Romancing the Duke

He sat up, giving her his full attention. “Read it.”



“ ‘Your Grace,’ ” she began.



But before she could read further, she lowered the letter. “So strange. I must have opened twenty of these now. Not one of them has begun with a warm salutation. Not a ‘My dear duke’ or ‘Dearest Rothbury’ in the bunch.”



“It’s not surprising,” he said flatly. “It’s the way things are.”



She laughed a little. “But not always, surely. Somewhere in these hundreds upon hundreds of letters, there’s got to be one that’s mildly affectionate.”



“Feel free to think so. I wouldn’t advise holding your breath.”



Truly? Not one?



Izzy bit her lip, feeling like a heel for bringing it up. But if no one dared to address him with warmth, it could only be because he forbade it with that stern demeanor. Surely someone, somewhere found him lovable—or least admirable. Hopefully, for a reason that had nothing to do with his financial or physical endowments.



She went back to the letter at hand. Within a few lines, she realized that this was a very different letter than any of the ones she’d read before.



“ ‘Your Grace. By now, you will know I have gone. Do not think I will have regrets. I am sorry—most heartily sorry—for only one thing, and that is that I lacked the courage to tell you directly.’ ”



The duke’s boots hit the floor with a thud. He rose to his feet. His expression was forbidding. But he didn’t tell her not to continue.



“ ‘I realize,’ ” Izzy read on, clearing her throat, “ ‘forgiveness will be beyond you in this moment, but I feel I must offer some explanation for my actions. The plain truth of it is, I could never lov—’ ”



The paper was ripped from her hands.



Rothbury crumpled it in one hand and tossed it in the grate. “Insignificant.”



Insignificant?



Balderdash.



Izzy knew the contents of that letter had been significant. So significant, he couldn’t even bear to confront them, so he’d snatched them from her grip and destroyed the truth.



But there was another significant fact to be dealt with, and it had nothing to do with correspondence at all.



She stared at him. “You deceitful rogue. You’re not blind.”



Chapter Nine



You’re not blind,” she repeated.



The statement took him by surprise, but not in an unwelcome way. He would discuss his wretched eyesight all day long if she forgot ever opening that damned letter. The foolish chit who’d penned it should have saved her ink. If forgiveness had been beyond him then, it was utterly hopeless now.



“I am blind,” he informed Miss Goodnight. “Why would I pretend it if I weren’t?”



“But you just crossed those five paces and ripped a page directly from my hand, with no hesitation. No fumbling.” She paused. “And every so often, the way you look at me . . . I’ve wondered. Sometimes it seems you’re completely blind, and at other times it doesn’t.”



“That’s because sometimes I am completely blind, and other times I’m not.”



“I don’t understand.”



“You, and the entirety of the medical establishment. There’s some damage to the nerve, I’m told. Inside. It’s variable. At certain hours of the day, I can make out shapes and shadows. A few muted colors. On my left side, particularly. Other times, it’s all a dark fog. I’m at my best in the mornings.”



She slowly pushed back in her chair and stood. “What do you see when you look at me? Precisely.”



He let his eyes flitter over her. “I don’t see anything ‘precisely.’ I can tell you’re slender. I can see you’re wearing white, or some light color. Your face is pale, your lips are reddish. And there appears to be a dark brown octopus attacking your head.”



“That’s my hair.”



Ransom shrugged. “You asked what I see. I see tentacles.”



He could sense her irritation with that answer, and he was glad of it. What was she expecting, compliments? He wasn’t about to tell her that her mouth was a splash of wine he wanted to lick. Or that her rounded curves made his hands ache to cup and stroke. Even if those things were the truth.



“Who else knows the full extent of your injuries?” she asked.



“Only a few useless doctors, Duncan, and . . . and now you.”



Ransom intended to keep it that way. He’d had enough trouble wrestling his own stupid hope into submission. He couldn’t contend with others’ expectations, too. If Abigail Pelham knew he could sometimes see, for example, she’d be forever pestering him. She’d write to London specialists for eye-training exercises, and she’d ask him a thousand questions.



Is it getting better yet?



Do you notice some improvement?



Does this make any difference?



How about now?



And now?



And, of course, the answers would be nothing but no, no, no, no.



And no.



“Enough about my eyes. There are only two things you need to know. One, I can navigate this castle better than you can. Two, I can’t read those letters on my own.” Ransom returned to the sofa and took his seat. “So pick up the next and get on with it.”



“Yes, Your Grace.”



Happily, this time she selected a dry, boring report from one of his land agents. Timmons, at the Surrey estate. A very thorough man, bless him. There were pages upon pages of sheep-health advisements and crop-rotation plans.



He could have cut her off one page into the reading. There was nothing he expressly needed to hear about improvements to the old stables. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop her.



He liked listening to her read. He liked it far too much. Listening to her voice was like floating along a river. Not a babbling stream, bouncing over rocks and such, but a river of wild honey with depth and a low, sweet melody. To keep afloat, he would have let her read just about anything. Even those soppy stories from Menstrualia, or whatever it was called.



