Chapter 15

15

CLARA

" Y ou may well see me dismissed, sir," Clara said as Mr. Silas Yorke picked up a feather duster and began using it for the vase on the mantel.

"Nonsense," he said. "No one knows I am here, so no one will know I am helping. And even if they did, my brother would not let them dismiss you over it."

According to the duke, that was true. Mr. Yorke was getting more insistent upon venturing farther and farther from the lodge when he went outside. If the choice was between his stooping to dust the Blue Room or risking being seen, she trusted the duke would prefer the former option.

"Besides," Mr. Yorke continued, "I shall go mad if I have to spend any more time staring through the window or reading those awful books."

Clara laughed. "Well, if the duke discovers I have made you into my assistant, I trust you will make it clear that I resisted and was overruled."

"He knows me well enough to assume the truth. When I want something, I tend to obtain it. "

"And dusting is your first choice?"

"Hardly. A rousing time at the nearest inn deserves that designation. But I am trying to be obedient for once in my life."

He was succeeding, Clara supposed, but not without great effort. Each day, he had new ideas for where he could spend his time outdoors, and each day, those ideas courted greater risk. But Clara was in the difficult position of supervising a man who was her superior in every way.

She liked Mr. Yorke. He was charming and amusing. But he was flighty too, and Clara often found herself wishing the duke was with her to set his brother in his place. The Duke of Rockwood was steady and reliable—perhaps the first man she had known to be so—and she admired him greatly for it. Too greatly.

Mr. Yorke moved from the vase to the mantel itself, and a cloud of dust erupted under the feathers. It had been some time since the lodge had been put to use, and the light pouring through the open-curtained windows was hazy as a result.

He brought a hand to his mouth and coughed violently—more violently than Clara would have thought merited by a bit of dust.

"Are you well, sir?" She hurried over to him.

"Yes," he managed between coughs.

She watched with concern until the coughing calmed and he could speak again.

"Had a bout of consumption when I was in France," he said. "My lungs still have fits sometimes."

She took the duster from his hand. "You cannot dust, then, sir. Go outside and breathe some fresh air."

"Ordering me about, are you?" he asked with a smile, but he made his way toward the door all the same.

"For your own good. But please stay on the lawn."

He gave a salute, then disappeared through the door .

Clara stared after him for a few seconds with a crease in her brow, then turned back to her dusting. From the few things Mr. Yorke had said about his time in France, his experience there had been full of difficulties, including illness, apparently. He needed to be here at Rushlake, and yet, his presence complicated the duke's life significantly.

Footsteps drew nearer, and Clara suppressed a smile as she turned toward him. "You can hardly have taken a full breath—" She stopped, finding herself facing the duke himself. "Your Grace." She curtsied deeply.

"I have taken many a full breath, I assure you," he said with the charming smile that always set her heart galloping. "But I assume you were talking to Silas. What has he done now?"

"Nothing, Your Grace. He was helping me dust, but it brought on a fit of coughing, so I sent him outside."

"A fit? It sounds to me as though he was merely trying to escape."

"On the contrary. He insisted on helping, but apparently his lungs have not fully recovered from his illness."

The duke's brow knit. "Illness?"

Clara hesitated. She had assumed his family would have been aware of it. Evidently, that was not the case. "Consumption, he said. While he was in France."

His frown deepened. "I see. I will go to him, then."

She nodded, and after a brief hesitation, the duke turned and left.

Clara let out a long, slow breath, hoping to coax her heart into a more measured pace. Somehow, the duke managed to set it galloping at times, while at others, it was at its calmest in his presence.

"You are every bit as bad as Mrs. Finch thinks you, Clara," she said to herself, dusting one of the wooden posters of the bed .

When she had finished her tasks half an hour later, she gathered the things that needed to be returned to Rushlake and took them to her cart. She debated whether to search for the duke and Mr. Yorke to inform them she was leaving. Wisdom dictated she not give herself more opportunity to be near the duke, but duty demanded she inform them of her intention to leave.

She set her shoulders and made her way to the back lawn. She was too skilled at her job to let her heart dictate how she performed it.

