Page 8 of Once Upon a Devilish Duke

“Not at all. A governess is above a servant.”

“Oh, well then, that is different.”

“Please do not think of it again,” the dowager said, waving her arms as if to shoo the suggestion out of the room.

“Please, Rose. I swear we never planned any of this. It was just that Max was so happy to have you around, and you seemed happy to teach her art and music.” Marianne dabbed at her eyes. “It was Max’s proposal. We thought that you must have spoken to her about it and would, therefore, be amenable to the suggestion.”

“Yes, my dear. This has all been a muddle. We do not want you to be angry with us. You must forgive us for believing Max’s opinion on the subject.”

Rose, dabbing at her own eyes with a kerchief, sat down, her head bowed. She too had jumped to conclusions. They had been nothing but kind to her.

Knowing Max as she did, it was plausible that she had played her aunt and grandmother. It was true that she had not mentioned her financial situation, and therefore they could have concluded that she needed a position.

She and Max obviously both suffered from impulsive reactions. “I’m sorry. I should not have just assumed, especially from you both. Please forgive me. I should feel flattered that Max admired me enough to want me to stay on as governess, but in all honesty, I do not envision that life for myself.

“I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions. My future is uncertain, but I am not in desperate straits regarding money. I have an allowance and a dowry. I should have told you when I arrived; then this would never have happened.”

“It was we who jumped to conclusions. You must forgive us,” Marianne implored.

“Of course. The truth is I want to have at least one or two seasons to find love. I do not want my brother to determine who I marry.”

“Then, my dear, you must come with us to London when the season starts. You will have the protection of the Duke of Warrington. We were not sure you would be out of mourning by then, but it will just be enough time to be appropriate.”

Ah, to be out of black would be a relief. Her father would understand surely. “Who will look after Max?”

“Anna, my sister-in-law, said she will look after her. She is not going to London this year as she is expecting again,” Marianne said. “They have a property on the estate, so Max will go there.”

Rose nodded. Was Max shipped off every season to one of the family to take care of her? Poor Max must wonder who she would be going to every time the season comes around. Did she hate it or love it? “A change of scenery will be welcome, I am sure.”

When Rose retired to her room, she threw herself onto her bed. She was mad at herself and at Max and at Marianne and her mother. They were all at fault, but she was most upset with herself. She could easily have ended her friendship with Marianne over a silly misunderstanding, and she was far too dear to her. She would need to have words with that young lady, and the first two would be Maxine Victoria.

Then there was the season. If she were to go to London, she would be glad to have the protection of the duke so that her brother did not try something. And he would. She had no doubt about that. Rose would have to tell Marianne and the dowager all of his threats; there could be no more assumptions. In that, at least, she had learned her lesson.

However, there was another complication. The duke. Considering the way he was punishing Max simply for being born to a woman he did not like was abhorrent to her. How could she live under the same roof with such a man? Marianne and the dowager did it every season, so she supposed she could too. He would most likely have little to do with her, anyway.

Chapter Two

London—Warrington House

Dispatch after dispatch was delivered to his study on the second floor as the Duke of Warrington sharpened yet another quill. He seemed to go through them at an alarming rate these days. Such was his work for the Prince Regent. As the king’s liaison, he was responsible for wading through dispatched reports from numerous spy rings and collating them to present to the prime minister or Prinny, depending upon the information. He would never call him that in public, of course, but he had a reasonably warm acquaintance with the prince over the years and with his father before him. Did he enjoy what he did? No. Secrets and rumors filled his head, leaving little space for anything else. He had a dukedom to run, but did Prinny care about that? Not one jot.

When his mother and sister returned for the season, Edward would accompany them to various events. He pretended they were an inconvenience, but he actually looked forward to getting out of the house for a few hours. The worst part was when he returned home full of music or visions of wonderful art, only to see that his desk looked the same. Still piled high with work. Tony had argued with him about getting a secretary to help him, but how could he? How could he trust another with this information?

Would this be the year that Marianne found her match, and if she did, would his mother bother to come to London anymore? It would serve him right if she did not. He wished he could explain to his family what he did and how all these secrets piled up in his mind. How he could never tell them, explain to everyone what those secrets were.

His hand pained him from so much writing, so he put the quill down for a minute and walked over to the window. He had picked this very room for its view of the back garden. He loved botany but had no time to dedicate to it. Instead, he would steal down and pick a flower here and there and sketch them after dinner. It was his only relief from the stress of his workload.

Edward poured himself a drink and watched as the sun dipped low over the tops of the other houses in his view. Another day of his life was over, and what had he accomplished? What would they say about him once he was gone? That he was good at being a duke? Or that he knew how to keep a secret? Perhaps that he was not known for his love of family and preferred his work? He did love his family, but they did not understand him. As he grew older, he felt the need to do…more. Though what that more was, he could not even contemplate. The only person he could openly converse with was his youngest brother, Anthony.

Their relationship was better now that they both knew what the other did, but still he felt that Anthony did not quite trust him. He could understand that; he had ended Tony’s military career without his approval when he had been shot in combat. They had lived like strangers for years, even after he had asked Lord Stafford to take him on as a spy. Another decision he now regretted. Another truth he would never tell Tony. Another secret to keep.

Finishing his drink, he settled behind his massive desk again and took the next thing off the pile of work. It was the land steward’s report from Ashtonvale. He had loved that place once, when he was young and carefree. He and his brothers would go hunting or fishing or simply riding. The feel of a horse beneath you as you galloped over open fields was something that could not be replicated in town. He could ride in London, of course, but it did not enthrall him.

A knock at the door made him jump and turn. “Yes?”

“A letter has arrived, Your Grace. From the dowager.”

“Enter.” A trickle of dread snaked down his spine. Had something happened?