The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

O ver the next few days, hours slipped by without much for her to do. Elsie laid out her plans as carefully as an Admiral would. Or at least that was what she told herself. It was far harder than she’d imagined. Firstly, on the top of her list she needed to avoid the duke. Whilst it was an instruction to herself, it was a little galling to realise that Ashmore—Kit—seemed to have no problem keeping his distance from Elsie. So, she had to rely on Samson and Lancelot for company, or the occasional snatched glance of Lady Flora. When Lady Flora spotted Elsie watching or approaching the girl would run away, wide-eyed and pale—which was almost as disappointing as the duke’s reaction.

The only bright spot was Samson, who it turned out was now coming out of her shell a little. She was a useful gossip, relying on titbits about the manor house to keep Elsie informed as most of the household was allocated out to help clear the roads.

“Clary says…” Samson moved through the chamber, straightening, and attempting to tidy an already neat room. She referred a great deal to Clary, the driver they had journeyed down with. It did not take much insight to see that the maid had developed so mething of an infatuation with the manservant. “That the road is close to being cleared. Is that not excellent news, miss?”

Elsie nodded and smiled. It would be needed for the manor house to be reachable—Elsie wanted to receive and send letters, to hear the news from London. Besides, if she were to arrange a party, Elsie would need to ensure invitations were arranged too. It might be worthwhile going, when she was able, to make her way to the nearest town for new clothes and various birthday items.

“Indeed,” Elsie replied. “It is nice to hear that the workload will lessen soon for all the men in the household.”

“Aye.” Samson paused and looked most earnestly down at Elsie; her expression was most concerned. “I know Clary has found it most taxing. But I am sure the rest of the servants, and His Grace did too.”

“His Grace?” Elsie could not help asking. She had known Ashmore had gone to supervise and oversee the progress, but it was interesting to hear that the duke was actively involved in clearing the roads.

“Yes, he let the mail coach through,” Samson said. “Would you care for some tea, miss?”

“Mail?” Elsie was on her feet, suddenly engaged. If letters had been received here, then at least one letter should not be in the manor house. “I must go and find the butler, where would you say Peterson would be?”

Samson looked rather surprised by the burst of energy on Elsie’s behalf. “The kitchen, I believe.”

With quick steps, Elsie made her way through the bedroom, and down the stairs. She already had her own letter to Margot and her parents in her skirt’s pocket, and was hopeful to catch the mail coach. Presumably, the driver would have stopped in the house for a refreshment. It would have been nice to think that after several days in Tintagel and having grown used to the manor, that Elsie would have learnt some familiarity with it. Or failing that, she would at least find it less intimidating. But that was not the case, the manor continued to unnerve her.

On entering the lower floors, the continued stale air of the place continued down here despite a much busier environment than the upstairs floors. Dust and low lighting created an atmosphere that put Elsie on edge. It seemed to slip under Elsie’s skin, to rub there uncomfortably. Despite this Elsie marched forwards, ignoring her instincts and forcing her feet towards the sound of voices.

When Elsie pushed open the kitchen door, it was to see two maids who she did not know. But sitting at the table, was the butler Peterson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Clarke. They were positioned close to each other, sharing a pot of tea. A wide faced, curly haired woman in her late forties stood close to the fireplace, Elsie suspected this was the cook, Mrs. Whitelaw. Everyone who turned to look at Elsie showed dismay at her arrival—it was clearly inappropriate for her to be in here, but Elsie could not be bothered with such formality. Not when she might have some contact with the outside world.

“I believe there have been some letters delivered to the house?” Elsie walked forward, moving closer to Peterson.

“Miss.” Peterson was on his feet and gave her a stiff little bow. “We did receive letters for the household an hour ago.”

“Was there anything addressed for me? If the driver is still here, I have several letters I need to send out.” Elsie pulled out her own envelopes, labelled to both her parents, sister, and brother.

Peterson eyed her letters most suspiciously. Slowly, he accepted these missives with a polite nod. “You have unfortunately missed the mail coach.”

Annoyance flooded through Elsie, surely it would have been the normal state of the household to alert her to the presence of the driver. But this had been Elsie’s experience of the Tintagel household in her time living here. Just enough slow difficulties added together, hard individually to accredit as being deliberate but enough, once accumulated, to be certain they were malicious.

“I would appreciate it, Peterson, if the next time the driver is here, that I am informed directly.”

“Of course, Miss.”

“I assume there were letters for me.”