She found the brothers conversing at the edge of the stream, one of Mr. Yorke's most favored spots. They were a handsome pair, but Clara had eyes for only one of them, which was precisely why she forced them to Mr. Yorke's person instead of the duke's as the two of them turned toward her.

"I have finished for the morning and will return to Rushlake—unless there is anything you need?"

"You were just saying you should leave, as well, were you not?" Mr. Yorke said, nudging his brother with his elbow.

"Yes," the duke confirmed, though his gaze flitted to his brother with a hint of suspicion. "I only came for a brief visit. I will fetch my mare."

Clara's heart raced. Was he assuming they would walk together again? She shouldn't.

But she would.

She couldn't help herself, just as Mrs. Finch had said.

Mr. Yorke reluctantly returned inside, while Clara readied the cart until the duke approached, leading the mare behind him.

"You inspired me yesterday," he said with a smile.

Clara's brows shot up. "I?"

"Yes, you," he said. "You encouraged me to believe I stand a chance with Comet. "

"Of course you do."

"Before yesterday, it felt anything but a matter of course to me. I was beginning to think it a failed project." He stopped a few feet shy of Clara and turned toward Comet. "I thought today we might give her more opportunity with that terrifying cart of yours."

"Gladly, Your Grace."

The mare was much quicker to sniff the cart today, and after she had done so to her satisfaction, Clara moved it slowly.

The horse sidled away from it, but Clara continued the gentle movement of the cart, matching it with soothing words.

The duke pulled forward on the reins, and they started on the path, slow but sure. The mare kept her distance on the opposite side of the duke from the cart, but she followed her master dutifully—and nervously.

"Is my brother behaving?" the duke asked.

"He is," Clara said. "Though I think it grates on him to do so."

The duke laughed, and Clara's heart somersaulted at the pleasant sound. "Of course it does. There is nothing Silas hates more than submitting to anyone's orders. It keeps me up at night—the fear he will throw caution to the wind because he cannot bear to stay in that lodge a moment longer."

Clara glanced at him beside her, noting the little v between his brows. Though many might envy the Duke of Rockwood the title he had inherited, he bore a heavy burden, and despite the legion of servants he employed, that burden seemed to be borne nearly alone. The knowledge that she was the only person who knew the extent of what he faced made her feel warm inside—and determined to relieve as much of the weight as she could.

"If we can simply manage to keep him compliant until my family arrives…" He glanced at her suddenly. "You were a lady's maid at one point, you said?"

Clara's every muscle tightened, her knuckles whitening on the cart handles. "Yes."

"Did you not enjoy that position?"

"On the contrary. I loved it. I miss the work every day."

"Then why leave it?"

Clara's heart thudded. "It was not done by choice, Your Grace. My mistress married, and her husband disliked me." It was the truth. But it was not the full truth. She couldn't bear to disappoint the duke or to give him reason to worry she might be untrustworthy, though. He had enough on his mind, and there was no reason at all to make him think he could not trust her.

"How very petty," the duke said.

Clara swallowed, feeling sick to her stomach with fear he would ask the man's name. "When do you expect your family?"

"In a fortnight, if my aunt is to be believed." His mouth crept up at one edge. "I am curious to see what you make of her. Of all of them, in fact."

That he would be interested in her opinion of anyone , much less his own family, was a matter of awe and confusion to Clara. She doubted she would have the opportunity to make anything of any member of his family, however. She would be busy staying out of sight, as was expected.

"You must look on their approaching arrival with great anticipation," she said.

"I do. I admit I am not particularly looking forward to the other guests, but the sight of my family will be a welcome one."

"Why invite guests if you do not wish for them?"

He laughed. "As usual, you get right at the heart of the matter. It is the dilemma I face each day, Clara: the choice between what I want and what is best for the title. Edmund assures me this particular step is crucial to my acceptance as the new Duke of Rockwood. I must be seen by important figures as comfortable in my new position. I must strengthen connections—and forge new ones." He kicked at a small rock in their path.

Clara stole a glance at him, for she had heard one of the footmen speaking of the unmarried women who would be welcomed to Rushlake.

"New connections," Clara repeated. "Do you mean you are unacquainted with some of the guests?"

