Chapter 14

14

WILLIAM

O ver the course of the evening and the next morning, William thought up and discarded a number of ideas regarding how to communicate with Clara about Silas. At one point, he considered simply sending notes directly to Silas and having Silas respond with his own. But even that would require Clara to deliver them, and if truth be told, he trusted Clara to tell him the truth of things more than Silas.

After all, Silas had led Anthony to believe all was well in France, which was clearly not the case.

Clara was a more reliable source of accurate information and observation.

William and Edmund were discussing plans for the ball in the library the next morning when he caught sight of Clara pushing the cart away from Rushlake on the path to the lodge.

"Well," William said, "that is a good start, don't you think?"

"It is," Edmund replied. "But we still need to make a decision about the music."

"Can it wait? My head is spinning with all this talk of chalked floors, vases, flower varieties and colors, and the like."

Edmund smiled. "A wife could manage such things wonderfully, Your Grace."

"Undoubtedly. But for now, I will settle for a ride."

"A ride?" Edmund asked, brows raised.

"I have been neglecting my new horse."

"The green one?" There was a note of disapproval in his voice.

"If she is to become anything but green, she needs me to work with her."

"That is why you employ a large staff in the stables, Your Grace."

"I wish to work with her myself."

He had bought Comet on a whim a week before leaving London in an attempt—perhaps a silly one—to prove to himself that he did not need servants and advisors and stable hands to do everything for him. That he was still capable. "I think the fresh air will help me clear my head enough that I shall be ready to discuss cellos and violins and whatever you wish when I return."

Edmund regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Take care, then. We will leave the music for later, but the longer we delay, the more likely we will have to settle for whatever nearby villagers can pluck a few strings."

"You could manage in a pinch, I don't doubt," William joked as he walked to the door.

He changed into his riding boots while a message was sent to the stables to have his newest mare prepared. She was ready and waiting for him when he strode into the stable yard, her gray coat gleaming in the late morning sun.

She was beautiful but, as Edmund had said, quite green. She was both saucy and wary—a difficult mixture to manage, but William had always prided himself on his handling abilities.

He guided her down the main drive, but when he had reached the end of it and was obscured by the large stone walls, he turned her into the trees. The land between the main road and the lodge was covered with them. It was not a route William had taken before, but he felt confident enough in the general direction that he was certain he would come upon the dirt road and be able to find his way from there.

Sure enough, after a quarter of an hour, the trees thinned slightly, then parted like the Red Sea for the small road. The lodge loomed ahead just minutes later, and William looked around to ensure no one was nearby before guiding his horse toward it.

He swung down from the saddle as muted laughter reached his ears. It was a woman's laughter—Clara's, he assumed.

He guided the mare toward the sounds, which had come from behind the lodge.

When the view opened up, he caught sight of her, seated in the long grass some half-dozen feet from Silas, whose back was to William. She was smiling as he tossed bits of bread into the grass. A sparrow hopped around, gladly taking each crumb he offered.

Silas's profile became visible, showing a face free of the beard that had covered it upon his arrival at Rushlake. His face was thinner than it had been before France, but otherwise, he looked like the brother William had always known—the one who was flirting with Clara.

The mare dropped her head to tug on a tuft of grass, and William pulled up on the reins. She nickered, and Silas's and Clara's heads came around, wide-eyed fear in her eyes and surprise in his .

Clara hurried to her feet, then brushed off her apron, while Silas smiled and casually pushed himself to a stand.

Silas came over. "I was hoping we might see you soon."

The word we annoyed William, but he ignored it and put out his hands. "Behold me. I thought I had better ensure you have not been terrorizing Clara."

"Clara? No. The sparrows, yes. There are only so many ways to pass the time, you know."

"I should return to my duties," Clara said.

Part of William wished for precisely that—less time for Silas to charm his way into her heart—but the other part was disappointed by her reaction to his arrival. It was more like a child caught doing something naughty than it was the response of a woman happy to see him. But that was how it had always been: Silas the charming one, William the exacting one.

"I persuaded her to take a respite," Silas said. "She would work herself to the bone otherwise."

"I do not doubt it," William replied.

"It was kind of you, sir," Clara said to Silas, "but I am well-rested now and have a few things left to finish before returning to the house." Her gaze swept to William, who offered her a smile.

It seemed to relax her a bit. "Shall I tie up your horse, Your Grace?"

