the one, India. Maybe she’ll be able to calm the children and restore some order to this chaos.”

  “At least she’s punctual,” said India. “That’s got to count for something.”

  “Come in, dearie, come in out of this dreadful wind and rain. When will it ever decide to stop raining, do you suppose? Why, it’s nearly the middle of May!” A tall, gray-haired woman wearing an elegant black silk gown ushered Mari into a desert of blinding white marble, accented by bloodred carpets and enamel cloisonné vases set on carved wooden stands.

  Did children really live here? Mari could see no evidence of them. No scuffmarks on the marble, no stray toys in the corners.

  Those precariously perched vases, thin as eggshells, wouldn’t be safe around any children of her acquaintance.

  “Oh bless me. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Mrs. Fairfield, the duke’s housekeeper. Here, give me your bonnet.”

  As she spoke, she bustled around Mari, untying her bonnet, handing her bag and umbrella to a liveried footman, and removing her gloves. “I can’t believe you arrived so swiftly.”

  “Have the children returned?” asked Mari. “Miss Dunkirk intimated that they had run away.”

  “I’ve sent the coachman to fetch them home. They’ll be in the park, I expect.”

  The butler who had
greeted Mari upon arrival returned to the entrance hall. “His Grace wishes a personal interview with Miss Perkins.”

  “He does?” asked Mrs. Fairfield, her eyes questioning.

  The butler nodded. “He said he wished to test her mettle.”

  Tested by the devilish duke. Mari gulped. “Very well,” she said bravely. “I’m ready.”

  “Let me have a look at you.” Mrs. Fairfield captured Mari’s hands and lifted her arms. “Why, you’re as rosy cheeked and fresh as a daisy. But you’re just a slip of a thing and your hands are freezing. After your audience with His Grace you’ll have a nice hot cup of tea.”

  Couldn’t she have the tea before the duke? With an effort, Mari tamped down the rumbling of hunger and fear in her belly.

  “Come along, dear.” Mrs. Fairfield tugged her toward a staircase bordered by mahogany banisters which gleamed so aggressively they appeared to be made from colored glass.

  Mari had to trot to keep up with her. “Ah . . . silly me. I seem to have forgotten the children’s names and ages.”

  “The twins, Michel and Adele, are nine,” said Mrs. Fairfield over her shoulder.

  She pronounced Michel in the French way, softening the ch and elongating the i into an e, so he must be male.

  “And their mother?” Mari asked. “Is she in residence?”

  Mrs. Fairfield stopped so abruptly that Mari nearly ran into her and had to grab hold of the banister to keep her balance.

  “I thought Mrs. Trilby would have told you about the . . . unusual nature of this post.”

  “I expect she didn’t have time. I was sent over so swiftly, and all.”

  Mrs. Fairfield searched her face for another moment before answering her question. “The twins were raised on the coast of France by a Moroccan nurse. A most unorthodox upbringing, though they did have an English tutor and their speech is quite correct. Their mother has passed away.”

  Did their unusual upbringing mean the children were illegitimate? It would explain Miss Dunkirk’s whispered censure.

  “They only have the duke, and he’s very absorbed in his work,” said Mrs. Fairfield, resuming her swift ascension.

  Did dukes work? Perhaps Mrs. Fairfield meant brandy sipping. Or billiards.

  The housekeeper turned at the first landing, walked up another flight of wide stairs, and traversed a hallway at a fast clip, almost as if she didn’t wish to field any more questions.

  She knocked forcefully on a carved oak door and cracked it open. “I’ve brought the new governess to meet you, Your Grace,” she called into the room.

  Before they could enter, a maid in a white apron and cap came flying down the hallway. “It’s Laura, Mrs. Fairfield,” she gasped. “She’s set fire to the biscuits again.”

  “Well? Did you throw water on them?” asked Mrs. Fairfield.

  “She upended a pan of drippings over the range and it flared up and singed her eyelashes clear off. And cook is out and no one knows what to do.”

  Mrs. Fairfield made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “I’m afraid I must leave you, Miss Perkins. Don’t be frightened, dearie.”

  Which of course produced the opposite effect. Was this duke such a terror?

  “Lady India is here so you won’t be alone with him.” Mrs. Fairfield squeezed Mari’s hand and left her standing there.

  Alone.

  Merely a man. Merely a man.

  She shook out her skirts, tucked a flyaway curl back into the braids atop her head, and marched purposefully into the room.

  Banksford’s head was bent over his desk, chestnut hair falling over his brow and obscuring his face as his quill scratched across a large piece of parchment.

  He was garbed in a sober black coat and haphazardly tied cravat, quite different from the silk and frills she’d imagined the nobility wore.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said in her most superior tones.

  He raised his head.

  Merely a larger-than-life monstrosity of a duke, she amended. Though he’d clearly been assembled from all the best parts of mere mortal men.

  Glittering gray eyes. Shadowy cheekbones. An angular jaw and a commanding slash of a nose. The powerful shoulders and lean frame of a tavern boxer.

  He didn’t look pliable in the least.

