Regency Romances Page 54

  It was as if she was suddenly weightless; Fife moved around the dance floor with fluid motions, drawing her close and spinning her away, slipping between other dancers with an ease that Marianne marveled at. She wasn’t certain she understood the emotions currently pressing against her chest, and she sank into Fife’s embrace as if she belonged there.

  As they spun about, and Marianne caught Helena’s eye, she could see her best friend, hand pressed to her mouth. Beside her, Lady Christina was watching them, a wide smile on her face. Lord Fife and even the Duchess of Hertford were in attendance. Marianne could not understand what was happening. It was not until the song dipped, the last note echoing throughout the room, that she felt she could breathe.

  She wanted to run, that much she knew, but Fife had a tight hold on her hand. “Would you permit me one conversation?”

  Marianne nodded, knowing that at the very least, he was owed that much from her.

  They stepped out onto one of the balconies, and Marianne curled her hands around the rail, staring out over the grounds in apprehension.

  “I wish to apologize.”

  At Fife’s words, Marianne twirled, startled. “You have nothing to apologize to me for.”

  Fife did not look convinced.

  “Please,” Marianne said and clutched her hands to her chest. She gestured slowly towards Fife’s face. “I know that I have no right to ask, but may I–”

  There was a pause, and Marianne hardly dared hope that he would nod. Eventually, slowly, Fife took a step toward her. Marianne’s hands shook as she reached for the mask on his face, and gently she peeled away the fabric, letting it rest around his neck.

  Fife’s eyes dropped to the ground, but for the first time since she had seen him that night in the billiard room, Marianne looked at him—really looked. She touched her hand to his scarred cheek, thumb rubbing gently against the skin.

  “Is it painful?”

  Eyes raising slowly, a startled look on his face, Fife seemed struck silent for a moment. He recovered quickly; Marianne could see him swallow, and he blinked a couple of times. “Nobody has ever asked me that before.”

  “I am asking now,” Marianne said, keeping her tone gentle. “Though you do not have to answer if you are not comfortable.”

  Fife reached up to clasp her hands, but he did not remove them. He seemed to press a little into the touch. “They ache on occasion, but no, they have not hurt in a long time.”

  “But you still hurt,” Marianne murmured, almost to herself. She pressed her free hand to Fife’s chest, curling her fingers in his shirt. “I have done you a great disservice. I know what you must think of me.”

  “Try as I might,” Fife said slowly, brushing his hand beneath Marianne’s chin, eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. “I could do nothing but love you.”

  Marianne felt as if she could cry with relief and her own love, blossoming in her chest like a flower unfurling after the winter. “I am the one who should be apologizing. You must have thought me repulsed by you.”

  Fife said nothing, but she could see the hurt in his eyes.

  “I wrote to you. I thought of mailing the letter so many times, yet I never did.” Marianne sighed, hoping that her sincerity showed in her expression, her words. She needed him to understand that this was not out of anything he had done.

  “Your friend came to Hertford,” Fife admitted.

  Marianne’s shock was followed with relief; Helena had done this for her? “I will have to thank her.”

  “Later, I hope,” Fife said, taking Marianne’s hand.

  Marianne swallowed, finding the words she had been fighting for. “I am so glad that she did, for it was not until I had run that I realized what I was running from.”

  “I hope not from me,” Fife said, his voice strong, yet there was a touch of apprehension to his words.

  Marianne shook her head. “I did not understand what I was feeling. I hated myself for not being able to look at you, for not being able to afford you the respect and courtesy you were due. My heart broke to look upon you.”

  It was not the most articulate way of speaking, but Fife did not look offended, nor did he look uncomfortable. He was waiting, she realized, affording her the explanation she had hoped to give.

  “Whenever I looked at you, I ached to think of what people would see, how they would react to you. It was not,” she added, shamed, “the appropriate way to respond to those feelings, but I did not know then that the shame I felt was not toward you, but for you.”

  “Compassion,” Fife said, thumb brushing Marianne’s cheek. “A quality one should always look for in a person.”

  “I am just sorry that I hurt you and made you think it was you that I reviled.” Marianne closed her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks. She did not know how to apologize for the miscommunication, nor for her inability to talk about her feelings in the way that would have cleared up the misunderstanding. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  Fife laughed, a gentle, clear sound. When Marianne opened her eyes, he was smiling at her, warm and open. He brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Miss Drake, I do more than forgive you.”

  Marianne’s smile grew in return, melting into his touch as he shifted her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  “I wondered if you would do me the honor,” Fife said, hand smoothing down her hair gently. It was awkward, given the mask and the intricate bun her hair was wrapped in, but he brushed a lock from her face, lifting the mask from her eyes. “Of becoming my wife.”

  Marianne’s breath caught in her chest and she realized that she was trembling. “Your Grace, I–”

  “My love,” Fife said, cutting effortlessly across her. “We can talk to your heart's content about what has occurred between us, though I would like to do it in the comfort of my own home, an estate in Fife surrounded by the countryside you love so much.”

  The idea of it stole Marianne’s breath. “Oh–”

  “I wish to know if you can look upon me as your husband,” Fife said, something vulnerable in his expression.

