Tempting The Ruined Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 3

  “How many does he need?” Louisa asked with a frown and Americus felt affection swell in his breast. She had always been precocious, his Louisa, but also naïve. She could not see past the intrigues of others and expected everyone to be as straightforward as she was. It was an endearing yet worrying trait.

  “What Uncle Gilbert means, my dear is that the Duke could retain me as a member of his household and thus whatever kind of paintings he would want, I would be on hand to create.”

  She leaned toward him. “Do you want that?”

  That brought Americus up short. It was not a question he would have asked himself left to his own devices. He was an artist; he loved to paint but he was also a father with a responsibility to his daughter and what Gilbert was getting at was security.

  So what did it matter if he wanted it or not?

  “Tell us more about your new master. He seems much more aloof than the old Duke.” Americus said in an effort to change the subject.

  Gilbert shrugged. “Not much is known about him since he ran off to sea. He and his father had some kind of falling out. It is believed that his father wanted him to wed. He was said to have contracted a marriage with a suitable young lady but when the young marquess heard about it, he refused point-blank to entertain the match. Words were spoken and the old Duke apparently ordered the marquess to accede to his demands or he would be renounced. The marquess packed his belongings and left.”

  “What was wrong with the lady he was to marry?” Louisa asked with wide eyes.

  “Oh, nothing was wrong with her, he simply did not want to do as he was asked. He wanted his freedom he said. His father wanted him to be responsible.”

  “And so he went to sea. I noticed the scarring on his hands, his neck, the slash across his face – are they all a result of his seafaring adventures?” Americus asked.

  Gilbert nodded. “Yes. We were all quite flummoxed when he appeared at the funeral. Reports had it that he was lost at sea a few years ago.”

  “Clearly that wasn’t true,” Louisa said.

  Gilbert regarded her with an indulgent smile. “No, it was not. Things have been tense since his return nevertheless. Nobody knows what to make of him and his mother–” he abruptly stopped speaking.

  Americus leaned forward. “What about her? I notice she is somewhat…” he fumbled for a word.

  “Out of sorts?” Gilbert said, “Yes. She has not been the same since her husband’s death. I think the young Duke’s sudden appearance also discombobulated her quite a bit. It’s not every day one’s kin rises from the dead.”

  “But she must be glad of it.” Louisa protested.

  “I am sure she is. But her nerves have never been strong. It is a tremendous strain.”

  “Huh…” Americus said thoughtfully, “It is all passing strange. What are the new Duke’s plans? Does he mean to stay and take over his father’s duties or turn them over to you to oversee?”

  Gilbert shook his head. “We do not know what his plans are. He has not shared them.”

  Americus sighed deeply. “In any case, he will be here for the duration while his portrait is painted.”

  “Indeed. I should not put it past the Dowager to have thought of that when she suggested it.” Gilbert smiled.

  “Well…” Americus slapped his thigh, “I am glad to be of assistance.”

  At that moment, the footman came in with a tray of tea and honey cakes and the conversation became more general.

  * * *

  Jeremy looked up from his desk to see his friend Daniel lounging in the doorway. “Shearcaster! Do they not announce visitors anymore? Have I been at sea that long?”

  Daniel laughed, strolling languidly into the room and folding himself into the armchair across from Jeremy. “Miles looked run off his feet. I told him I could find my way perfectly well on my own.”

  Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “Run off his feet? Are you accusing me of overworking my staff?”

  Daniel scoffed. “I expect your staff could run rings around you, Munboro. But no, your mother needed him for something, however.”

  Jeremy’s stomach dropped at the thought of his mother. He could not help it. Her increasingly erratic behavior was worrying. Daniel’s face sobered as he looked at Jeremy. “Anything I can do?”

  Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. “I expect we shall just have to get through this difficult time. She should be all right…eventually.”

  “Do you want me to ask–” Daniel began to say.

  “No!” Jeremy replied, even before he heard who Daniel meant to ask, “Nobody can know about her. Let her be.”

  “Very well then.” Daniel’s voice was quietly worried. Jeremy heard the apprehension in his friend’s voice, but there was little he could do to assuage it. His mother was ill, he knew this. If they asked anyone for help, the entire ton would know it by week’s end. He was not willing to subject his mother to the vicious gossip that would ensue. He knew what the ton said about him, he could take it. But not his mother.

  * * *

  Her father was very quiet as they rode home and Louisa kept shooting glances at him, wondering what was on his mind. She followed silently as he led the way home, planning the rest of her day. She could not help but mull over everything her Uncle Gilbert had told them about the new Duke. She didn’t know if she pitied him or envied him. He had the courage to break away from his family’s expectations and go his own way – at least for a time. In the end, he had been forced to come back and fulfill his destiny as the new duke. However, nobody could take his experience of the sea away from him.

