“How do you do?” Ana asked.
McArdle frowned. “I’ve no guest chambers prepared.”
“Don’t make a fuss about me,” Ana said. “My last chamber was a drafty old garret with mice in the walls.”
McArdle’s frown deepened. “You’ll find no mice in the walls here, Miss Crewe.”
“She may wait in my chambers until you prepare the guest room of her choice. She might be staying here quite some time. I’ll stay at the Thunderbolt Club tonight. You.” He skewered Ana with a stern expression. “Eat a hearty meal. That’s an order.”
He spun on his heel and strode away.
“Does he always give such barking commands?” Ana asked McArdle when the door had slammed shut behind Warburton.
“He’s a duke.” The butler inspected her bedraggled cloak and mud-stained boots with distaste. “What am I to do with you, Miss Crewe? His Grace was meant to be gone to Drakefell Castle, and we were in the process of closing the house and joining him there. Mrs. Hedges, the housekeeper, has taken some leave to visit her sister.” He squinted at her through glinting round spectacles. “I don’t know the first thing about young ladies.”
He pronounced the words as if young ladies were a species of rare tropical disease that might be catching.
“I’ll be no trouble at all. You’ll see. I can sleep in any old corner. I don’t take up too much space.”
Another aggrieved sniff. “How did you come to be the duke’s ward?”
He didn’t think she looked the part and heaven knows she didn’t. Until an hour ago she’d been subsisting on stale buns, butter or moldy crusts of cheese, and water. She hadn’t bathed in an actual tub in weeks. She knew she didn’t smell sweet and ladylike, and she didn’t have the patience to act with decorum, either. Shewas suddenly bone-weary, and the mention of a hearty meal had her salivating.
“It’s a long story. Shall I tell it to you over the meal I was ordered to eat? Don’t go to any trouble. Some bread and cheese will suffice. Perhaps a haunch of cold beef and some mead?”
He gathered himself up and stared down his nose, even though he was only a few inches taller than she. “We do not dine like plowmen in this house, Miss Crewe. You shall have a proper meal delivered to your room after one of the maids has seen to your necessities. Follow me,” he intoned.
She followed him on limbs gone shaky from hunger and the dregs of the fear that had made her attack the duke. Had she really stabbed his cheek with her pencil? She was quite proud of that. Perhaps she could use that somewhere in the Clovercote novel. In the outline, Adora is threatened by Sir Archer Falconer, a shadowy character who had served as a minor villain in an earlier novel. After he stole a kiss, she fainted away and was rescued by Lord Fortescue.
Perhaps Ana could change the storyline? Instead of fainting, Adora could stab Sir Archer with a pencil... and then she should save Lord Fortescue from a burning building, or something like that. Something valiant and uncharacteristic. Although Mr. Norwood wouldn’t approve if she strayed too far from the outline.
“The duke’s chambers are the only ones currently with a proper fire. You’ll only be here long enough for your chamber to be prepared. Sit on that chair.” He pointed to a leather-cushioned armchair in front of the fireplace. “And don’t touch anything.” He wheeled away on efficient legs, coattails swinging briskly.
Ana removed her boots and propped her stockinged feet up on the grate in front of the crackling fire. As blessed heat seepedinto her tired limbs, she marveled at the strange turn this day had taken. This morning she’d awoken in a garret room where the wind whistled through the cracks around the windows and a miserly portion of coal barely dispelled the cold and gloom. And now here she was in a duke’s private chambers.
Don’t touch anything.
People certainly liked to give a lot of orders around here. She’d never been skilled at following rules. Who was this man her father had chosen to be her guardian? All she’d gleaned thus far was that he was a duke, he was lethal, he didn’t like to talk much, and he was wealthy beyond anything she’d ever imagined. This was an opportunity to explore while he was away, look for clues about the life he led in London. She must know more about this man and his plans for her life before she agreed to live in his home and accept his largesse.
The rooms were appropriately dark-paneled and crimson-velvet curtained. A pair of black leather riding gloves had been tossed on a chair, the leather buttery soft. She laid her hand over one of the gloves, covering only a small percentage of the surface area. His hands were truly massive, just like the rest of him. During the ride here he’d taken up most of the carriage.
That moment when his knees had touched hers, when he’d leaned close to her...
Nothing bad will ever happen to you again. Not on my watch.
Thinking of that moment made her feel hot, as though she were still sitting in front of the fire. The thunderous knitting of his brows, the rigid set of his broad shoulders. The way he planted his feet, trunk-like thighs balanced and ready. The clenching of gigantic fists. He’d been her avenging warrior and she’d liked it. It gave her a thrill when he faced down those men in the alleyway, when he told her that nothing bad would ever happen to her again.
She’d love to believe him. Believe that this imperious nobleman could fix her life, like a broken carriage wheel. Set her back on a path to carefree happiness. Pull aside the heavy dark curtains that had descended over her heart when her father went missing and allow the sun to shine again.
She’d love to believe it, but she’d learned a thing or two during the long years after the war. She’d learned that orphaned girls, friendless and alone, shouldn’t dream too large. That the life she’d envisioned for herself had been a fiction that fell apart at the lightest touch, like the pages of a very old book. She’d learned that a smile and a cheerful disposition weren’t enough to get by in this world.
Fairy godmothers died, and their evil nephews attempted to force themselves on you.
This duke who thought he knew how to put her life back together... he could be a villain in disguise. Villains often appeared decent in the beginning and then showed their true stripes halfway through the novel.
She couldn’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe never. For that reason, she must learn as much as she could about his character before engaging with him any further.
She walked around his rooms, careful not to disarrange anything. The oil paintings on the walls portrayed horses, not ancestors. The books lining the shelves near his desk were serious dukely books: Greek classics, collections of political speeches, Milton’s poetry, and the complete works of Shakespeare, all bound in gleaming leather and projecting an air of importance into the room. Not a contemporary or fictional novel to be found. The deskhad the usual inkwell and quills, official-looking papers, and ledgers.