How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1)

  Through a welter of hurt, and whatever other hell churned inside him, he sneered, “Yes, damn it. That’s the only reason.” Then he walked away.

  Twenty-two

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  Stubborn, proud boy. Silly, proud gel. The very thing they have the most in common—pride—is now keeping them apart.

  I’ve never found a less enjoyable irony.

  “Yer grace?” A cacophony of barking answered MacDougal’s knock. He tried again, knocking a little louder. “Yer grace?”

  “Wait a demmed minute, will you?” Margaret snapped from where she’d just risen. She slapped a nightcap over her iron-gray braid, swooped up her robe, and marched to the door. She yanked it open and found an apologetic MacDougal standing in the hallway.

  The pugs leapt joyfully, mauling his breeches and shoes.

  “Stop it, you ingrates!” she ordered.

  The pugs stopped jumping, but continued to sniff the butler’s shoes.

  “I’m sorry, yer grace.” The butler wrung his hands. “I know ’tis late, and ye’re weary, but ’tis Lord Sinclair.”

  “My nephew? He returned?” After their argument in the library he’d ridden off, and they hadn’t seen him in two days. Margaret tried to pretend she hadn’t been worried, but she couldn’t keep a note of alarm from her voice just now.

  MacDougal’s expression instantly calmed her. “He’s here, yer grace. Unfortunately . . . he’s demanding to see Miss Balfour.”

  “But he knows she’s gone. I told him before he left.”

  The butler grimaced. “He’s oot of his mind, then. I didna wish to wake ye, but I was afraid one o’ the other guests might come and . . . Well, we’ve already had enou’ scandal fer one month and I thought . . . ”

  “MacDougal, either you will speak a straight sentence and explain what’s going on, or I’ll fetch the fire poker and whack the facts out of you.”

  The butler blinked, and then gave a weak grin. “Aye, yer grace. I’m sorry fer bein’ a bit put aboot, but Lord Sinclair’s set me on edge, bangin’ on the doors and demandin’ ‘his Rose.’ ”

  “ ‘His Rose?’ Is that what he said?”

  “Aye, yer grace. I finally got him into the library and tried to tell him, but he wouldna hear me. Yer grace, I canno’ do aught wit’ him. Ye’d best come, though I warn ye tha’ he’s proper shot in the neck.”

  “Ape-drunk, is he?”

  MacDougal nodded.

  “That boy will be the death of me.” Margaret returned to her bed and stuck her feet into her slippers and then snatched up her shawl from the chair by the fire. She swung the shawl about her shoulders, the fringe swinging madly as she walked past MacDougal, the pugs trotting behind her. “Fix some tea and toast and bring it to the library,” she ordered over her shoulder.

  “Aye, yer grace, but he’s in no shape to eat.”

  “He will be by the time I’m through with him,” she replied grimly. “We’ll also need some water straight from the pump—icy cold.”

  “Yes, yer grace. I’ll bring it with a washbowl and towel.”

  “Bring it in a bucket with a blanket.” She reached the bottom of the stairs. “The water first, the tea second.”

  “Yes, yer grace.” MacDougal hurried to open the library doors.

  She entered the room, the pugs trotting after her as MacDougal closed the doors.

  The room was dark, the only light coming from the fire in the grate. Sin was pacing wildly, his hair mussed as if he’d raked his hands repeatedly through it, his face covered with several days’ worth of stubble. His clothing was mussed, his cravat twisted to one side, his coat and waistcoat open. He looked as far from the fashionable rakehell who’d entered her house three weeks ago as was possible. Ah, how the mighty do fall.

  His gaze locked on Margaret. “I want Rose. I thought MacDougal might know where she is, but he won’t tell.” Sin’s words were slurred, his eyes red. “You know where she is.”

  “So I do.” Margaret walked to the fireplace and held out her hands to the welcoming blaze. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell you.”

  He looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “She asked you that? Not to tell me?” Sin stalked away and back, pacing like a wild lion in a cage.

