Page 19 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke
Life was busy putting him high up on a pedestal so others might not reach him. His grandfather had warned him of it. Now, he understood.
He had been too busy for family or friendships these last few months anyway. He had spent them sorting out the old man’s estate and making his name in the House of Lords, fulfilling his duty as he had been bred to do, like a trained monkey.
So, since leaving London and coming here to Pembroke Place, his main country estate, he had been avoiding duty. Enjoying driving his curricle, shooting and swimming in the lake.
A woman was walking along the road in the distance.
He was on his way to meet the estate manager, Mr Wareham, who managed Pembroke Place and oversaw the stewards at all of John’s properties. None of which explained why Wareham had approached an external lawyer, as Phillip had advised at the funeral. He had decided that it was about time he accepted his responsibilities here too. He ought to be visiting tenants not racing about the country lanes.
Wareham was supposed to refer any legal issue to Harvey, who had sworn he knew nothing of it, and John believed him.
If there was one thing the old Duke had done well, it was managing his estates. He would have said something to Mr Harvey if he had been aware of this loan. So, Harvey should know of it, if it was a legitimate loan. Which meant as Mr Harvey did not – Mr Wareham had done something underhand.
On his arrival, John had reiterated to Mr Wareham during their first meeting that all business should be done through Mr Harvey, without giving any indication he knew of the deal with Boscombe. There had not been a flicker in Wareham’s eyes, but his belligerence had put John out of sorts.
The woman was closer. He eased up the horses’ pace to a trot to pass her.
Half his trouble were the bad memories that haunted him. Now that his grandmother had retired to one of the smaller estates, he had started changing the town house, redecorating to dismiss his childhood memories. He was going to do the same here, to chase off the desperate child who still lived in his head. He hated the house. He had felt that hatred the minute he had returned and known in the same moment it was irrational.
The emotion made him feel weak, and then angry at himself for his weakness.
The woman was just over a hundred yards ahead of him.
The other half of his trouble was that John was beginning to understand why his grandfather had been so withdrawn. The burdens of duty and expectation were making John the same. He hated the parasitical nature of people. No matter how much he did not wish to be like the old man, he could see no other way to forge a path through the barrage of falsehood. The only way was to shut people out. He had run from it before, from Europe to Egypt, he could not run now.
He tightened his grip on the reins as he neared the woman, slowing the horses to a walk. The animals’ coats were slick with sweat. It was too hot for them really. He should not have worked them so hard.
When he was almost beside her, he realised who the woman was. Katherine. He had not seen her since the funeral, well, not in person, he had seen her in his dreams. Vivid dreams which would certainly make her blush if she knew of them.
She lived in the village not far from Pembroke Place, he supposed he would therefore see her often when he stayed here.
Perhaps his guilt over those dreams was why he had given Phillip some work, to develop the contracts for a business deal between John and his Uncle Robert; or rather the guilt John should feel, in fact he felt only longing.
He had asked after her when he saw Phillip. Phillip had smiled and said, ‘She is the same as ever.’
Eleanor had told his mother Katherine declined an invitation to visit her in London. He had felt both relieved and angry at the time. The obsession he was developing for her was dangerous. But daydreams of her had become a sanctuary from the burden of duty.
‘Katherine!’ he called as he stopped the horses.
She jumped half out of her skin and spun to face him, looking up, her eyes in the shadow of her straw, broad-rimmed poke bonnet.
He had been craving air, sky, nature, in his desire for escape the last couple of days, and here was his quintessential English rose, a woman with modesty who could still blush.
The she-wolves had begun stalking him again in town; the wives who no longer had their husbands’ attention and sought a younger man to satisfy their needs. He had been moderately tempted, because he needed some form of release from his burdens. But his desire was for Katherine, for her simplicity and innocence – they were not that, they would not assuage his hunger. Katherine would.
His gaze swept over her figure from head to toe. She wore a thin muslin dress beneath a faded light blue spencer. Her arms and her waist were slender. His gaze trailed upwards to her bosom, that lifted and fell as though she were short of breath. Or perhaps she was overly warm, her hands were covered by the same kid leather gloves she had worn in London. Her hands must be sweating in this heat.
He set the carriage’s brake, looped the ribbons across the rail and jumped down.
He had come out in unseemly dress; he had not intended speaking to anyone. His black waistcoat hung open and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He probably looked like a labourer, but he had wished to be the man from Egypt again today, not a duke.
‘Katherine?’ he said again, approaching her.
She had not said a thing, nor moved, since she had turned.
As he neared, she took a step back.
She looked like a deer stilled by fear, hiding in plain sight, waiting for the moment she might risk running.