  Mari shivered, feeling slightly light-headed confronted by all of this blatant masculinity. She’d spent her whole life in a school for girls, after all.

  “And you are . . . ?” he asked.

  Name. She knew that one. “Miss Mari Perkins, Your Grace. Mari with an i—it rhymes with starry.”

  Why had she told him that? What a silly thing to say to a duke. He didn’t care that she’d changed the spelling and pronunciation of Mary, the name the orphanage had assigned her, in a small, yet soul-sustaining, act of rebellion.

  She gave a confident, businesslike nod. “I came from Mrs. Trilby’s Agency for Superior Governesses.” Which wasn’t entirely untruthful. She’d walked here directly from the agency. And she had been promised a position.

  Just not this one.

  “It’s lovely that you were able to come so swiftly, Miss Perkins,” said the lady sitting near the fire. “I’m India. Which doesn’t really rhyme with anything, I’m afraid.”

  Mari curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, my lady.”

  Lady India was the most beautiful creature Mari had ever seen, with hair the color of ripe blackberries, pale violet eyes, and high slanted cheekbones.

  Though her attire was decidedly odd, almost rakish, even. A tailored gentleman’s cutaway coat over a draped gown that almost appeared to be split down the center.

  Mari dismissed the preposterous idea. The lady couldn’t be wearing trousers.

  “How old are you, Perkins?” asked the duke.

  “Twenty, Your Grace. Though I’ve had the care and tutelage of young children for many years.”

  His unsettling gaze pierced through her clothing, skin, and bones to see through to her wildly beating heart. She stood taller under his scrutiny, careful to maintain a half smile on her lips and a calm, efficient tilt to her head.

  She could tell he found her lacking by the way the line between his brows deepened.

  “Your shoulders—” said the duke, staring in the general direction of her bosom “—are insufficiently brawny.”

  “Ah . . . I do apologize, Your Grace. I will begin performing strengthening exercises immediately.”

  Another frown. “And your smile is suspiciously cheerful.”

  He didn’t want cheerful. Mari instantly dropped the smile. “How impertinent of it. I specifically told it to be stern and capable.”

  She matched the thunderous frown on the duke’s face.

  His eyes narrowed and he tapped his pen against the blotter. “Flippancy is not a trait I’m looking for in a governess.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” she replied, keeping her expression neutral and humorless.

  Her future rested in his hands.

  His extremely large, surprisingly rugged hands. The hands of a man who knew hard labor. Rough-padded and crisscrossed with burns and scars.

  Where had he acquired those scars?

  He watched her closely. She widened her stance and threw back her shoulders in an attempt to appear more substantial. She held her breath, sending a silent prayer heavenward.

  “You’re too small, Perkins,” he said.

  “Never judge things by their appearances, Your Grace. I’m stronger than I appear.”

  Strong enough to survive the typhoid fever that had taken Helena, her only friend, and left a gaping hole in Mari’s heart.

  Strong enough to withstand years of punishment, freezing damp, and deprivation.

  “Spare me your proverbs, Perkins,” said the duke. “I’m not a child.”

  “Of course you’re not, Your Grace. You’re definitely all man. That is to say, your shoulders are more than sufficiently brawny, er . . .”

  What had come over he
r? She never dithered.

  He was just so very male. She hadn’t meant to let on that she’d noticed the breadth of his shoulders or the size of his hands, though what girl wouldn’t notice?

  “You’re too small, Perkins.” He dipped his quill in his gold filigree inkwell, signaling the end of the interview. “You won’t do.”

  Chapter 2

  “What do you mean I’m too small?” Mari advanced on the duke. “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

  The duke sighed and set down his pen. “I owe you no explanations but since you don’t appear to be leaving, I’ll further elaborate that my son is afflicted with night terrors. His governess must be able to physically subdue him, which is nigh impossible at times, so heavy are his limbs, so violent his movements, and so profound his sleep.”

  Mari planted her muddy boots on his expensive carpet. She wasn’t going anywhere. She wouldn’t relinquish this chance for respectable work with a good salary, and free days, without a fight.

  Night terrors were nothing new to her.

  “You’re making a mistake,” she said. “I’m experienced with night terrors. I’ve cured several children of similar afflictions.”

  “I never make mistakes. Not anymore. My mistake-making days are over,” was the very arrogant, very unyielding response.

  Lady India snorted. “Really, Edgar? You sound like an arse right now.”

  The duke frowned.

  Mari barely refrained from smiling at Lady India. “You scorn to change, is that right, Your Grace?”

  He cocked his head. “You read my motto?”

  “I read Latin, converse in French and I’m far stronger than I appear. Give me one week’s trial, Your Grace. I promise you will see an improvement in the children.”

  Was his gaze softening slightly?

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she urged.

  He shook his head. “You won’t last two days.”

  “And why not, may I ask?”

  “Because not only are you too slight of stature, you’ve an air of naïvety and optimism about you. My children are bound to dash your spirit and send you running back to your agency.”

  “I should like to see them try. I may have lived my whole life in the countryside, but I’m hardly naïve.”