  Marianne had no hesitation. “I look upon you. I see you,” she said, once more brushing a hand to his cheek, running her fingertips over his scarring. His eyelids fluttered, and she wondered if, though it did not hurt, it was sensitive. “I love you, and it would be my honor to become your wife.”

  The expression Fife turned upon her at that moment made everything between them worth it. Happiness, she thought, as he drew her into another embrace and pressed a kiss to her mouth, was a good look for him, for them both.

  *** The End ***

  attracting

  the duke’s affections

  Regency Romance

  Grace Fletcher

  Chapter 1

  First Time

  “Inverness? Are you all right?”

  Paul Hill, Duke of Inverness, turned away from the window. He had been fascinated with the snow falling outside, covering the cobbles with a white blanket. It was nothing compared to the snow he saw up at his estate in Scotland, but it was still pretty to look at. He focused on the middle-aged woman sitting beside the fire, a blanket over her lap as the fire blazed in the hearth.

  “Forgive me, Mother. I had forgotten what London looked like.” Inverness indicated the street outside. “It looks beautiful at this time of year.”

  Christine Hill, Dowager Duchess of Inverness, gave him a warm smile.

  “It can’t compare to Inverness, though. Scotland is beautiful in snow. You can never get bored with it.” She shivered and burrowed her hands under the blanket. “You can get fed up with the cold, however. I swear I feel it more as I get old and I’m barely fifty.”

  Inverness approached his mother and kissed her head. They had always been close but now they were closer since his father’s death five years before. Duchess Christine was his confidant. Being a man who wasn’t happy with crowds that suited Inverness perfectly.

  “I wish I was back there now.” He settled himself
into the other chair by the fire. “So quiet. Nobody to bother you.”

  Christine laughed.

  “You know what your problem is, darling? You’re a hermit. You need to socialize more.”

  “I did plenty of that in my first season and I didn’t like it then.”

  “And then your father died, and you ended up holing yourself up at the estate in the farthest part of Scotland, as far away from London as you could get,” Duchess Christine pointed out. “I don’t think anyone knows what you look like anymore.”

  Inverness grunted.

  “I don’t even recognize myself sometimes. But it was the best decision I made.” He narrowed his eyes at his mother. “And I hope you didn’t make me come down here to make sure I find a wife.”

  “I wasn’t doing that.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re telling me the truth or not.”

  “I am this time,” Duchess Christine sighed, staring unhappily into the fire. “Bedford is here.”

  Understanding dawned. Now Inverness knew why he had been summoned to London.

  “Ah. Now I see. You want me to be a chaperone for you and make sure he doesn’t bother you.”

  Paul Spencer, the Marquis of Bedfordshire, had been a former flame of Duchess Christine’s when she was young. But he hadn’t been the most loving of people and it had ended when the dowager duchess’s parents caught the marquis, the heir presumptive at that time, openly slapping their daughter when she dared to tell him he needed to slow down on his drinking. Shortly after, Christine had met her deceased husband, Inverness’s father, and it was a love match from the start. Bedford had never recovered from that and had dogged Duchess Christine to the point she refused to enter Society. She rarely came to London now, especially if the middle-aged marquis was about.

  Inverness disliked the man intensely. He was a drunk who pawed women and didn’t care who saw it. They had almost come to blows two years before when they had barely come out of mourning. Bedford had been drunk and bothering the dowager duchess to the point Inverness had had to have the hosts throw him out. Not what he really wanted to do but Duchess Christine didn’t want the fuss.

  “There are going to be times when he and I have to grace the same room, whether I like it or not,” Christine sighed. “And I’m not really looking forward to it. Not after the last time we crossed paths.”

  “I still think you should have let me deal with him at the Duke of York’s summer ball.” Inverness grumbled.

  “This is my fight, son, not yours.”

  “But I’m meant to be in charge of you now. I have to look after you.”

  Duchess Christine made a face.

  “Don’t make me sound like a chore, please.”

  “My fault.” Inverness sat forward, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m surprised nobody’s wanted to marry him. He was an eligible bachelor as a young man.”

  “Was is the operative word. His drinking’s gotten really bad. No woman will go near him without being armed with a fan and a fork.”

  “A fan and a fork?”

  Duchess Christine grinned.

  “A fan to hit him over the head and a fork to jab him in the hands with.”

  “Remind me to stock up in the kitchen, then.” Inverness looked up as someone knocked at the door. “Come in.”

  The door opened and a maid Inverness had never seen before came into the room. Inverness couldn’t help but stare. She was young, barely eighteen, with golden blonde hair pinned up perfectly under her white cap. She was petite, and her skin was a golden brown, indicating she had spent a lot of time in the sun as a young girl. And those eyes when she locked gazes with Inverness for a moment…those dark eyes were stunning. Dark brown with a touch of gold with a hint of green. They were mesmerizing.

  Inverness found himself sitting up. Where had she come from? He would have known about a woman as beautiful as her on his staff. The girl’s eyes widened and a slight flush crossed her cheeks. Then she ducked her head and bobbed a quick curtsy.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but Her Grace wanted me to fetch a shawl for her. She said she was cold.”

