The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm

“An outing? To where?”

“Swanlea. Your future house.” Before she could grow too excited, he held up a hand. “Not to stay. Just for the afternoon, so you can make a list of what needs to be done.”

They had an agreement, and for the good of them both, he needed to remember and adhere to it.

“Be ready tomorrow. We’ll leave at dawn.”

Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_efb68f54-9ed6-5d0a-9b16-09fa782b4203)

“Oh.”

As she alighted from the carriage, Emma’s lungs relaxed with the most silly, sentimental sigh. She even pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

Before her stood a perfect dream of a house. It featured a façade of solid brick, studded with enough windows to give the appearance of an open, friendly abode. A shallow pool in front of the house reflected the rows of gracious elms on either side. Unlike Ashbury House—designed to impress at best, and at worst, intimidate—Swanlea was not too grand, not too humble. It looked like a home.

“It’s on the small side,” the duke said. “Only twelve rooms.”

She slid a look at him. Only?

The coachman, Jonas, flicked the reins. The team pulled the carriage away.

“Where is he going?” she asked.

“To the market town to change horses. If we’re going to make the journey back this evening, we need a fresh team.” He opened the door with the key and waved her over the threshold. “The house has been closed for some time. Twenty years.”

“So I see.”

In fact, the place was nearly empty. Only a few furnishings remained—scattered chairs here and there, a few chests and cupboards. The wall coverings were peeled in places, and the plaster ceilings were cracked. It charmed her, all the same. Weathered floorboards creaked beneath her feet, telling stories of children chasing one another up and down the stairs, and exuberant hunting dogs jumping to greet their beloved masters. The kitchen worktable had been scored by generations upon generations of knives—some cleaving game birds, others trimming pastry. Sunlight streamed through the uncovered windows.

Emma had the notion that the house was happy to see her.

Delighted to make your acquaintance, too.

“Have a look around,” he said. “Make a list of the furnishings you’ll need purchased, colors for the decor, any changes or modernizations you’d want. There are a great many repairs to be undertaken. The gardens no doubt need attention. There’s an older couple who live on the property as groundskeepers. I’ll have them hire maids and laborers to begin the work.”

“Surely that’s not necessary. I adore the house as it is, and at most it would need a staff of two or three. Putting you to that needless expense would seem wasteful.”

“Think like a duchess, Emma. Cleaning, furnishing, and repairing the home will give employment to dozens of people, many of them in dire need. It’s not wasteful. It’s patronage.”

“Yes, of course.” She bit her lip. “I hadn’t seen it that way.”

Here was the man’s single indisputable virtue. He was always thinking of the people who depended on him. He would not have married Emma otherwise. It was for their good that he wanted to quickly produce an heir.

I warned you, she wanted to say. I warned you I wouldn’t make a proper duchess. You should have married a lady, not a seamstress with the thinnest claim to gentility.

But she was the duchess now. She’d undertaken the role, and she must do her best to fulfill it.

“Very well,” she said. “If it’s work they need, it’s work we shall give them.” She took out a notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. “I’ll start a list.”

The next few hours flew by as Emma traveled from room to room. She gave each chamber a purpose. Bedchamber, maid’s chamber, morning room. Nursery. She scribbled lists of furnishings, requests for new paint and wall coverings, all the while noting any crack or dent needing repair. Modernizing the baths and kitchen—that would keep more than a few men employed. She walked the grounds next, listing trees in want of pruning and noting patches of brush by the stream that were overgrown. The pond likely required stocking. The kitchen garden was in need of a complete replanting. And while she was dreaming up work . . . why not put in an orchard?

When she was finished, she looked about for her husband. He wasn’t in the house. Eventually she found him at the edge of the stream that ran through the property. He’d removed his topcoat and held it by two fingers, slung casually over his shoulder.

“There you are, bunnykins. I’ve been searching everywhere.” She slapped the notebook into his hand. “Enough to employ half of Oxfordshire, I think.”

He tucked the notebook into his waistcoat pocket without comment.

She turned her gaze to the arching branches above them. The stream spilled over a rocky patch, chattering and burbling in conversation with the birds. “This is an enchanting little spot, isn’t it?”

“Best fishing on any of the ducal properties. Across the way, there’s an excellent chestnut tree for climbing. It’s a good place to raise a boy.”

He clearly spoke from experience. The house had been closed twenty years, had he said? That made sense. It would have been shut up after his parents died. It was difficult to imagine him ever climbing chestnut trees and splashing about in a stream. But even the most imposing of men had once been a boy. With him divested of his coat, clad in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, she could almost see it.

They walked the short distance back to the house.

Emma didn’t see the carriage. “Evening’s coming on. Shouldn’t we be starting home?”

“Yes, we should be. Jonas still hasn’t returned.”

She tucked her skirts under her thighs and had a seat on the front step. “I suppose we’ll wait and enjoy the sunset.”

They waited. And waited.

The sun set.

Still no Jonas. Still no carriage.

It was full evening now, and fast fading to night.

“Where the devil is he? He could have broken a team of wild horses by now.”

A knot of suspicion formed in Emma’s stomach. “Oh, dear. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Don’t fret. He’s an experienced coachman. He won’t have encountered any serious difficulty.”

“That’s not what I mean. I have a bad feeling that Jonas won’t return tonight at all. Not because of an accident, but on purpose.”

“What possible purpose could that be?”

Emma propped one elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. “It’s the servants. All of them. They have formed this silly notion that if they force us together, we’ll . . .”

“We’ll what?”

“Fall in love.”

“Fall in love?” Ash couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s—”

“Absurd,” she finished. “Of course it is. I tried to tell them as much. It’s not going to happen, I said.”