Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

L ate the following afternoon, Archibald was working in his machine shop when he received an unexpected caller.

Jimmy, a thirteen-year-old boy who worked as an apprentice metalsmith, was the one to announce him. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, sir. But there’s someone here to see you.” Jimmy leaned in. “Says he’s a duke.” He wrinkled his nose, giving the impression that he didn’t really believe it.

Archibald grabbed a rag and began wiping his hands. “Thank you, Jimmy.”

He might as well talk to whoever this was, duke or otherwise. God knew he wasn’t getting a damned thing done today. He usually liked nothing better than finding a few hours to work in his machine shop. Britain had been at war with France for more than a decade, which was excellent for business when you ran an iron works. But it was dull from an engineering perspective. His grandfather had been the one to master the art of boring cannons out of a solid piece of metal, so they were both more accurate and less prone to exploding when in use. Nettlethorpe Iron made the best cannons in the world, and everyone wanted them.

But Archibald had so many ideas. He wanted to build ships out of iron, and bridges out of iron, like the one built at Coalbrookdale the year he was born. But most of all, he wanted to build machines, machines that would build… Well, everything, from screws to locks to steam engines. Machines that would build things precisely .

Instead, he built cannons, cannons, and more cannons.

He therefore treasured those scant hours when he could slip away from the forge floor to work on the projects that truly interested him. But today, he wasn’t good for much of anything. He could think of nothing but Isabella Astley. He’d almost taken the skin off his thumb with an eighteen-inch file, a tool he normally handled as deftly as an Italian master wielded his brush. Clearly, he needed a break.

He stepped out into the main forge. Surely enough, Marcus Latimer, the Duke of Trevissick, stood waiting for him. He looked entirely out of place with a bejeweled stickpin glinting amongst the folds of his snow-white cravat, standing between a giant pile of coke, a type of coal that burned particularly hot, and a stack of cannons.

“Trevissick,” Archibald said, striding up. He started to offer his hand, then paused, noticing how greasy it was. “Maybe we’d better dispense with that.”

“That’s all right. I was hoping—” The duke jerked to the side as a deafening grind of metal upon metal started up across the forge.

Archibald leaned in and shouted, “They’re boring out a cannon. Nothing to worry about.” He jerked his head to the side. “Come, we can speak in my office.”

He led the way up a flight of stairs and held the door for the duke. His office was a bit more presentable than the forge, but it wasn’t what Trevissick was used to. The walls were whitewashed, and there were bare boards on the floor. His desk was nothing fancy, either, not that you could see much of it beneath the papers littered across its surface.

One of the clerks hurried in with a tray bearing a bottle of port and two glasses. He poured the drinks as Archibald gestured for the duke to take a seat. “Thank you, John,” he said as the clerk headed for the door.

The duke took a sip, then stared at the glass in surprise. “That’s actually quite nice. Is it a Ferreira? The 1798, I believe?”

“I have no idea,” Archibald said, stacking papers so they would have someplace to set their glasses. “I told my office manager to get something nice. We have all kinds of people coming through here to place orders.”

In this case, all kinds of people encompassed literal royalty. When all of Europe was engulfed in war and your factory made the best cannons that money could buy, it was not unusual for princes and kings to come calling.

“Well, it’s a good wine.” The duke set down his glass. “I’ll come straight to the point. I want to apologize for what happened last night.”

He didn’t have to ask what the duke meant. Archibald had just finished proposing marriage to his friend, Cecilia Chenoweth, whose reputation had been ruined through no fault of her own, when the duke came barreling into the clearing shouting her name, desperate to issue his own proposal, with a flock of curious onlookers trailing behind him.

Thus had several hundred witnesses been present to hear Archibald explain that Cecilia had refused him.

The duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Such was my desperation to clear up my misunderstanding with Cecilia, I did not consider the possibility that my actions might cause you embarrassment.”

Archibald grunted. To be sure, it had been humiliating.

But he was somewhat inured to humiliation. His parents were determined for him to make a society marriage that they hoped would vault the family into the upper echelons of the ton .

They did not seem to notice that their son, who felt most comfortable here, at the forge founded by his grandfather, was spectacularly ill-suited for this task. Snide whispers that he was little better than a blacksmith, no matter how substantial the family fortune, followed him every time he walked into a room.