  Inverness could barely find the words. He had forgotten how to speak. Duchess Christine, on the other hand, beamed at the girl and beckoned her over.

  “Thank you, Rita.” She allowed the servant girl to drape the beautiful dark shawl around her shoulders, sinking into the fabric with a sigh. “The fire’s lovely but I’m still feeling the chill. I hope I’m not coming down with something.”

  But Inverness barely heard his mother. He was still staring at the girl. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” he blurted out.

  The girl’s eyes snapped up to him. She seemed to freeze like a frightened rabbit. Duchess Christine smiled and patted the girl’s hand.

  “Rita’s new. I hired her at the start of the season. She’s my personal maid.”

  Her cheek’s still red, Rita bowed her head and curtsied to Inverness.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace.”

  “Likewise, Rita.” Rita. Inverness liked that name. “I hope my mother isn’t driving you too hard.”

  “She’s the perfect employer, Sir.”

  The dowager duchess burst out laughing.

  “She’s been trained well. You can go now, Rita. I won’t need you for a while.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  Rita left, her walk smooth and graceful. Inverness couldn’t help but stare after her as she left. She simply just drew the eye. Inverness was completely snared.

  “Paul!”

  Inverness jumped. Duchess Christine was frowning at him. Flushing, Inverness cleared his throat and sat back.

  “Forgive me, Mother. What did you say?”

  His mother shook her head in disapproval.

  “You are too old to be chastised like a child,” she scolded. “I haven’t called you Paul for a while now.”

  “Five years, to be exact.”

  “It’s got your attention, anyway,” Duchess Christine grunted. “I brought you here to chaperone me, not to gawp over my maids.”

  “I…” Inverness could feel his face getting warmer. “I wasn’t gawping!”

  “You were staring at Rita the whole time she was here. She’s a nice girl and I am liberal in most things, Inverness, but I think you taking a liking to one of the servants is a bit too far.”

  “I haven’t taken a liking to her.”

  But even as he said it, Inverness felt like that was a lie. Was he actually taking a fancy to a servant? The dowager duchess grunted.

  “You’ve been at your estate for too long. I can’t believe how naïve you are.”

  “Naïve.” Inverness smarted. “What do you mean I’m naïve?”

  Duchess Christine smiled and rolled her eyes.

  “You’ll know soon enough.”

  Chapter 2

  The Strange Man

  “Rita!” Rita jumped when a tray was slammed onto the table. “Come on, girl, pay attention! This is for your mistress.”

  Rita took a moment to refocus. Then she realized where she was: in the kitchen with the duke and dowager duchess’s cook frowning at her. She was there to take the dowager duchess her breakfast if Rita could pay attention. Duchess Christine was not an early riser and in the cold weather, she preferred to have breakfast in bed.

  Rita liked working for the older lady. She was kind and warm. From what she had heard from her friends in other various households that was a rare thing. Rita considered herself lucky to have such a nice employer.

  But even Duchess Christine would disapprove of Rita not being on top of her job. She liked things to be done efficiently and Rita was starting to slip. She didn’t want to lose her job because she was consistently daydreaming.

  Feeling her face flush with warmth, Rita dropped her eyes and bit her lip.

  “Forgive me, Cook. I did not mean to be rude.”

  “I can tell.” Cook was now looking
more concerned than disapproving. “What’s wrong with you, child? You seem to be completely off in your own world today. In fact, you’ve been out of sorts for a while. That’s not like you at all.”

  “It’s not intentional, Cook,” Rita protested.

  “I know it isn’t.” Cook chuckled as she started serving up the dowager duchess’s breakfast, putting bacon and eggs onto the plate. “And I think I know the reason why.”

  Rita hoped not. Her fingers twisted together.

  “I’m just a little tired, Cook.”

  “It’s not that.” Cook smirked. “I think it’s because you find the duke attractive.”

  “I do not!”

  But Rita could feel her face getting even warmer. The Duke of Inverness had been on her mind since they had first met. He was certainly a very handsome man. Light brown hair a little on the long side, brushing against his collar, and startling blue eyes. They had speared Rita to the spot, and she had forgotten how to breathe. The duke was an eye-catching fellow and cut a fine figure in his best silks. And that stare of his…it was intense. Rita had felt like she was on a pedestal. No man had looked at her with such intensity before.

  Ever since the duke had arrived, Rita had been off-balance. She had been trying to get on with her work but was very much aware when the duke came into the room. He had a presence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. And that soft Scottish accent of his was like music. Rita could listen to him all day.

  But thinking about him beyond being her employer was dangerous. And illicit. It was unthinkable to consider anything more than a servant-employer relationship. Rita knew her thoughts were bad, and she had been to church several times to confess her sins. But it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  “I don’t blame you for thinking that,” Cook went on as she put some toast on another plate, a small bowl of butter beside it with a knife. “Most of the girls here end up staring at him for a little too long. For a man who’s practically a hermit, he has no idea his effect on women.” Cook shot Rita a look. “But he’s not our sort, Rita, dear. He will never take one of us for a wife.”