  Her thoughts went to his scars. They were not immediately obvious when one looked at him. Indeed, one would have to stare quite rudely in order to notice the mottled skin of his neck, mostly covered by his cravat. The slash across his face was dashing rather than disfiguring although she had noticed that he turned his head so that only the unblemished side was visible to her father as he painted. Perhaps he was self-conscious about his scars.

  She hoped that one day she would be able to hear the story of how he got them from the horse’s mouth. In the meantime, she had a lot to do. She knew full well that after her father had been painting uninterrupted for a considerable length of time, his hands tended to shake with pain and exhaustion. It never used to be that way but it seemed to get worse with every painting. They never discussed it between them but Louisa had taken to stocking up on kava kava, St. John’s Wort, and Valerian root for the pain. She obtained them from an old woman who sold her wares in the market.

  Many dismissed her in favor of the old sawbones. but Louisa knew that her remedies worked. As soon as they got back home, she dug out the herbs and set them to steep. Her father sat down wearily on his stool, trying to disguise the shaking in his hands but not succeeding. Louisa watched him worriedly. In her estimation, the shaking seemed to be getting worse and she felt the need to point it out but knew that there was no point.

  What could they do about it even if they acknowledged it? Not much. She set out a cloth that she would dip in the hot water once the herbs were done steeping as well as an apron. She draped them on a chair as they waited, and then turned her attention to her drawing of the sunrise this morning. Perhaps she could finish it while they waited. It would help her to relax and not dwell on things she could not change such as her father’s advancing infirmity.

  From behind her, she heard him sigh and turned to him. “Can I get you anything?”

  He smiled sadly at her, “No, my dear. I am perfectly fine. Simply tired and worn down with age I think.”

  “You are not that old.” She protested.

  Americus laughed. “Tell that to my hands.”

  They both looked down at the shaking digits, Louisa biting her lip with worry while Americus’ face was bleak. His hands were tools of his trade. Without them, how would they earn a living?

  “I shall ask Mrs. Marni if she knows something that might stop it.” Louisa declared.

  Americus nodded. “You
can try, my girl. And I am grateful for your care but I fear no herb will make this better.” He stared down at his hands as if they did not belong to him. “They have been getting steadily worse with every day that passes. I cannot deny it any longer. My hands are failing me.”

  Louisa sighed, eyes dropping. She did not know what to say. She stood up to check on the herbs and found them gently steaming. “Not long now,” she murmured, just for something to say before stumbling out of the room as she desperately swallowed the lump in her throat.

  If it was up to her, she would gladly have taken over for her father, looked for clients and done the paintings. But nobody wanted to be painted by a woman. As much as she loved the craft, and would have wanted to dedicate her life to perfect it; everyone in her life saw her as simply a bride-in-waiting. Even her beloved father wanted nothing for her but that she finds herself a good husband and live happily as his wife.

  He dismissed her when she said that all she wanted to do was paint. It made her even more envious of the new Duke of Munboro. As much as he had to return to land and take up the mantle, he had five years at sea; of being nothing but a sailor to look back on. She did not even have that.

  All she had was her ever-growing pile of paintings of the sunrise that her father indulged her by hanging up in his studio. He did acknowledge that they were good and that she was talented but only in a placating way that did nothing to encourage her to hone her skills into a craft.

  She knew he was just protecting her. It would be an injustice for him to fan her dreams when there was really nowhere that they could go. Still, she wished for him to think of her the same way that he thought of himself – as a painter, an artist. Because that is how she viewed herself.

  She wondered if the Duke could tell her of other lands, where, perhaps, a woman might excel at a craft, and be allowed to do so. Dismissing the thought at once, she went back to the kitchen to check on her tisane. She determined that it had steeped enough and dipped the waiting towel into it.

  “Hold out your hand, father,” she said and he did as she said so she could carefully wrap his hand in the towel. He hissed with pain but she ignored him, gently massaging the heat and herbs into his skin.

  “That’s it. Just a little more and we’ll be done,” she murmured soothingly as she pressed forcibly down between his joints. He gritted his teeth but said not a word in protest. After she had thoroughly massaged his flesh with the warm cloth she put it aside and stared at his hand.

  His still-shaking hand.

  Chapter 4

  Crisis Management

  Americus had first felt the shaking in his fingers a year ago but he had at first dismissed it. It was only when he could not conceal it from his child anymore that it really began to worry him. He closed his hand around the brush, perturbed at the effort it took, just to hold it.

  His commission from this job would be enough to see them fed and clothed through another winter and he hoped that in that time, he could get Louisa married so she was taken care of. She was a stubborn chit, however, and resisted all his attempts to push her at a suitable mate.

  It was frustrating.

  He did not want to scare her unnecessarily but it was becoming urgent that she find a suitor, or else they would both be in the pauper’s house come spring. He did not want that for her.