  Margaret’s throat tightened at the raw emotion in his eyes. She had to take a moment to harden her heart. “Miss Balfour needed to leave. Had you wished her to stay, you would have done something about it.”

  Sin’s shoulders slumped as if he were about to collapse. “Damn that woman.”

  “That hardly sounds like a man desirous of winning a woman’s affections.”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I can’t want what’s not there to give.”

  Margaret came to stand by the fire, wrinkling her nose as she caught the smell of stale ale. “You smell like a tavern.”

  His lips twisted into a sneer. “Behold Sin!”

  “Behold Foolishness is more like it,” she said in a sharp tone. “You’re drunk.”

  She took the chair closest to the fireplace and sat. “Well, Sin? What brings you banging on my door in the middle of the night, soaked in gin? After the last time I saw you, I’m surprised to see you crossing my threshold.”

  “Aunt Margaret, I’m sorry for—” He raked a hand through his hair and laughed shakily. “God, I’m sorry for so many things.”

  “Oh?” She reached down and scooped a pug into her lap, patting it as it settled across her knees, warmer than any blanket. The others settled before the fire, plopping like fat snowballs onto the hearth rug. “You may be sorry for many things—God knows we all are. But I suspect that only one of those things is what’s bothering you now, and I don’t think it has to do with me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re drunk, disheveled, and you haven’t slept since, hmmm, I’d guess it’s been two days?”

  He shook his head. He’d tried to sleep. God, he’d tried. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rose. He saw her laughing up at him as he attempted to beat her at pall-mall, and became so enthralled with the nape of her neck that he got in the way of her mallet. He saw her sputtering as he “rescued” her from the river, and the humorous smile she gave him when he’d slipped into the woods while she was searching for a lost arrow and he had kissed her breathless.

  If he closed his eyes right now, he’d see her again. “What I would give to undo those few minutes . . . ” He sighed and dropped his head. “But I can’t, can I? Aunt Margaret, I—I don’t know what happened to me. But Rose . . . ” He rubbed his forehead. “Damn her for coming back into my life.”

  “You can’t blame her. She tried to avoid you, but you would have none of it.”

  He scowled. “She’s the most impertinent, demanding, mocking, infuriating—” His voice broke and he clenched his fists before he finished with a husky whisper, “dear.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “ ‘Dear’?”

  Sin rubbed his neck, his entire body aching from exhaustion. “This whole thing is my fault. I didn’t mean to embarrass her—”

  “Poppycock,” Aunt Margaret said. “You planned to do just that from the very beginning.”

  “But not after . . . ” He gestured.

  She leaned forward. “Not after what, Sin? Say it, demme you.”

  “Not after . . . ” He splayed his hands, trying to find the words. “Things changed.”

  She sighed. “That’s the best you can do? ‘Things changed’?”

  “Yes. They changed because I realized that she wasn’t what I’d thought at all. All this time, I thought I knew her and I hated her.”

  “And then you met her.”

  “And she is passionate and impulsive, full of laughter and curiosity. She can’t say no to a challenge, nor can she admit defeat.” He gave a sudden, rueful laugh. “We are quite alike, we two.”

  “You no longer blame her for your reign as Lord Fin?”

&
nbsp; “That was my fault, too.” He raised red-rimmed eyes that were wet with tears. “I love her.”

  Margaret almost gave a whoop. There it was. Finally. “It’s about damn time you realized that.”

  “You knew?”

  “Everyone knows except you and Rose.”

  “I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t have me. I told her that I wouldn’t allow her to be a ruined woman. That I wanted to marry her and—”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Aunt Margaret’s voice dripped with disgust. “Of course she wouldn’t have you if you said it like that.”

  “How should I have said it?”

  “Obviously you didn’t use the word ‘love.’ ”

  “No. I thought I’d save that for later. When things weren’t so tense.”

  “Which is exactly when you should use the word. If you want Rose back, that word is crucial. No woman worth her salt would listen to a proposal without the word ‘love’ in it. And I think Miss Rose Balfour is worth her salt.”

