Page 9 of My Deceitful Duchess
She tried instead to focus upon those—the laughter, the chatter. She could not hear the shuffle of cards or the toss of dice from such a distance, but she knew those would be present too. Ambrosia was the embodiment of joy, of pleasure. Nothing could touch her here; there was no villain lurking beyond her shoulder, waiting for a chance to slip a knife between her ribs.
And so long as she was careful, there never would be.
There was the bright burn of anger in her chest; a flame that had sparked years and years ago from the crash of an oil lamp. It was the rage of an innocent victim made into a murderess—the fury of a woman who had only wanted tolive, but had instead found herself much maligned. It had not beenenoughfor Julian and Nerissa to have sent her fleeing from Venbrough Manor like a thief in the night. They had wanted her dead, and when they had failed to manage that, they had instead ensured that she would never be able to speak of her suspicions to anyone—not without risking her own neck. Quite literally.
The horrific tale of the murderous duchess had circulated for some time, titillating theTon. Julian and Nerissa had put on quite the pretty show, affecting an air of tragedy—the pair who had onlyjustescaped a fiery grave at the hands of the mad duchess who had killed her husband and burned down the manor house to conceal her crime. It was a fascinating story, even if it had held just the barest hint of truth.
She had, after all, burned down the manor.
But no one had questioned the recounting of events provided by the pair of them. No one had wondered what might have moved a duchess to murder. No one had even speculated upon the fact that the duke’s death—before his pretty young wife had managed to provide him with his heir—had been only too convenient for Julian, who could not have been expected to inherit otherwise, and who had since stepped into the role of duke with considerable delight, lording above all in the prestige he had, however illegitimately, acquired.
They could both have had it, with her compliments—if only they would have let heralone. But instead they had made her a fugitive, living within an uneasy and tenuous sort of peace. So very fragile that a single suspicion could ruin her. The kind that would prevail only so long as her past remained exactly where it was.
Buried in the past, beneath the wreck and rubble of the hollowed-out corpse of Venbrough Manor. She could almost picture it in her mind that massive, burnt building—teetering on the precipice of collapse, the spidery, skeletal jut of its beams and arches skinned of their once-magnificent walls and thrust against the grey sky like the ribcage of a fallen giant. A forgotten tomb, now, sinking back into the forest with each year that passed. A tomb that had been meant to be hers as well, and that she had escaped only by the skin of her teeth.
It had been more than ten years since then. The incident that had made her into the woman she was today had long slipped from public memory. No one cared any longer about the murderous duchess that had disappeared into the night. No one cared about the deceased duke, who had been largely disliked even amongst his own social set.
No one was going to strip her of her disguise—not even the queer Mr. Knight and his incomprehensible mind. He might divine a deceased husband from the lack of a ring, but evenhecould hardly deduce a duchess in a den of iniquity.
At last, the frantic beat of her heart slowed, and the sweat dried upon her skin. She reached across the vast expanse of her bed, grabbed the bell pull, and gave it a firm tug. Another night at Ambrosia had begun, and it was time she got around to it.
Chapter Four
Sebastian fell into step beside Jenny as she exited the bakery. “I was thinking,” he said, and did not take offense at the inelegant snort she issued, “that when we conduct our affair, it will have to be at my residence.”
“Will it?” Her head bent, she took a bite of her profiterole, and her eyes closed in enjoyment. She seemed to derive the very same enjoyment every morning from her breakfast, even though, from his observation, she had never deviated from her usual order. Sebastian was also a creature of habit—he took two poached eggs, a piece of toast, and a healthy dab of orange marmalade. But he did not experience the same pleasure that she seemed to do.
“You live at Ambrosia, do you not?” he asked.
“I do. Quite comfortably, in fact.” Her lashes lowered, and the very tips of them were flecked with gold.
“It’s well-known that men are not permitted to enter,” he said. “Though I have long suspected that Lord Clybourne is a bit of an exception to that rule.”
“Not so loud, if you please,” she hissed, and swiped a bit of pastry cream from her full lower lip. “Thatis not common knowledge.”
“Then you might tell Lord Clybourne that certain residences have a rather good view of the mews, and that he should certainly not take a marked carriage there before nightfall,” he said. “Or else it almost certainlywillbecome common knowledge.”
A little laugh trickled from her throat. “I suppose your residence is one of those with agood view, then?”
He nodded. “In fact, there are all of twenty paces between your servants’ entrance and my door.”
“How strange. I guessed you must live nearby—but I don’t think I would have taken you for the sort to do so if you had not been here every morning.” Her steps had slowed somewhat, her brisk pace easing into a sedate stroll. “Despite yourself, you have the look of the gentry about you.”
“Despite myself?”Blast. He’d failed to brush his hair again this morning. And he supposed he might have missed a bit of stubble during his quick shave.
“May I be frank, Mr. Knight?”
“Of course.” He didn’t know why she’d asked. He had always preferred honesty over the confusing inclination of people as a whole to converse in polite lies, for no particular purpose which he could discern.
“You look like you’ve been robbed and left for dead in an alley.” Still, a smile edged up the very corner of her lips, as if she found his dishevelment charming somehow. “But you still have that—thatlordlyarrogance about you. Tell me, is there a title in your future?”
“Good God, no. Not unless a significant number of people were to die prematurely. Seventeen, at last count. Likely more, now.” Happily, those extended family members who came before him had the tendency to breed like rabbits, forever exempting him of the responsibilities that would have come with a title. “InDebrett’s, I’d be little more than a footnote.”
“But you wouldbethere,” she said, and took another bite of her profiterole.
“Does my lineage matter? I would not have thought you were the sort to select an affair partner as one might a good horse. Shall I show you my teeth?” That light, airy laugh again—he could swear hefeltit. There was something so satisfying about making her laugh, even if it happened to be at his own expense. “The truth is that my father is a banker, and my elder brother is bound to take over the family business someday—and I’ve more money than either of them. I know it is uncouth, for some reason, to speak of such things—”
“I’m a woman of business,” she interjected dryly. “I don’t find it uncouth at all.”