“None.” The butler who had stood up to address her, remained in his position, and whilst he didn’t shift closer, there was a touch of intimidation to the man—perhaps from his stocky build, or from the militant look in his eye. Or simply because he refused to help her. It was most frustrating, and for a moment Elsie wanted desperately to open her mouth and question the validity of every servant present. There was no possibility that Margot hadn’t written—surely her sister would have been in touch? They had promised to write to one another. It made no sense that Margot would have…

“Is that all, miss?” This was from the housekeeper, who had stood up too. The woman’s eyes were boring into Elsie with a hardness that seemed unwarranted. “Did you wish for us to send up some tea or the like?” She sucked in her breath before adding, “Your maid should know that she can arrange such things.”

Elsie knew that. She would have betted all the coins in her possession that Samson knew too. And the reminder made her blush as Mrs. Clarke knew she wasn’t the lady she pretended to be. She knew that the servants would all still be talking about the state she’d been in when the duke had rescued her, presumably they all thought she’d set her cap at him.

It was just a way of ordering her from the kitchen, in another attempt to exclude her. All the household seemed to her to be conspiring against her making any sort of progress.

Forcing a mild expression onto her face, one which spoke of politeness and understanding, Elsie said, “Yes Mrs. Clarke, my maid has been informed. However, I would like to feel I can journey down here if the need is urgent. ”

“This is a busy household,” Mrs. Clarke said most primly. It struck Elsie as a lie, given the general state of dust and decay that permeated the manor and the fact the five of them had been sitting around the kitchen table. But she was not their mistress to scold them so.

“Indeed,” Elsie interrupted whatever Mrs. Clarke planned to continue, saying, “but as I am just one guest, I hope I will not be an inconvenience.”

Without being unjustifiably rude there was nothing for Mrs. Clarke to do but bow her head and silently agree with Elsie’s assessment. She doubted as she moved away from the table and towards the door that it would change anything in their behaviour but at least she had shown them that she wasn’t going to simply accept their treatment. It wasn’t much but it was something, Elsie clung to that idea as she walked out of the kitchen and up the lonely, dark stairs. As soon as she had left the kitchen though, that minor sense of victory trailed away, and the sensation of isolation and annoyance washed back through her again—how was she supposed to achieve any of her goals if every way she turned there was a door closed in her face?

“Is that you, Miss Keating?” His voice was carrying but soft, with enough of a Cornish lilt, that vibrated through her, and Elsie had to suppress the feeling of bubbling joy as she turned towards Kit’s voice.

It was unnatural to feel such elation at a mere question, but it had been days since she’d seen him. Despite knowing this, his query warmed its way through her limbs, past the barriers of her dress and nestled in the pit of her stomach. She had wanted to see him. That was a rather galling thing to realise, and hastily Elsie tucked it away, ignoring the idea and whatever the consequences of what those sensations meant entirely.

“Ahh.” He was leaning out of a doorway, watching her. “I thought I heard you. ”

“Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I was informed you would be outside with the men.”

“Did you not hear the main road has been cleared, I sent several of the servants out to check on the nearby farms and buildings. Come.” He gestured to her to follow him, and cautiously, Elsie walked after him into the snug little sitting room. It was not a room she was familiar with, there was a mixture of furniture, some of it grand whilst other pieces looked a great deal humbler. Strewn over an oak table was a large collection of papers.

“You receive your letters,” she could not help but murmur.

Ashmore turned back to her and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, the post is here. Nothing sadly of importance.” He pointed her towards a seat at the table. “But there rarely is.”

Surely Elsie wanted to argue that he must have had a missive from London, something from Mr. Holt, telling him something? Had the solicitor lied or had multiple letters just been lost?

“No,” he continued, “these are all local issues, or from my steward on occasion. The man is getting on a bit, I suppose at some point soon, I should look to hire a replacement, and let the man enjoy his retirement.” He bent over the table, and Elsie found herself watching his hands, deft and finely made, as they moved over the pages with careful consideration.

Her earlier annoyance over the mail coach dissolved as she studied him—that balance between rough maleness she had grown accustomed to, was now playing against Ashmore's role as lord of the manor, and the blend of masculinity and refinement was playing havoc with her senses.

“What did you call me in here to discuss?” Elsie asked. It would be far too easy to let herself luxuriate in the presence of his company, listen to his voice as he talked through matters and perhaps offer the occasional remark—to fall into a companionship-like situation, all the while ignoring the signs of danger that Ashmore resonated with. Elsie was too knowledgeable of her own foibles, let alone the risks of a desirable gentleman, to let a mistake happen again.