  He sighed. “So do I.” He rubbed a hand over his face as if to clear cobwebs. “The real irony is that I’d changed my mind about enacting my vengeance and ruining her.”

  “And then you proceeded to do it anyway. Fool.”

  “I—I—I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I just couldn’t not touch her.” He rubbed his chin, befuddled and oddly lost. “Aunt Margaret, am I going mad?”

  She gave a bark of laughter that made the pugs jump to their feet. “Lud, no. If anything, you’re finally coming to your senses. You’re in love, boy! Head over heels, by the sound of it.”

  “I don’t understand how it happened.”

  “None of us do. Even under the best of circumstances, it can sneak up on you and smack you over the head.”

  He sat and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So what do I do now? Ride up to her house on a white steed, throw her over the back, and ride away?”

  Aunt Margaret drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “No. I don’t think that would suit Miss Balfour. She strikes me as a practical sort of woman. I don’t think she’d like being thrown over a horse under any circumstances.”

  He considered this. “You’re right; she wouldn’t appreciate it at all.”

  They fell silent a moment, and then Aunt Margaret straightened, an awed expression on her face. “Sin! What if I convince Rose to attend my Winter Ball? You could speak to her then.”

  He blinked. “Do you think you can?”

  “I can try.” Aunt Margaret set Meenie on the floor, the other dogs immediately standing and stretching. “And while I’m doing my part, you be sure to do yours.” She swept to the door, the pugs bounding after her. “I expect you to be on your best, most princely behavior. More to the point, I expect you to leave your pride at the door and tell that girl what you think about her, and to do it with prettier words than ‘must’ and ‘have to.’ ” She stopped and looked back at him. “It’s time we were done with this nonsense. Six years is long enough.”

  Sin couldn’t help but gape. “You think I’ve been in love with her for six years?”

  “It certainly appears that way to me.” Her gaze narrowed. “So go get some rest, and for the love of God, shave that blasted face of yours. It’s a disgrace.”

  He rubbed his chin, the scruff making a raspy sound, and had to laugh. “You always make me feel like I’m five years old.”

  “That’s about the age you’ve been acting, tossing that poor gel into a river, and trying to race her over hill and dale, leaving her adrift in a punt, and trying to get her shot with an arrow—”

  “I was the one who got shot.”

  “I’m only surprised you didn’t dip her hair into an inkwell. The time has come for you to grow up, my dear, painful as it may be.”

  “I’m ready,” he replied, surprised that her speech didn’t make him angry.

  “So are we. Your mother, in particular, will be glad to know that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get my beauty rest. Roxburghe returns soon, and I’ve some scheming to do if we wish to see Miss Balfour gracing our ball in two days.”

  “I will owe you for this, Aunt Margaret.”

  “Repay me by naming your first daughter after me. I’ve never wished to have a namesake, but it will irritate your mother, so I’m certain to enjoy it.” She sent him a wink. “Get to bed, you scamp. I’ll see you at the ball in two days’ time. Be there by eight.”

  For the first time in two days, Sin smiled.

  Twenty-three

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe

  I find that being a godmother is quite an amusing, though exhausting, hobby. And I must say that I seem to have quite a knack for it.

  “Rose, that’s enough.”

  Surprised at the irritation in Dahlia’s voice, Rose looked up from her sewing. The two sisters were working on a pile of darning in the former nursery since the small room could be warmed with very little coal.

  “That’s enough what?” Rose asked.

  “Enough of this—” and she gave a long, mournful sigh to illustrate.

  Rose’s face heated. “I’m sorry if I was sighing and it bothered you. I didn’t hear myself.”

  Dahlia looked concerned. “We’ve all been hearing it since you returned from Floors. Rose, what happened? Please tell me!”

  “I’ve already told you everything.”

  “No, you haven’t. Lily and I are worried. Even Papa has noticed a difference, and he never notices anything.”

  “I’m just tired. All of the dinners and punting and horseback riding and archery contests and midnight rides . . . ” All of it with Sin.