“Here’s another from the accountant,” she said, after some time had passed.



Excellent. Another long, meaningless list of information for her to read. However, she hadn’t progressed very far into it before stopping.



“That’s odd,” she said.



“What’s odd?”



“Your expenses with the costermonger have quadrupled when compared to the previous report.”



“What of it? It’s the costermonger.”



“Well, yes . . . and it’s not exactly a great sum. But it’s odd that your housekeeper would have suddenly spent four times as much on vegetables. You weren’t even in residence by then.”



Ransom supposed it was a bit odd.



“Never mind,” she said. “I only notice because I always paid those sorts of household accounts. The butcher, the costermonger, the laundress. It wouldn’t be important to you.”



No, it wouldn’t. Such an expense would have been completely beneath Ransom’s notice. Which suggested one thing: If someone was trying to steal from him, padding the costermonger bill was the perfect way to do it.



“Let’s compare the two reports again.” He walked over to the table and joined her. “In detail, slowly.”



“Give me a moment to find it.”



Miss Goodnight wasn’t the secretary he would have chosen. But she might have just the critical eye he needed. Considering the amounts of money his solicitors had access to use—and potentially misuse—she could turn out to be a bargain.



But they didn’t have a chance to begin their scrutiny of the accounts.



“Miss Goodnight!”



Ransom groaned. Miss Pelham was back.



“Miss Goodnight, doubt not! We have returned. I have all my things from the vicarage, and our cook and housemaid will be coming along shortly to help us get started.”



“Wonderful,” Miss Goodnight called back, rising from her chair. “I’ll be right there.” To Ransom she said, “We’ll have to continue this tomorrow, Your Grace.”



“Hold a moment,” Ransom objected. “I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”



“I’m afraid there’s no choice.”



Oh, that’s where she was wrong. He was a duke. He always had the choice.



Through gritted teeth, he told her, “You have a post as my secretary. I’m not paying you two hundred pounds a day to rearrange furniture and hang drapes. Now, sit back down and find that list of payments.”



“Did I hear a please?” She waited a beat. “No, I didn’t think so.”



“Damn it, Goodnight.”



“Dock my wages for the afternoon, if you like.” She began walking away. “The accounting will have to wait for tomorrow. If you don’t allow me and Miss Pelham to prepare a warm, comfortable, rat-and-bat-free bedchamber before nightfall, I promise you—there won’t be a tomorrow at all.”



Miss Pelham called down from the gallery. “Do come along, Miss Goodnight! Let’s set about making this castle into a home.”



A home.



Those words sent dread spiraling through him.



There was no use fighting it any longer. Miss Goodnight was settling in. Making a home. Just bloody wonderful.



Ransom began to wonder if he’d made such an excellent bargain after all.



As young ladies went, Miss Abigail Pelham was everything that made Izzy despair. From the moment the vicar’s daughter had walked—nay, floated—into the great hall, Izzy had known they were creatures of different breeds.



Miss Pelham was the sort of young woman who had plans, made lists, kept a beauty regimen. The sort who knew, somehow, which straw bonnets in the milliner’s shop would suit her and never ended up looking a beribboned scarecrow. The sort who always smelled of vanilla and gardenias, not because she liked baking or working in the garden—but because she’d decided it was her signature scent, and she kept sachets tucked between her stored undergarments.



She was competent in the art that motherless, awkward Izzy had never mastered. The art of being feminine. If she had met Miss Pelham at a party, they would have had less to say to each other than a bright-winged parrot sharing a perch with a common wren.



Luckily, this was not a party. This was a housecleaning, and it became immediately clear that in this endeavor, Izzy couldn’t have asked for a more enthusiastic partner.



Miss Pelham surveyed the ducal chamber, sniffing at the moth-eaten hangings. “It was horrid of the duke to put you in this chamber. This room isn’t without its potential. But it’s hardly the place to start, either.”



“I agree,” Izzy said.



“We’ll make a tour of the whole castle this morning.” Miss Pelham left the room in a brisk swoop. “This afternoon, we’ll choose one room to begin with,” she went on. “One that’s small and easy to clean. We’ll sweep it out, fit it with a proper bed by tonight. Check the chimney, of course. Some of them are clogged with birds’ nests and only the good Lord knows what else.”



She stopped in her paces, shivered—and squealed.



“I can’t tell you how excited I am to be doing this. At last. It’s been torture, living down the hill from this wonderful castle all my life and watching it slip further and further into ruin. And, finally, we will have some jobs and custom for the local parishioners.”



Izzy followed the relentless ribbon of chatter, amused. If Miss Pelham was at all winded by their pace, she didn’t show it.



For her part, Izzy kept her mouth shut and her eyes open. As they moved through the corridors, the daylight revealed most of the chambers to be in a discouraging state. Many of the windows were broken out. Everything that could be chewed by moths or mice, had been. Dust and cobwebs coated the rest, like a blanket of grayish snow.

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