"A few of them, yes. It is Edmund's greatest wish that I ally myself with one of the more powerful and well-connected families."

Clara's throat and chest felt tight, but she forced a nonchalant tone. "Ally yourself—meaning marry into one of those families."

The duke glanced at her, his eyes searching her face, which she used every faculty to keep calm as she met his gaze.

"Yes," he said simply.

Clara's heart throbbed, but she ignored it. "Such a union might help your brother's cause, as well, I imagine."

The duke stared ahead. "Yes. It would."

It was in silence that they reached the fork in the path. They separated as they had the day before—Clara with just as much reluctance.

But the next day, he returned with the mare, and the day following that, and each day thereafter, when they spent ten glorious minutes walking and conversing together before separating.

Each walk endeared the duke to Clara more, settling her heart further and further into its love for him. And each time they separated, it was a reminder how very out of reach her growing desire was.

It was easy to forget how disparate were their positions in the world as they walked side by side, laughing, confiding in one another, and brushing arms every now and again. But without fail, they would reach the fork, and reality would strike. The duke went his way, and she went hers.

She might hold the duke's secrets, but she would never hold his heart.

When the arrival of the first guests was but a few days away, Mrs. Finch came to inspect the lodge late one morning. Mr. Yorke hid in the servants' quarters—and found it very exciting indeed.

Clara could sympathize with but did not share his enthusiasm. She was too thankful that Mrs. Finch attributed Clara's nerves to having her work inspected rather than to its true source. When Mrs. Finch provided her with a list of final tasks to be completed and expressed her approval of the state of the lodge, Clara was more pleased than she cared to admit.

"And how have you profited from the distance, my dear?" Mrs. Finch asked pointedly.

Clara pleaded with her cheeks not to betray her, but she felt the heat rush into them. "Greatly, ma'am."

Mrs. Finch smiled knowingly and patted her shoulder. "I thought you might. Sometimes distance and the opportunity for reflection is all that is needed."

Clara nodded, a shard of guilt lodging firmly in her chest. She had spent more time with the duke than ever over the past ten days, and though she had had ample opportunity for reflection, she could not truthfully claim that it had served to do anything to dampen her feelings for the duke.

On the contrary, her thoughts strayed to him with alarming doggedness—enough that she suspected Mr. Yorke guessed her secret. He did not know, however, the depth of her heart's pretension and how she found herself dreaming of calling the duke the name he wished to be called by: William.

With each passing day, the arrival of the guests loomed larger, along with the knowledge that the late-morning walks would come to an end. The duke would soon be entertaining his guests, amongst them the woman he might well marry.

The day before the first guests' arrival dawned as gray and dreary as Clara felt, knowing it would be the last time she would walk the familiar path with the duke. The last two weeks had been a bit of undeserved bliss, but the inevitable return to reality approached. With no one at Rushlake but the servants, and with the need to keep his brother's secret, the duke had allowed himself to reach terms of familiarity with Clara.

Once the house was full of prominent and titled guests, he would inevitably be reminded of his own status and what he owed it.

Clara accepted that certainty. But today, she would allow herself to enjoy one last happy stroll, where the chasm between them seemed little more than a crack in the pavement.

She went about her final duties in the lodge with an anxious energy, looking through windows for any sign of the duke well before he was expected. Mr. Yorke played both sides of a game of chess, but his eyes strayed to her again and again, a knowing light in them.

The hour of the duke's usual arrival came and went with no sign of him. With each passing minute, Clara's heart sank until it settled firmly in the pit of her stomach.

"He must be taken up with preparations for tomorrow," Mr. Yorke said.

"Undoubtedly," Clara replied, mortified she had been so obvious in her impatience. "I should return to the house. I am certain they could use my help."

Mr. Yorke nodded. "And before you ask—no, there is nothing you need to do for me. Bringing my dinner later will be enough." He smiled, but there was sympathy behind it, as though he wished he could soften the blow of his brother not arriving. Or perhaps it was pity for Clara's ludicrous fixation with someone so entirely out of reach.

Whatever it was, Clara had rarely felt so lonely or out of sorts as she took the path back to Rushlake alone.