The Portrait of a Duchess by Scarlett Peckham

Rafe was clenched with nerves.

There was, on the surface, no reason for it. He was doing nothing more daring than sitting in the library of Gardencourt Manor staring at the mountainous pile of estate books that needed to be analyzed. Though, to be fair, this was a highly unpleasant task.

He was a creature of the stables. Sitting still in a hot, overstuffed formal library with his every need catered to and nothing to do but pore over figures sucked the vigor from him. He hated this ancient manor, with its stiff grandeur and militia of servants trained to defer to his every whim.

What a difference a few weeks could make, when one, by no efforts of one’s own, went from a common man to a noble lord.

It was despicable that this was the way the world worked. That he should be given a kingdom, while beneath his nose a hundred people scraped out fire grates and scrubbed the floors and cleaned the chamber pots for residents who didn’t even notice their existence. And all for less money a year than it cost to keep a horse.

He couldn’t wait to tear apart the place at the seams and sew it up anew.

But it was not the complexities of estate management that had him anxious.

It was Cornelia Ludgate.

Specifically, the fact that he had not been able to take his mind off her since they’d parted in London, when she’d made clear she was not happy to see him and did not trust him.

It was a reasonable stance, given his work for her uncle and the company he’d kept since their none-too-happy parting. Nevertheless, it bothered him like an itch deep beneath the skin he’d give anything to scratch.

At least one thing had not changed in twenty years: his inordinate desire to make her like him.

“Neglecting your work?” an amused voice drawled.

Rafe ceased gazing out the window and smiled at the welcome distraction of Rory Thompson leaning against the massive carved wood door with a lazy grin. Rory was a sight for sore eyes. But then, he was always some kind of sight. They had worked together in the stables for three years—Rafe leading the breeding operation, Rory overseeing its finances—and become friends and occasional lovers. Now Rafe had asked Rory to help him untangle the mystery that was the running of Gardencourt.

Rory came and propped himself against the unfashionably large desk, which must date back to the Tudors. “Your Grace.”

“Stop,” Rafe said. Meaning stop using that awful title on him, and stop giving him that come hither grin.

Rory winked, and Rafe laughed, grateful for the casual ease between them. Rory was the kind of man who made you fleetingly, exquisitely happy, and then disappeared as quickly as he’d come. He was all lust and charm and kindness and friendship, and made it abundantly clear he had a roving eye, many lovers, and didn’t desire commitment.

Exactly what Rafe needed.

Exactly who Rafe needed to train himself to be.

Exactly the kind of man he wasn’t.

Rafewas the kind of man who was always turning acquaintanceships into flirtations and flirtations into love affairs with nothing more than the power of his thoughts.

He got attached too quickly. He made impulsive declarations of emotion and planned sweepingly romantic gestures. He gave gifts. He professed love. He did it in the span of weeks.

And inevitably, when the object of his infatuation was taken aback by his ardor—even alienated by it—he got hurt.

He was tired—so bloody tired—of being heartbroken.

He’d made a vow after his last doomed enrapturement, a horse buyer named Susannah with flashing green eyes, left him the very night he told her how he felt about her: no more devastating love affairs.

His bed was open. His heart was closed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Rafe asked Rory.

Rory passed him a sheet of paper with a list of names and times. “I’ve set up meetings for you with the foreman of the quarries, the vicar, and the head forester tomorrow.”

“Ah, excellent.” Rory was nothing if not masterful at making order out of the estate’s behemoth inner workings.

“Will you ride out with me?” Rafe asked.

“No time. I have to be back in London to meet with the executor of the estate on your behalf.”

“Make mention of my marriage. The more he hears of it, the less suspicious he will be.”

This morning Rafe had charged Canette, the housekeeper, with drafting out an invitation for the masquerade to Lady Lowell, a countess who considered herself the grand dame of society. The note included an explanation that the ball was in celebration of the Duke of Rosemere’s marriage. He expected news of his secret wife would reach the papers soon after Lady Lowell received it. Once the news was out, all of London would hope for an invitation.

“I’ve also received word of an auction at Tatersall’s next week,” Rory said. “And rumor has it Lord Bell is looking for a racing horse.”

Rory gave him a meaningful look. They’d been searching for an inconspicuous reason to make contact with Bell for months.

“Just what we have in abundance,” Rafe said. “What a fine opportunity to make the man’s acquaintance.”

“I’ll make the arrangements on the chance he shows,” Rory said. “Now then, when is your wife due to arrive?”

Wife.He knew Cornelia would hate to be called such a thing. Almost as much as she would hate being called duchess. Still, he liked the word applied to her. For it meant he was her husband.

“Cornelia will be here any moment,” he said.

“Is that why your reading remains unread?” Rory said, gesturing at Rafe’s pile of reports and ledgers.

