Chapter 7

7

WILLIAM

W illiam headed straight for the library. Only a duke as inexperienced as he would feel like a schoolboy caught by the master when his housekeeper found him with a maid. Was not one of the perquisites of being a duke that one could act as one pleased without worrying for the opinions of others?

And yet, William did worry over such opinions. It had been all he could do to calmly let go of Clara's wrist. But still, the way things must have appeared to Mrs. Finch…they were not at all based in reality. And yet, William hated to be thought anything less than upstanding, and he hated for anyone to think ill of Clara. She did not deserve such a reputation. She was entirely innocent.

He had asked to smell the perfume on her hands. And how was she to do anything but agree? He was her master, after all.

For some reason, he found himself making poor decisions in her presence. Part of him felt comfortable with her—as though he could be himself. That was something he was coming to value greatly .

He missed his brothers for that precise reason. They had known him as William Yorke, and they would not expect him to be anything but what they had always known him to be. Granted, that was a "starched-up bore," according to his younger brother, Anthony. And to Silas? William was an unimaginative traditionalist. Frederick—the youngest—admired him, at least.

William would have to invite Anthony and Frederick to visit. As for Silas…well, there was no telling if or when William would ever see him again. Anthony had expressed a hope William would be able to use his influence as a duke to turn the tide of favor to Silas's benefit, allowing him to return to England without fear of the gallows. But William had no influence. At least, not yet.

He was determined to gain it.

He took a seat at the desk in his study and pulled a sheet of parchment from the neat stack there. He brought his hand to his chin, brushing the feather of the quill against his ear absently.

Jasmine and orange blossom filled his senses, and he shut his eyes. Some of the perfume from Clara's hand must have transferred to his skin. What had he been thinking, smelling her like that? Her pulse had hummed in the wrist he had held. He was certain of that. Whether it was from fear or something else, he couldn't tell. Mrs. Finch's arrival had prevented him from being able to judge such a thing.

And so much the better. William could not be thinking of his housemaids in such a way. He had always despised the men who availed themselves of their servants. He would not become one of them.

If his mind insisted on exploring such avenues with the opposite sex, marriage with an aim to strengthen the title and his influence was the way forward.

There was a knock, followed by Edmund appearing in the doorway. "Might I have a word, Your Grace?"

"Of course. Come in."

Edmund came and took a seat across the desk from William, a paper in hand.

"Do I want to see that?" William asked warily.

"I hope so. It is the list I have compiled of potential guests."

William looked at it with misgiving. "It looks incredibly long."

"So it is, Your Grace. Rushlake has a plethora of guest bedchambers. And, of course, those who live nearby can simply join the festivities as they please."

"Or, hopefully, as they do not please."

Edmund squared him with an amused stare. "Your Grace, we do not have to invite anyone, you know. I only suggested it because you expressed the wish on multiple occasions to?—"

"Yes, yes. I know. I am only being difficult."

"You do want to hear the names, then?"

"I do."

William fiddled with the magnifying glass on the desk as he listened to Edmund read the names of various lords and ladies and wealthy landowners. He recognized most of the names, and a number of them he had met, even if briefly, while in London.

After a time, there was a pause, and William looked up. "Is that the end?"

Edmund shook his head, but there was a hint of reluctance in his eyes. "I ask you to keep an open mind for the next name, Your Grace. Simply look at inviting her as an opportunity to become acquainted."

William narrowed his eyes. "Let us have it, then."

Edmund cleared his throat and looked down at the paper, a gesture William assumed was more an excuse not to meet his eye than an actual need to read from it. "Lady Cassandra Montrose."

There was a pause, and Edmund's eyes flitted to the duke's.

Lady Cassandra was the daughter of Lord Hawkesbury, an earl. William knew her by reputation only, but that reputation was certainly a good one. Hosting her with an aim to courtship was better than hosting Drayton's daughter, at least.

"When do we send invitations?" William asked.

Edmund stared, searching the duke's face. "As easy as that?"

"Would you prefer I made it more difficult?"

"Of course not. But I anticipated at least a bit of arguing on your part."

William smiled. "I am a constant disappointment to you, aren't I?"

"On the contrary."

"I have been considering what you said, Edmund. I do that from time to time, you know. And you just so happen to be right on this matter. Do not, for heaven's sake, allow it to go to your head. I must marry. Sooner rather than later if I wish to reap the benefits of such an alliance, which means I must become acquainted with prospective brides."

Now, why did Clara's face flash across his mind at that particular moment? Edmund hadn't truly meant he had any husbandly responsibility toward her. He had only said such things to prove his point—that William should keep his distance.

"Your reasoning is sound, Your Grace," Edmund said meekly, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"As always," William said with his own flicker of amusement.

"Naturally. As far as invitations, if we mean to have the guests here within the next few weeks, invitations should be sent as soon as can be managed."

"And how soon can be managed?"

"Tomorrow, if we wish." He smiled at William's surprise. "I began the process of writing them out—absent the names, of course—a few days ago when we first discussed the idea."

"What would I do without you, Edmund? Fall into all manner of scrapes, no doubt."

Edmund's smile became more of a grimace. "Speaking of which…"

"Oh dear. What have I done to complicate your life now?" William cast his mind over the past week, but he had been at Rushlake. In London, it had been very easy to say or do something unsuitable. At Rushlake, it was different.

Edmund sat forward, resting his elbows on the edge of William's desk. "It is about the new maid, Your Grace. I understand you were found together in your bedchamber."

William's hand itched to tug at his cravat, but he suppressed the impulse. "My, how quickly news travels."

"I happened to speak with Mrs. Finch on a matter before coming here, and she seemed very put out about what she had seen."

"She saw nothing." The silence that followed his words brought his gaze to Edmund, who was watching him closely. "Very well, rather she misinterpreted what she saw."

"Either way, Your Grace, I think the topic of the maid merits discussion."

William sighed, then nodded reluctantly. "Very well. Let us discuss things."