Scandal And The Duchess
Page 36
“You can always take one of these,” Steven said, motioning to the chairs, which were right side up again. “They’d bring something at a sale.”
“I know.” Rose eyed them disconsolately. “But I want to know why Charles pointed me to the settee. Why he wanted me to have it, in particular.”
Steven slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “No disrespect to your husband, Rose—he was a fine man—but I wish he’d written you a plain note that told you where he’d left you a cache of diamonds.”
“Albert would have found that, wouldn’t he?” Rose shook her head. “Charles had no illusions about his son.”
“Which is why I don’t understand why Charles didn’t make your settlements and what you received in the will more clear. Why he didn’t confound Albert before he began.”
Rose sighed. “I don’t know. Charles was fond of little jokes, but truth be told, they were jests child could see through. That’s because he had a kind heart, did Charles. Not a mean bone in him.”
Steven wondered if he could ever live up to the paragon Charles seemed to be. The man had been kind, yes—Steven had seen that in him, even on brief acquaintance—but Steven had also noted that Charles had not been advanced in intellect. Steven had often been praised for his quick wit and clever mind, but Rose valued softness of heart over cleverness.
Steven cupped her cheek as she looked up at him, and leaned down to kiss her again. He couldn’t help himself.
Rose tasted of sunshine and summer days. He’d never be cold with her next to him.
Someone cleared a throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
Chapter Twelve
Rose started, but Steven took his time lifting away from her. Let the staff of this house know Steven was looking after her now.
The young footman John stood in the shadows near the door, uncertain whether to advance into the room. Rose struggled to her feet, and Steven, trained to be a gentleman even if he forgot most of the time, stood up beside her.
“It’s all right, John,” Rose said, giving him an encouraging look. “What is it? Is Albert setting his dogs on us? Not that it matters. I rather like dogs, and they like me.”
John listened in perplexity, his handsome face drawn into a frown as he tried to work through this.
“Never mind,” Steven said. “Tell us what you came to say.”
John stood to attention. “Yes, sir. It’s this, sir. Housekeeper said you’d want to know, Your Grace, that His Grace—the duke that’s passed, I mean—had us shift a cartload of furniture out to the summerhouse in the months before he married you.”
Rose’s mouth popped open. “Did he? What on earth for?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.” John truly must not know—he wouldn’t know how to lie about this or why he should.
“I see.” Rose looked thoughtful, and also a little sad, no doubt remembering her sunny wedding on a summer’s day. Steven decided not to take it as an omen that since he’d met Rose, the weather had been confounded awful.
“Housekeeper forgot, Your Grace,” John said apologetically. “We all did. But she remembered today when you were searching the house and couldn’t find what you were looking for. Whatever that is.”
They hadn’t said specifically, Steven not trusting Albert not to lay his hands on it and trundle it away.
“Thank you, John,” Rose said, looking a little more cheerful. “We’ll have a look in the summerhouse.”
John nodded and started patting his pockets. “Housekeeper said you’d want the key. Ah, here it is.” He pulled it out in triumph, stepped to them, and handed the key, not to Rose, but to Steven.
“Good on you, lad,” Steven said. “Give the housekeeper our thanks.”
John beamed like a puppy who’d been praised. He bowed to Rose, mumbled a thanks, and scooted off.
“Curious,” Rose said, her excitement returning. “Shall we adjourn to the summerhouse?”
Steven glanced through the high window, which showed nothing but rain and clouds. “The weather is wretched. Why don’t you sit in a comfortable room with the housekeeper bringing you tea and cakes, and I’ll tramp through the mud and search the summerhouse?”
“No, indeed.” Rose leaned to him and closed her fingers around the key. “I’ll not sit here, trembling and nervous, waiting for your return. I’m going with you, and that is that.”
***
Rose regretted her eagerness a bit when they were halfway to the summerhouse, the wind biting them and bringing tears to her eyes. The summerhouse lay on the far end of the huge formal garden, right on the edge of the estate, a lengthy tramp along paths that had become overgrown and rough.
Rose, bundled up warmly, walked with Steven, arm in arm, their heads down into the wind. One of the dogs that had come back to the house with the steward and Albert—a black bird dog with a lolling tongue—followed them, and nothing could dissuade him from it.
Rose had never been to the summerhouse. According to Charles, they’d stopped using it years ago. It was an old thing, apparently, built at the beginning of the century, when every gentleman had to have a summerhouse or folly to simulate Roman or Greek ruins.
This summerhouse was reached by a narrow path beyond a gate at the end of the garden, and up a rather steep hill. The small building was round, imitating a rotunda, with pseudo Roman columns encircling it. It looked as though it had once been painted warm yellow, but years of wind, rain, fallen leaves, and English damp had rendered it a streaked gray, with the original stones showing through. A true ruin, instead of a false one.