He frowned a little at the tartness of her words, and his hand drifted up to rub absently at his chest. “I am glad to have you here, as I have a list of guests that I thought suitable for Lady Flora’s birthday party.” He handed over a sheet of paper with a dozen names on it, and the number of people who were included within the family were in brackets. “I thought it a suitable but not an overwhelming number.”

Elsie let her eyes drop, scanning the list before she looked back to find that the duke had taken a seat closer to her, and seemed to be waiting for her response.

“I have had no luck in speaking to your sister,” Elsie said, lowering the page. “So, she is unaware of the planned celebrations. And she would need to be prepared, I am certain. Even a girl who had not witnessed what Lady Flora had would wish to buy herself a new gown and… Perhaps my scheme was a foolish one.”

Suddenly Elsie had a rushing desire to simply ask that her driver, maid, and the coach be sent for since the roads were clear, and she could return to London. The panic gathered pace through her belly until Ashmore reached out and took her hand.

“Let us talk to her this evening.” His smile was true and warm, an additional appeal to his sardonic face. “We can attempt another dinner together and broach the subject.”

It was in those moments that Elsie realised she was in far more danger than when he was being brusque or gruff with her. The sweetness in his character, that peeked out when it was directed towards his sister, showed his worth and strength of character.

The touch of his hand on hers lingered, tightened it seemed as he waited for a response from her, but all Elsie wished to do was turn her palm up and interlace their fingers, so she could hold on to the reassurance that was him. Tremors of awareness were alive under her skin, jittering outwards in uneven movements through her body. Exciting and different from what she had previously experienced. All she wanted to do was reassure him, that yes, she would help, that yes once that was done, she would go with him to London. After that of course, there could be no more holding hands or shared looks, but for the next month, surely, they could at least have these snatched moments. There was no possibility of anything else. Whilst it was fanciful of Elsie, it was still where her imagination went.

To her surprise he did not draw back, but instead continued to watch her as if assessing and coming to his own conclusions before he finally asked. “Would you agree to another dinner? I can assure you I will prepare my sister better this time?”

“I think it wise, especially if I am there to win her over.”

“Win?”

“Convince her?” Elsie suggested, in a teasing manner. Why had he not withdrawn his hand, did he care so little for propriety, had he forgotten, or did he think she was amoral? Perhaps a better question would have been why she did not pull her hand from his—perhaps her last idea on her own morality was sadly correct.

“Yes, that is what we both shall do.”

“And then, once that has occurred, it would be wise to head for London. It is where our presence is required,” Elsie forced herself to say, to remind them both of what obligations they had beyond this room.

It was this sentence that had him getting slowly to his feet, but instead of loosening his hold on her, he helped Elsie to her feet, drawing her slightly closer to him as they both stood. He seemed to tower over her, and Elsie wondered whether she should have felt worried, but there was nothing in her that sparked fear of him, only a desire to curl in closer towards him, to be near enough that the distance no longer mattered, because all that space was uncomfortably alive with a throb of unrelenting tension.

When she looked up Ashmore was looking at her hand, his brow was marred, and she thought it likely he was trying to think of something to say. She too wondered what words would be best uttered now, how to fill the gap that needed to be bridged.

“It is beyond anything that is expected of you,” Ashmore suddenly said, lifting his eyes and finding Elsie’s. “No one would blame you for desiring or requesting to leave the manor, now the roads are open. There is no obligation here.”

“But there is.” Elsie was annoyed as she snapped back, “If I wish you to help my sister, then I need to help yours. That is what you mean isn’t it?”

Ashmore grimaced, and she wondered if he was embarrassed, but he finally nodded.

“In that case, I am happy to do all I can to help.” This was not entirely true, but Elsie was stubborn, and her spirit would not be broken by Lady Flora’s difficulties or by a truculent household.

To her great surprise, it was then that the duke lifted her still enclosed hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. It was swiftly done, but it had been enough for her to remember the feel of it. Warm, soothing, and with the faint promise of something else, which made her long for more. The touch of his mouth had been imprinted on her skin, and Elsie doubted she would forget the sensation in a hurry.

“I will see you this evening,” she said as she loosened her fingers from his grip, and moved away from Ashmore, towards the door.

She felt his gaze follow her to the doorway until she bobbed a curtsey and left the room, all memories of her letters utterly forgotten and replaced with the brief kiss given. She hurried back to her room, unable to stop smiling.