He hesitated, only to remember how Clara had been the one to manage the ostler's duties the night he and Edmund had arrived at The Coach and Lantern. She was so capable, while every day, William felt himself become less so. "She is very green and quick to scare…"

"I will take care," she promised.

"Thank you. "

Clara smiled, took the reins from William, and walked Comet back toward the lodge.

William's gaze followed her for a moment, then returned to Silas, who was watching him.

"She deserved the recess, William."

"I have no doubt of that. Dealing with you every day is enough to send her to Bedlam."

Silas chuckled, and they walked toward the stream. "Perhaps it is. I myself feel nearer that end each day."

William glanced at him as they slowly strode through the grass. "Restless?"

"Like a caged tiger."

William sighed, and they stopped at the edge of the stream, which babbled musically at their feet. "Unfortunately, you will have to learn to cope for the time being. It is too dangerous for you to venture beyond the lodge."

"I know," Silas said. "But you cannot fault me for fantasizing about stealing that horse and taking a gallop across a meadow."

"You might well meet a different and more permanent end than Bedlam if you did that. She spooks at the merest thing." He glanced at Silas again, noting his thin face. "Is the food sufficient?"

Silas chuckled, then stooped to pick up a few small stones, which he tossed lazily into the stream. "Bath buns and mushroom tarts? Of course it is. In comparison with the slop I was consuming in France, it is heaven. I wouldn't say no to more of that venison either."

"You won't have the chance. Cook is preparing something different each day. That is the point of it—for me to approve her ideas for the coming guests. Speaking of which…I intend to use the lodge for our own family's accommodations."

Silas's head whipped around. "They are coming? "

William nodded. "Including Aunt Eugenia."

Silas's excitement wavered. He had been Aunt Eugenia's favorite—until everything had happened with Lord Drayton. She had taken the allegations against him as a personal offense and had refused to so much as hear his name. It was not until Anthony and his wife Charlotte had garnered the evidence to convince them Silas was, in fact, innocent that she had realized her error—much like William. Unfortunately, Drayton had destroyed the evidence.

"She believes you now, Silas. We all do. And Aunt Eugenia is a woman you want on your side."

Silas smiled slightly. "I know. It will be good to see the lot of them. Do they know I am here?"

"No. I felt it safer to wait to communicate that. There is no knowing who might read my correspondence."

Silas shot him a funning look. "Ah. Now that you are a duke, you believe your letters a subject of fascination to all."

"They have always been thrilling," William teased. "To be quite frank, though, I am nervous to tell even the family."

Silas frowned. "You think them untrustworthy?"

"No. Though I think Frederick can be careless at times."

"Frederick," Silas mused. "Has he made headway? Will I soon have a brother in both the Lords and the Commons?"

"Unlikely. His headway has been minimal. So minimal that any attempt to raise favor regarding your case would shoot his future there in the foot."

Silas sighed, then reached into the spring and ran his wet hands through his hair. "Who else will be at Rushlake?"

"A number of peers, a handful of wealthy landowners, and"—William picked up his own fistful of rocks—"the woman Edmund wishes me to marry."

Silas raised his brows significantly. "The plot thickens. And what lady has he chosen?"

William tossed the largest rock into the stream. "Lady Cassandra Montrose."

Silas's brows pulled together. "Montrose. I do not think I know the name."

"I have never met her, but she is the Earl of Hawkesbury's daughter."

Silas turned toward him and grasped his shoulders. "But that's famous! Hawkesbury's influence is significant! Having his support could make the difference between clearing my name and staying cooped up in this lodge for eternity."

William took him by the wrists and gently pulled his hands down. "He is also friends with Drayton, Silas."

Silas's excitement flagged, then revived like a phoenix from the ashes. "But surely a connection forged with a duke through the sacred bonds of marriage would trump whatever connection they have."

"You are very enthused for someone who has never met the woman you are so keen to marry me to," William said dryly. "I assume it is six of one or half-dozen of the other to you whether she is a respectable woman or a shrieking demon?"

Silas laughed. "Of course not. I am getting ahead of myself. Naturally, you must marry whomever you choose."

William nodded, but there was something to what Silas said. A match with Lady Cassandra could be the difference between freedom and the gallows for him. And of course, it would benefit the dukedom as well. And that was what William wanted.