  For a moment, he considered asking Gilbert for help but then shook his head. The steward was his brother and had more than enough reason to be concerned for Louisa, but he was not to be trusted with her welfare.

  He sighed, pressing down tighter on the brush as he willed his hand not to shake on the down stroke. He was lucky that he did not –yet – have to do any of the finer details on this work. It was simply outlines and background. Soon though, he would need to have a solution to his problem. Louisa did not know it but his hand shook all the time now and not just when he was tired. He had managed to hide it so far but soon, he would not be able to.

  He got to his feet. “Louisa!” he called, “I am leaving. I shall be back later.”

  She came clattering down the stairs, clutching a brush of her own, a streak of paint on her left cheek. She looked a picture and he smiled to see her, itching to paint her one more time.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Americus shrugged. “I simply need to get some air.”

  Louisa took another step down. “I’ll come with you.”

  Americus waved his hand dismissively even before she had finished speaking. “No need. I feel the need to be alone. Go on and finish your painting, my dear.”

  She still looked supremely uncertain and so Americus took long strides toward the door, opening it as he threw a smile her way. “I shall see you later. Don’t wait supper for me.”

  He closed the door on her concerned face and heaved a deep sigh. He hated lying to her but there was no need for both of them to be consumed with worry. He could do that fine all by himself.

  He made his way down to the market, in search of Mrs. Marni. So far, Louisa had been in charge of obtaining herbal remedies from her. However, because she did not know the extent of his malady, the herbs she brought barely controlled the pain. He did obtain some relief but not nearly enough.

  He walked slowly, nodding at acquaintances as he passed but not stopping to talk. A few people congratulated him on his new commission, others were curious about the new Duke. What kind of gentleman was he? Would he continue his father’s legacy? Americus had no answer for them and thus did his best to hurry along.

  Mrs. Marni was sitting outside her stall, and she seemed unsurprised to see him.

  “I see you have finally come,” she said.

  His eyebrow arched. “Have you been waiting for me?”

  She did not answer, simply gave him an enigmatic look and got to her feet. She bent down in order to enter her shop, whose entrance was simply a thick velvet curtain that she stood aside and held open, watching him expectantly. He bowed down and scooted in after her, straightening up and waiting to see what she would do next. She let the flap fall into place so that they were shrouded in darkness aside from a single candle burning on a low table.

  “Sit,” she whispered, pointing at a stool. He took it with a sigh and turned to face her.

  “I–” he began.

  She held up her hand. “I did not ask you to speak.”

  He nodded awkwardly, lowered his head and waited for her direction. She picked up a clay bowl and filled it with foul-smelling herbs, all the while murmuring some things. She then set it on fire and acrid smoke filled the room.

  Americus found himself coughing and choking up while Mrs. Marni sat serenely, watching him. He felt his face heat up and knew that he must be turning quite red. Trying to stumble to his feet so as to make his way out to the fresh air, he found that he could not.

  Suddenly the herbalist reached forward, her hand fisted over the bowl. She dropped something into it and all the smoke dissipated. Then she bent down and picked up a jug, pouring a liquid into a stone cup. She stood up and came to his side of the table. “Open your mouth.”

  Americus was doing as he was told before he could really think about it. She poured the liquid down his throat. It burned as if it might contain pepper or some other astringent. He swallowed it without protest, but could not help wincing. She held the cup over his lips until every drop was gone. Then she put it down and picked up a glass that was also filled with a liquid – this one colorless unlike the murky green of the other.

  “It’s just water,” she said, “it’ll help with the burning.”

  Americus gulped it down. She was right. It did help. He looked up at her, with wide eyes. “What was that?”

  She gazed serenely at him. “Let’s see your hands,” she said holding out her own. He stared, unable to comprehend her callousness in the face of his hurt and confusion. She continued to wait, her hands held out patiently and eventually he put his own in them.

  She examined them closely, ignoring the glare he was
directing at her. Then she looked up and met his eyes, her own a smudge of black, long lashes framing them in a way that drew one in. “Look,” she said. Her lashes dropped down and then back up at him.

  “Look at what?” he asked, quite displeased at her arbitrary bullying.

  She dropped her lashes again, clearly wanting him to look down. He did and then gasped as he noticed it.

  His hands had stopped shaking.

  * * *

  Jeremy was self-conscious about his scars. That was why, despite it being the height of summer, he kept himself covered up. Being back in the thick of things helped because a member of the ton was supposed to observe certain standards of dress. Being unable to leave the house without a coat on was – for once – a blessing. Nobody had to see the disfigured markings on his hands and his arms. His neck was duly covered by his cravat. Only the mark on his face was apparent for the world to see, and for sure, they did not demur in asking him where he got the scar.