The Duchess Read online

  “And it’s my guess your grandfather never gave her another penny.”

  “Why must you always be cynical? When my grandfather died he left her the interest from some money, but he said he wanted to ensure that she wasn’t the target for another gigolo.”

  “Liked to control people, didn’t he?”

  “He gave my parents their money free and clear,” she said fiercely, then was silent.

  “So now you have two penniless parents and a sister who has never had any money. Who gets your money if you don’t marry a man of whom they approve?”

  “My parents get it,” she said softly.

  “I guess they approve of Harry.”

  “Oh, yes. My mother says no money on earth could buy society like that of having a daughter who’s a duchess. And my father says all Harry’s friends know how to live.”

  “You mean they spend their days killing animals and their evenings eating?”

  “Harry also runs this house and three others. It takes a great deal of work to manage these estates.”

  “My dear industrious little American, Harry doesn’t any more manage these estates than I do. He hires people to run them. What managing that’s done is done by Harry’s mother.”

  “That’s not true! Harry is always going away on business.”

  “Harry’s ‘business’ is buying things. Have you looked at this place? Pictures, furniture, ornaments, horses and carriages in the stables. In succession each duke has married the woman with the most money and spent his life buying things and enjoying himself. It’s what Harry’s been trained for.”

  “You’re saying Harry is marrying me only for my money.”

  “And aren’t you marrying him because you want to be a duchess?”

  “No. I love Harry. And I love this house and this way of life. I love the people and the country.”

  “You love the romance. You love what you think is real. You so very conveniently love exactly what your parents want so you can become a duchess, get your grandfather’s money, and give your parents the kind of life they want.”

  “I don’t like you very much.”

  “You like Harry better?”

  “Much. He’s sweet and kind and gentle and—”

  “Lovely to look at.”

  “Yes,” she said defiantly, putting her chin in the air.

  “Harry’s family’s good looks have enabled generations of MacArran dukes to marry wealthy women.”

  Claire was silent for a moment. “After these rich women married the dukes, were they happy?”

  “For the most part I believe they were. I’ve heard that all the MacArran dukes are renowned lovers and, surprisingly, for all their self-indulgences, they are generally faithful to their wives.”

  “A woman couldn’t ask for more, could she?” she asked softly, looking at him.

  “Were I a woman I’d ask for a great deal more,” he practically shouted at her.

  She moved away from him; she didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “I must return to the house. Harry will be home today and I want to see him.” She straightened a cushion on the window seat. “I think you’ll be all right now. I’ll tell Oman—”

  He caught her hand as she walked past him and held it for a moment. “Don’t go,” he whispered.

  For a moment Claire looked into those black eyes of his and for just that one second, she saw inside him. For just that tiny moment she saw beneath his outer coldness and she thought, He’s lonely. He’s lonely, as I am lonely. And he’s an outsider, just as I am.

  The moment was gone nearly as quickly as it came and the mocking look returned. It was as though he refused to allow anyone to see beneath his mask. He tossed her hand away, as though he could no longer bear to touch her. “Go on. Go to your duke. Harry will want to show you the horse he’s bought you.” Trevelyan turned away and looked at the far wall.

  Claire stared at the back of his head for a moment and quickly made a decision. She told herself she was going to stay because Trevelyan was ill, because he needed a nurse, because he was lonely. But somewhere deep inside her, she knew the truth: she wanted his company, wanted his quick mind that made her think. True, he laughed at her, he was snide and cynical, but he was so very alive and he made her feel alive.

  Without saying a word, Claire left the room and went to speak to Oman. She wrote a note to her sister, telling her she wouldn’t be back until dinner tonight, and Brat was to stall Harry and everyone else who could be stalled.

  When Claire returned to Trevelyan’s room and told him she had arranged to spend the day with him, he didn’t bother to so much as say thank you. For a moment she thought she might reconsider her stay, but the mere thought of another dreary day spent in that house with all of Harry’s relatives made her ready to try most anything else.

  “What shall we do?” she asked. “Play cards?”

  “I shall write for three hours, then I—”

  “You get out of bed and I leave.”

  He came quite close to smiling at that, but he managed to control himself. “I will beat you at chess,” he said.

  “Oh? Do you think so?”

  Later, Claire was to think of this day as one of the most unusual days of her life. It was one thing to spend the day with Trevelyan when he was otherwise occupied, another to spend the day with him when there were other people about, but it was an utterly unique experience to be the sole and foremost object of Trevelyan’s attention.

  They played chess—in a manner of speaking. Trevelyan never bothered to look at the board. She told him where she had moved her pieces and he instantly, without the slightest hesitation, without the least amount of time to think about the move, told her where he wanted to move which of his pieces.

  While they played the game, they talked. Actually, Trevelyan asked her questions and she answered. What little experience of men Claire had had consisted of men who more than anything else in the world liked to talk about themselves. But Trevelyan wanted to know all about her. He didn’t just want to know about her life in New York and what she’d read and where she’d been, he wanted to know what she thought.

  He asked her what she thought of Englishmen and how they differed from American men. He asked her opinion of English women. He asked her how the American way of life differed from the British.

  Claire thought for a moment. “I don’t understand how the English nobleman thinks of money. If an American needs money he earns it. He finds a way to invest or invent something or he gets a job. He does something for which he gets paid.”

  “And the Englishman is different?”

  “I don’t know how the common man is—isn’t it odd to still have a class system in our modern world?—but the upper-class man doesn’t seem to even think of earning money. I heard that the earl of Irley was nearly bankrupt and everyone was talking about how he was selling his land and his houses. I happened to say I’d heard the earl owned some very good farmland and why didn’t he do something with it.”

  She moved her first piece on the chessboard then looked up at him. “Everyone in the room stopped and looked at me as though I’d said something obscene.”

  Trevelyan kept his eyes on her as he told her which chess piece to move for him. He didn’t bother to move his own pieces, as though the whole idea of playing was a great bore to him. “And yet you are going to marry into this upper class, as you call it.”

  “I am marrying Harry because I love him,” she said, and by her tone she let him know she wasn’t going to say any more on the subject.

  “And what do the English think of you?”

  At that Claire laughed. “They seem to look upon me as a cross between a Red Indian and a Gaiety Girl. I shock them rather often.”

  “I imagine you do. I don’t think a prim and proper young miss would spend days in a man’s rooms as you have done.”

  His words didn’t bother her in the least. “True enough. But we are chaperoned and you are—” Out of habit, she started