The conversation turned to other avenues—Silas had a great deal to say to his captive audience of one—and Clara's name came up more than once as he recounted the mundanity of his time at the lodge. Each time, William felt that same sting of jealousy. He resolutely pushed it aside.

Clara herself emerged after an hour, a few tendrils of her blonde hair escaping from her white cap as she approached. The loose blonde locks framed her face, pink with exertion, drawing William's eyes as the breeze blew one across her cheek, and she pushed it aside.

She was beautiful. And capable. William's knowledge of her past was limited, but what he did know gave him every reason to believe she had experienced her fair share of adversity. Despite that, she had not lost the kindness in her face. She simply exuded a sort of quiet strength that made William feel calmer.

A nudge in his ribs brought his head around to Silas.

"What?" William asked in annoyance, rubbing the spot.

"Clara asked if we need anything else," Silas said, looking at him with amusement.

"I am finished with my duties here for the day," Clara said. "I will return to the main house—unless there is anything you wish for me to do."

William shook his head. "I should return as well. Before Edmund sends out a search party," he added, feeling his brother's eyes on him.

"I shall fetch your horse," Clara said.

"There is no need," William replied. "I can manage." He was not entirely incompetent, after all. Not yet, at least. If Edmund had his way, William would soon be good for nothing more than making speeches and important connections. Not that William blamed him. Edmund was doing what he had been employed to do: equipping the Duke of Rockwood with the things that would add to his consequence.

Silas walked with them as far as the lodge, then reluctantly went inside, but not without a dire warning that he was likely to transform into a mouse sooner or later if he was condemned to spend the majority of his time alone with the creatures.

William retrieved his mare, who was happily munching on the feed Clara had provided, then led her to the front of the lodge.

Clara was tinkering with one of the cart wheels. She dusted off her hands and took hold of the handles as she noticed William and his horse approaching.

She hesitated. "You may go ahead, Your Grace. I shall wait a few minutes."

He brought Comet to a halt. "There is no need for that. We can walk the first part of the path together. My path diverges from yours well before we reach the house."

She watched Comet for a moment. "I think your horse dislikes my cart, Your Grace."

"I think she does," William said with a smile. "She is regarding it as though it may charge her at any moment. If you are not afraid, you would be doing both of us a service if you walked with us. She could use the practice."

"I am not afraid and would be happy to assist in any way I can. Will you ride?"

"Not until we part ways," he said. "I would rather offer Comet experience with your cart while I am not on her back."

"A wise choice," Clara said with a smile he found enchanting.

They fell into step together, the mare on William's outside, her footsteps skittish and her head high. Her ears twitched and her eyes darted toward the cart mistrustingly, but they kept a slow and steady pace.

After they had walked a matter of thirty yards, Clara slowed. "May I try something with the mare, Your Grace?"

A flash of protectiveness over the horse coursed through him, but he nodded, and they both stopped. The mare's head was high, and her eyes wide as Clara stepped away from the cart and put out a hand for the reins. William reluctantly offered them to her, and it wasn't until she laid a hand on the mare's neck and his heart jumped that he realized the protectiveness had not been over Comet but Clara.

She stroked the mare's neck and spoke softly to her, and William watched as the horse's head slowly lowered, her eyes grew less wide, and her muscles more relaxed.

After two minutes of such treatment, Clara stepped away, letting the reins go slack. And then she waited.

William kept still, his gaze flicking between the mare and the maid. Just when he was about to ask Clara what her hope was, Comet stretched her neck toward the cart. She was still too far away to smell it, though. Gingerly, she took one step forward, her nose extended. She took another, then drew back.

All the while, Clara waited, allowing her both time and rein.

Little by little, the horse approached the cart, finally drawing near enough to smell it. Clara spoke soothingly to her as she explored it, and William watched with admiration.

Clara stroked Comet's neck and commended her, and William stepped gently toward the horse to add his own praise.

Clara smiled, scratching a place behind Comet's ears. "When they are forced into something new, they often resist. When allowed to make the choice on their own terms, however, they can embrace the novelty more willingly."

William's gaze remained fixed on Clara, appreciation filling him. "You are at your ease with them."

"My father was an ostler, so I was raised around them."

"Is that how you met your husband?" William asked. "He and your father worked together?"

Her expression grew more guarded, but she shook her head. "That was mere happenstance. My father died years before I knew John."