“Thank you for that,” Archibald said. “I’m certainly not sorry that she’s marrying you. I know you’re the one she really wanted, and I want her to be happy.”

A wry smirk twisted the duke’s lips. “Not marrying . We roused the Archbishop of Canterbury from his bed last night. Cecilia is already my duchess.”

“Ah.” Archibald reached for the decanter and topped off their drinks. “I’ll raise a toast to that. To the Duchess of Trevissick.”

“To my duchess,” the duke agreed, clinking glasses with him. Once he’d taken a sip, he said, “Perhaps now you understand the extent of my regret that I felt compelled to leave my new wife’s side in order to apologize.”

It was only natural that he would have preferred to spend the day alone with his new wife, engaged in… well. The activities Archibald had almost found himself engaged in last night with Isabella Astley.

Suddenly, all he could picture was the way she’d looked in the moonlight. Of course, the only reason she’d been kissing him was so that she could get rid of Tristan Bassingthwaighte. You might say she’d been using him, but Archibald wasn’t mad about it. He’d never expected Lady Isabella to so much as look at him. Had there been time for her to tell him the full story, he would have been glad to help her stage her scene. The fact that he’d been permitted to kiss her was an obvious benefit. Even though he knew it had all been for show and had meant nothing to her, he would cherish that memory forever. But just as important, he’d received the opportunity to perform an act of chivalry on her behalf. The notion that she might think well of him, that she might remember him as someone who had helped her in her hour of need, made his heart swell.

The duke was speaking. “If there is anything I can do to make amends, you have but to say the word.”

Although… Was it his imagination, or had there been desire clouding her eyes when he pressed her against the archway?

Surely, it was some wistful delusion. Because the notion that Isabella Astley would so much as look at him was utterly absurd…

“It’s a shame you’re so bloody rich,” the duke continued. “Otherwise, I could at least buy you something.”

On the other hand… He could still hear the ferocity in her voice after he’d told her he was sorry for manhandling her, as she replied, I’m not . And then she had pulled him back to her. Which, under any other circumstance, he would have interpreted as meaning that she wanted to kiss him. Except that couldn’t possibly be right…

“Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy!” the duke snapped. “Are you even attending?”

“Sorry.” Archibald ran a hand over his face. “You were saying?”

“If there is anything I can do to make up for my poor behavior, you have but to say the word.”

Archibald waved this off. “There’s not. Or wait—yes. There is something you can do.”

The duke leaned forward. “Name it.”

“You are very”—he waved a hand, searching for the right word—“influential. Fashionable. Popular.”

Trevissick inclined his head regally. “I will not belabor the conversation with false modesty.”

“I don’t care about all that rot. But my parents do. So, if you could… I don’t know… invite them to one of your parties, or speak to them in public, or something like that, I know it would mean a great deal to them.”

The duke nodded crisply. “Consider it done.” He rose to his feet. “Now, if you will excuse me…”

Archibald waved a hand. “Go on. Get back to your new bride.”

After Trevissick left, Archibald sat in his chair, staring at the wall. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea for him to go back down to the forge, which was full of hot furnaces, sharp tools, and heavy machinery, in his distracted state.

That evening, he was to attend Lady Waldegrave’s ball. Archibald lived in London year-round, as the family business was located just north of town. But for most members of the ton , this would be the last hurrah of the Season.

He knew for a fact that the Astleys were planning on leaving town tomorrow to spend the winter at their country estate in Gloucestershire.

This meant two things: one, that he would see Lady Isabella tonight.

And two, that this was the last time he would see her for some months.

He was unsure how he should behave tonight. Were they friends now? Would she expect him to come over and greet her, to ask her for a dance?

That felt a bit presumptuous. She had approached him out of desperation last night. He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, or, God forbid, to give the impression that he felt entitled to a repeat performance of their kiss.

He decided he would follow her lead. He certainly wasn’t going to cut her. But nor was he going to approach her. If she wished, she could be the one to come up to him. That way, she wouldn’t feel cornered.

God . His palms were sweating already, and it was four hours before the party even began. This was a disaster in the making.