  She bent her head over her work so Dahlia wouldn’t see her tears.

  Dahlia sighed. “There you go again.”

  A shout came from below, and after sharing a startled glance, Dahlia and Rose hurried to open the casement window.

  Lily stood in the courtyard below, jumping up and down in excitement.

  Dahlia leaned out the window. “What is it?”

  Lily looked up. “It’s a trunk! Right here, beside the door. Someone must have brought it while I was gone!”

  Rose poked her head out beside Dahlia’s. “Is there a note on it?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s far larger than Father’s usual flower samples. Oh, wait. There is a note: I’d just missed it.” Lily removed a small envelope that was attached to one handle by a string. She scanned the envelope and looked up, surprised. “Rose, it’s for you!”

  Dahlia turned wide eyes in Rose’s direction. “What is it?”

  “How would I know? I didn’t send it to myself.”

  Dahlia leaned out. “Lily, we’ll meet you in the sitting room. Fetch one of the stable boys and have him carry the trunk inside.”

  “I’m not waiting for a stable boy. Come down and we’ll carry it ourselves.”

  Dahlia and Rose hurried downstairs.

  Moments later, panting and puffing, they all stood in the sitting room staring down at the trunk.

  Dahlia gave a little hop. “Rose, open the trunk!”

  “I don’t have the key!”

  Lily dangled a small golden key before her. “It was on the string with the envelope.”

  Rose stooped and tried the key in the lock. Who would have sent her something? “Blast it, I can’t get this key to—”

  “Oh, let me.” Lily stooped beside Rose and began to wiggle the key in the lock.

  Rose stood and straightened her gown.

  With a triumphant cry, Lily turned the key and the latch fell open. Dahlia pushed past Rose as Lily raised the lid.

  Rose lifted on her tiptoes, trying to see over Dahlia’s head. “What is it? What’s in the trunk?”

  Lily lifted a startled face to Rose. “It’s a gown! Oh, Rose, you have to see this!”

  “I would, except Dahlia’s head’s in the way.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry.” Dahlia moved out of the way and Lily held up a shim
mery confection of a gown that made Rose gasp.

  A celestial blue satin slip trimmed in a heavy band of white lace peeked from beneath a long polonaise robe of white gossamer net. Short full sleeves set off the neckline, while blue satin knotted beading decorated each cuff and banded about the high waist to tie under the bosom.

  “It must have been made by a French modiste,” Lily said in awe as she gently stroked the silk. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Me, neither.” Rose’s curiosity was growing by the second. “Was there no marking on the trunk as to who sent it?”

  “No. And the letter only had your name, nothing else,” Lily said.

  “Rose!” Dahlia’s voice was hushed with reverence. She held up a pair of the most beautiful shoes Rose had ever seen. They were of delicate kid leather painted with a dull gold varnish so that they seemed almost made of glass.

  Rose reached for the shoes, but Dahlia pointed into the trunk. “What’s that under the tissue paper in the corner?”

  Rose peered inside and saw a Grecian scarf of dull gold silk that matched the shoes and offset the blue-and-white gown to perfection. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “And gloves!” Lily dove into the tissue paper and pulled out a pair of elbow-length white gloves of French kid. “Rose, I know just how you should wear your hair! You should put it up in the Eastern style and blend in a few flowers and—”

  Rose gave a breathless laugh. “Lily, please, all of this cannot be for me. There must be some mistake. There must be a note in here. Help me look through this tissue paper.”

  “Here it is!” Dahlia held a missive sealed with a seal that Rose instantly knew.

  Lily watched as Rose took the missive from Dahlia. “You know who sent it?”

  “It’s from the Duchess of Roxburghe.”

  Dahlia crowed, “Aren’t you glad you attended her house party now?”

  “You must read the note and see why she sent you such a lovely gown,” Lily said, ignoring Dahlia’s outburst. “Hurry! I’m dying to know what she says.”

  Rose opened the missive and turned toward the window to read it.

  My dear Miss Balfour,