“Yes. I’m apprehensive.”

“You? You’re the calmest person I’ve ever met. What could possibly be troubling you?”

He debated telling Rory, for speaking his torment aloud would make it all more real. But in his misery, he could use a friend.

“I admire her and she despises me,” he summarized.

Rory put a hand on his shoulder. “No one could despise you. You’re far too handsome and affable to inspire more than faint dislike.”

“Now’s not the time for humor, pest,” Rafe said, pulling Rory in by the cravat so he could kiss him.

“Rafe?” a husky, cultivated voice called from just outside the door.

Fuck. He’d forgotten to lock it. He and Rory mustn’t be so casual in their affection, now that they were no longer in the privacy of the stable offices.

He released Rory and jumped away.

“Come in.” His voice was only a little hoarse, thank God.

Cornelia sauntered in and flashed him and Rory a quick, appraising look. She wore a crisp blue dress cut to flatter her petite proportions. The simplicity of the gown showed off the sophisticated beauty of her features. She made him feel shabby in his riding clothes.

Of course, the way Cornelia was looking at Rory, it didn’t seem she much cared about Rafe’s attire. Rory’s though—he saw a flicker in her eyes as she regarded him.

Rory saw it, too. Being Rory—damned saucy Irishman—he sauntered over to make Cornelia’s acquaintance, Rafe all but forgotten.

“I’m Rory Thompson, Your Grace,” he said, with a deep and slightly impish bow. “Confidential secretary to the esteemed duke.”

“Oh please, don’t call me that.”Cornelia gave an exaggerated shudder. “Cornelia is my name.”

“Well, Cornelia, I knew of your great beauty from your fine self-portraits, but to see the model in the flesh is a pleasure all its own.”

She cocked her head, an invitation to flirtation. “Bold of you, to discuss flesh on our first meeting, Mr. Thompson.”

“I hope it won’t be the last we speak of it.”

Great. Cornelia was going to steal his lover.

He couldn’t blame Rory for trading him in. She was a far superior model of humanity.

“May I have a moment with my wife?” Rafe asked. He’d meant to use the word wife ironically, but it came out sounding far too sincere.

“Of course,” Rory said, bowing graciously. “I’ll leave you two to renew your nuptial bond.”

He reached out for Cornelia’s hand and kissed it. “Whatever you need, my lady, don’t hesitate to ask. Publicly or privately.”

Cornelia gave Rory an appreciative wink. She’d never been a woman who shied from innuendo. Even as a girl she’d exuded an arch, knowing manner when it came to flirtation. She was never bawdy in her banter. But she was so frank she could make a man sweat through his shirt.

How disappointing she was lavishing this quality on Rory, and not Rafe. It was difficult to look upon her gorgeous face and not remember a time when he’d felt that there was no one else on earth he’d rather be with. She, however, did not look awash in misty memories.

“How was the journey?” he asked briskly, to keep from dwelling on emotions. He could not stop himself from feeling things, but he could stop himself from acting on those feelings.

“Lovely,” she said. “Quick.”

The trip from London was little more than an hour in the fine carriage and six that numbered among the vehicles in the ducal equipage.

“The Rosemere horses are far superior to the nags that pull the London hacks,” she added. “I suppose my uncle had you to credit for that.”

There was an edge to her voice. He needed to explain his years in the duke’s employ, and soon. He planned to do so at supper, once she was settled in the house.

“You must be tired,” he said. “Canette has prepared a room for you. I’ll ring for her.”

He pulled a lever tucked discreetly beneath the desk. One that ensured the servants appeared silently, as if by magic.

“Canette is still here?” Cornelia asked, looking as pleased as a girl with a new doll.

“She is. She was promoted to housekeeper. She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

This was an understatement. When Rafe had informed Canette of Cornelia’s forthcoming arrival, she’d begun to cry.

“I’ve arranged dinner for us tonight at seven. We can go over our plans and become reacquainted.”

She smiled at him. “I can bring myself to endure a bit of your company in exchange for food, I suppose.”

He chuckled, but her words were not without a light sting. He didn’t want to trade barbs with her. He wanted to trade memories. To learn of her life. To make audacious plans.

“Gracious of you,” he said.

She curtsied ironically and batted her eyelashes at him. “I don’t suppose Mr. Thompson will be joining us?”

Rafe felt an unattractive flare of envy. “Absolutely not,” he said.

She chuckled at the knowing tone in his response. God, he’d missed that infectious laugh.

“It’s good to have you here,” he said. “The house was never the same without you.”

The words came out oddly stiff, and he looked down at his shoes. Before he could recover, the door flew open.

“Cornelia!” Canette cried, her voice heavy with emotion.

“I’ll leave you,” he murmured.

But Cornelia was not paying him any mind. She was running into Canette’s arms.