“I know.” Rose eyed them disconsolately. “But I want to know why Charles pointed me to the settee. Why he wanted me to have it, in particular.”
Steven slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “No disrespect to your husband, Rose—he was a fine man—but I wish he’d written you a plain note that told you where he’d left you a cache of diamonds.”
“Albert would have found that, wouldn’t he?” Rose shook her head. “Charles had no illusions about his son.”
“Which is why I don’t understand why Charles didn’t make your settlements and what you received in the will more clear. Why he didn’t confound Albert before he began.”
Rose sighed. “I don’t know. Charles was fond of little jokes, but truth be told, they were jests child could see through. That’s because he had a kind heart, did Charles. Not a mean bone in him.”
Steven wondered if he could ever live up to the paragon Charles seemed to be. The man had been kind, yes—Steven had seen that in him, even on brief acquaintance—but Steven had also noted that Charles had not been advanced in intellect. Steven had often been praised for his quick wit and clever mind, but Rose valued softness of heart over cleverness.
Steven cupped her cheek as she looked up at him, and leaned down to kiss her again. He couldn’t help himself.
Rose tasted of sunshine and summer days. He’d never be cold with her next to him.
Someone cleared a throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
Chapter Twelve
Rose started, but Steven took his time lifting away from her. Let the staff of this house know Steven was looking after her now.
The young footman John stood in the shadows near the door, uncertain whether to advance into the room. Rose struggled to her feet, and Steven, trained to be a gentleman even if he forgot most of the time, stood up beside her.
“It’s all right, John,” Rose said, giving him an encouraging look. “What is it? Is Albert setting his dogs on us? Not that it matters. I rather like dogs, and they like me.”
John listened in perplexity, his handsome face drawn into a frown as he tried to work through this.
“Never mind,” Steven said. “Tell us what you came to say.”
John stood to attention. “Yes, sir. It’s this, sir. Housekeeper said you’d want to know, Your Grace, that His Grace—the duke that’s passed, I mean—had us shift a cartload of furniture out to the summerhouse in the months before he married you.”
Rose’s mouth popped open. “Did he? What on earth for?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.” John truly must not know—he wouldn’t know how to lie about this or why he should.
“I see.” Rose looked thoughtful, and also a little sad, no doubt remembering her sunny wedding on a summer’s day. Steven decided not to take it as an omen that since he’d met Rose, the weather had been confounded awful.
“Housekeeper forgot, Your Grace,” John said apologetically. “We all did. But she remembered today when you were searching the house and couldn’t find what you were looking for. Whatever that is.”
They hadn’t said specifically, Steven not trusting Albert not to lay his hands on it and trundle it away.
“Thank you, John,” Rose said, looking a little more cheerful. “We’ll have a look in the summerhouse.”
John nodded and started patting his pockets. “Housekeeper said you’d want the key. Ah, here it is.” He pulled it out in triumph, stepped to them, and handed the key, not to Rose, but to Steven.
“Good on you, lad,” Steven said. “Give the housekeeper our thanks.”
John beamed like a puppy who’d been praised. He bowed to Rose, mumbled a thanks, and scooted off.
“Curious,” Rose said, her excitement returning. “Shall we adjourn to the summerhouse?”
Steven glanced through the high window, which showed nothing but rain and clouds. “The weather is wretched. Why don’t you sit in a comfortable room with the housekeeper bringing you tea and cakes, and I’ll tramp through the mud and search the summerhouse?”
“No, indeed.” Rose leaned to him and closed her fingers around the key. “I’ll not sit here, trembling and nervous, waiting for your return. I’m going with you, and that is that.”
***
Rose regretted her eagerness a bit when they were halfway to the summerhouse, the wind biting them and bringing tears to her eyes. The summerhouse lay on the far end of the huge formal garden, right on the edge of the estate, a lengthy tramp along paths that had become overgrown and rough.
Rose, bundled up warmly, walked with Steven, arm in arm, their heads down into the wind. One of the dogs that had come back to the house with the steward and Albert—a black bird dog with a lolling tongue—followed them, and nothing could dissuade him from it.
Rose had never been to the summerhouse. According to Charles, they’d stopped using it years ago. It was an old thing, apparently, built at the beginning of the century, when every gentleman had to have a summerhouse or folly to simulate Roman or Greek ruins.
This summerhouse was reached by a narrow path beyond a gate at the end of the garden, and up a rather steep hill. The small building was round, imitating a rotunda, with pseudo Roman columns encircling it. It looked as though it had once been painted warm yellow, but years of wind, rain, fallen leaves, and English damp had rendered it a streaked gray, with the original stones showing through. A true ruin, instead of a false one.