Hearing her speak her husband's name sent a strange sensation through him. He missed hearing his own name—and an incomprehensible part of him wished to hear her say it. But discussing her husband was undoubtedly a good thing. William could use another reminder, evidently, that the maid beside him was not to be regarded through the eyes of his heart, no matter what it whispered to him.

"I am sorry to hear that," he said. "Have you any other family?"

"None to speak of," she said calmly. "I never knew my mother, and I have no brothers or sisters."

William frowned. It stood to reason, he supposed, for he could only imagine a brother or father would have rescued her from the situation in which he had found her.

"May I ask a question, Your Grace?"

"You need not request permission."

She looked unconvinced. "You have over a dozen horses in your stables. Why ride a green one?"

He smiled slightly as the horse reached for a tuft of grass near the cart wheel. "I bought her on an impulse, even greener than this." He narrowed his eyes as he absently stroked her neck. "I suppose I wanted the challenge. Why are you smiling?" But now he was too. He couldn't help himself.

"I simply find it curious that you seek out challenges. Most people try to avoid them."

William gave a wry chuckle. "It is rather strange, I suppose. It certainly seems that way to Edmund. He is still trying to convince me to sell her."

"But you do not wish to?"

He shook his head. "I haven't proven what I wish to prove."

"And what is that, Your Grace?"

He glanced over at her at the form of address and smiled ruefully.

"Forgive me. It is none of my business. "

"No, no. It is not that. It is just that…well, I came into the title unexpectedly—and tragically, as you undoubtedly know. My father had always dreamed of inheriting or of seeing me do so, despite how improbable such a thing was. I was woefully unprepared when the impossible came to be. Beyond that, I was shocked by the way I was treated, by the expectations others suddenly had of me. I had always been Mr. Yorke or, amongst my family, my given name. Then, all of a sudden, it was Your Grace, Your Grace, Your Grace." He gave an ironic laugh. "And it seems grace is all that is expected of me. I am pampered and cosseted, urged away from any type of work— unbefitting , they say. I have felt as though I am losing touch with myself, becoming less and less capable, more and more reliant upon others for everything." He stroked the horse. "So I bought Comet. To prove to myself, I suppose, that I am not incapable."

It was quiet except for Comet's munching, and he glanced at Clara. "No doubt I sound like a spoiled ingrate to you."

She shook her head. "I know a bit about the pain of being called by a name that is unfamiliar, of longing for your old one, of part of you wishing to return to a past version of your life."

He watched her, a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue. What life did she wish to return to? And why did hearing her say so make his heart twinge?

More than anything, though, his heart reached for her, because for the first time in months, he felt understood. By a maid, of all people. She did not think him ungrateful or silly. And that alone took away some of the difficulty of the past months.

"What is your name, Your Grace?" There was a hint of timidity in her voice as she looked up at him, as though she feared he might be angry with the question .

"William," he replied. "What is the name you wish to be called by?"

"Taylor. I was married to John for such a short time that Quinn feels foreign. Wrong, even. Now, it is a reminder I do not wish for."

William nodded, and he felt the impulse to take her hand—to reassure her that, just as she understood him, so did he understand her.

"I should return," she said, offering the reins to him.

"And I."

Clara returned to the cart and grasped the handles.

The mare skittered sideways in surprise, and William grasped the reins tightly, speaking to calm her.

"Still afraid of the cart, it seems," William said once they had begun walking again.

"A moving cart is a different matter from a still one," Clara said. "That is a task to be conquered another day."

"Indeed," he said. "But she has made progress. Thank you."

"It was no trouble at all."

They walked without speaking for the next few minutes, and William wondered at how natural it felt. As the Duke of Rockwood, he was expected to have ready conversation whenever he was in company. Here, he could be silent without worry. He could let his mind wander, and as he did so, he found it returning again and again to the woman beside him, who would glance up at him and smile every so often.

They reached the fork in the path, the left leading into the trees, the right continuing to Rushlake.

"This is where we part ways," he said. Much as he might wish to continue walking with her, they could not be seen arriving at Rushlake together.

Clara held the horse steady as William used a nearby stump as a mounting block, swinging his leg over the saddle .

"Be safe, Your Grace." Her fingers brushed his as she handed him the reins.

"I will."

Their eyes held for a moment, and William stopped himself from asking when they would see each other next. All he knew was that he wanted it to be soon. "Good day to you, Clara." He gave his horse a kick and rode into the woods, his mind full of the maid he had left on the path.