Page 35 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
“Yay!” Estelle sat back, bouncing on the seat and clapping. Miss Shaw pressed one hand to her knee. The governess bore an unusually close similarity to her charge. Both had red-gold hair, snub noses, and green eyes. Clarissa was waiting for the right moment to broach whether there was a closer relationship between the two of them than teacher and pupil. Perhaps she would find it during their visit to Acton Heath.
They rolled down the long drive beneath a canopy of enormous oaks. Light dappled the road. The sun carried no warmth despite the lateness of the season. Clarissa had read that farmers were suffering crop failures due to the excessive cold, yet such worldly cares felt far away from this peaceful, prosperous place.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe.
“I have never seen such a grand mansion,” murmured Miss Shaw. Clarissa sat straighter, twisting in her seat to get a better view.
“Regretting your decision?” Nathaniel asked. She smacked his arm lightly and sighed.
“To quote Austen, ‘Of this place, I might have been mistress.’” She sagged against the squabs. “It’s no use, Nathaniel. I would have been a terrible duchess.”
“Are you acquainted with the duke?” asked Miss Shaw.
“Slightly,” she mumbled as heat rushed to her cheeks. She fanned herself. “It’s rather close in here. I shall be grateful for a breath of fresh air.”
To her relief, the governess did not press the issue.
Inside the enormous mansion, they were greeted by the housekeeper who offered to give them a tour.
“Are you certain Lord Montague is not at home?” Clarissa asked apprehensively.
“He is inspecting the pottery factory and is not expected to return until tomorrow.”
A bolt of disappointment shot through her before she could guard against it. She had closed the door on any possible relationship with Jude, and she was not reopening it for a house, no matter how magnificent it was. Even if it did have beautiful ancient oak trees.
“What pottery factory?”
“There is a section of land on the far end of the estate that was naught but scrub land until fine-quality clay was discovered there. One of his first acts as a new duke was to open a clay pit and ceramics factory near the site. Today it employs over two hundred miners, artisans, and staff.”
Nathaniel cast her a sidelong smirk. She narrowed her eyes at him and stuck out her tongue.
“Miss Penfirth!” exclaimed Estelle. “That was very rude!”
“My darling star,” Miss Shaw admonished gently, through clenched teeth, “we do not chide our elders.”
“But she stuck out her tongue at Lord?—”
“Miss Shaw is a bit of a spoilsport,” Nathaniel said easily. The governess glared.
“Up the stairs on this landing you will see a portrait of the late duke’s family,” interrupted the housekeeper. Everyone fell into hushed attentiveness. “The Dowager Duchess of Montague resides near His Grace’s nephews, the sons of the girl in the yellow dress. Until His Grace marries and produces an heir, Lady Pamela’s four sons are next in line to inherit.”
Clarissa studied the portrait. So this was Harriet’s mother, albeit at a very young age. She estimated the girl to be around eight years old in the picture.
“Who are the other children?”
“Those are Lord Montague’s three brothers and two sisters. None of them remain among the living, sadly. One died of measles, one of scarlet fever, the other sister in childbirth, and the eldest son passed in a tragic carriage accident, leaving the second son to inherit the title.”
Clarissa gazed at the portrait solemnly. Not even immense wealth could protect children from deadly diseases or the vagaries of fate. Four children from one family, all dead.
A son who had never expected to hold the title left to shoulder all that grief and responsibility, tasked with cleaning up an irresponsible sister’s mess.
She followed the tour with a heaviness in her heart that she simply couldn’t shake. Despite so many personal losses, Jude remained a caring and thoughtful man, if generally suspicious of the world. She had been a fool to refuse him simply because she was scared of social censure.
Yes, she had experienced her share of cutting remarks from strangers and supposed friends who put a knife in her back. She, too, had allowed the world to make her cower in fear, but her personal losses had been mere trifles compared to what he had suffered.
Little wonder that he was so fiercely protective of his niece. His stubbornness was born of wanting the best for Harriet, and in his world, a French smuggler was not anywhere close to acceptable. His intransigence was born of a deep-seated fear of losing someone he loved. In trying to remedy his only living sister’s error, he had lost Harriet, too.
Yet instead of offering sympathy, Clarissa had chided him for not letting her go sooner.
