Lady of Shame Page 3

  Would remaining here when the man was so ill be similar to her husband preying on young green youths new to gambling? Except Crispin was family. And while he hadn’t despised her mother, who had been the old duke’s nurse, as some of his younger siblings had, he had not held her mother in any great affection either. The birth of yet another daughter so late in the duke’s life had come as a shock to all, but Crispin had always been kind to Claire. Until she had rejected his ducal decision and had more or less forced him to wash his hands of her.

  While she had admitted her mistake to herself a long time ago, it would crush what little remained of her pride to beg his indulgence.

  Perhaps if the Montagues had treated her more like family and less like an interloper in the years after her father died, she might not have been so vulnerable to the practiced seduction mounted by a fortune hunter like George Holte. Which ultimately left her forced to beg for her brother’s help.

  And she would not be here, she reminded herself fiercely, if not for her daughter. Jane was the real victim of Claire’s mistake.

  A light tap on the door brought her head up. Was this the summons to meet with her brother?

  ‘Come,’ she said, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.

  The door opened to reveal a tall man in a dark coat. The chef from the kitchen, minus his white hat. The handsome man for whom she had warmed from the inside out at the slightest touch. Unless that was all in her imagination. Everything about him was dark. His eyes brooded. Lips finely moulded for kissing looked as if they rarely smiled.

  He pushed the door wider, revealing the tray balanced on one large hand. She recognised the pie as part of the meal she’d been forced to leave behind. The delicious smell made her stomach growl so loudly she was sure he must hear.

  ‘You did not eat your supper, madame,’ he murmured.

  His voice was deep and the trace of his French accent as attractive as the man himself. Her insides clenched with the pleasure of just looking at him. Madness.

  An intense dark gaze riveted on her face. She had the feeling he could see right into her mind. As if he could see her lustful reactions. An answering spark flared in his eyes. Her cheeks warmed. This was not behaviour befitting a duke’s daughter.

  ‘My daughter felt unwell.’

  ‘Too much rich food before dinner.’ His face remained impassive, but she was sure she heard condemnation in his voice. He thought her an unfit mother.

  ‘It has been a long time since Jane had such delicious treats.’ Oh, why was she offering up an excuse? Servants always gossiped and they had enough to scorn without her giving them more ammunition.

  Why should she care what a chef thought? Was it the delicious smell of the food on the tray undermining her reserve?

  ‘Now the child is settled,’ he said briskly, ‘there is time for you to eat.’ He set the tray on the small table at her elbow, then lifted the table and set it before her.

  Her mouth watered. ‘This is very kind of you, Mr…?’

  ‘André. Monsieur André.’

  She smiled. ‘My thanks, Monsieur André.’

  He acknowledged her gratitude with an incline of his head and folded his arms over his wide chest. ‘Eat.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She looked at him, expecting him to leave. He didn’t move. ‘Is there something more?’

  His eyes widened a fraction. Chagrin flickered across his face. Or was it anger? His expression was now so impassive, so carefully blank, she couldn’t be sure. ‘I wish your opinion on the pie, madame,’ he finally said. ‘Is it good enough to send up to the duke?’

  ‘Oh.’ Her chest tightened at the idea that he would think she had such authority. ‘It is not my place to say, I am sure.’ She looked down at the plate, at the pastry, golden and flaking at the edges, the thick creamy sauce coating the vegetables and meat. ‘It looks and smells delicious. I am not sure—’

  ‘You will taste it, madame.’

  That was an order if ever she’d heard one. French chefs. She’d heard they were difficult. She had no wish to upset him. No wish to anger her brother. Not before they had a chance to talk. She picked up the cutlery.

  Monsieur André leaned forward and shook out the napkin and spread it over her skirts. He moved so close, she could see the individual black lashes so thick and long around his dark eyes, and the way his hair grazed the pristine white collar showing above the black of his coat. Her breath seemed to lodge in her throat at the beauty of his angular face so close to hers and the warmth of him washing up against her skin. The scent of him, lemon and some darker spice, filled her nostrils. Her head swam a little.

  Only when he stepped back could she take in a deep enough breath to dispel the dizziness. It must be hunger.

  What else could it be?

  A flush lit her face and neck. She lowered her gaze to her plate and cut into the pastry. She stabbed a fragment of partridge coated with sauce with her fork and put the whole in her mouth. The flavours were sensational. Creamy. Seasoned to perfection. Tender. She closed her eyes. Never had she tasted food this good. She finished the mouthful and glanced up at the chef who was watching her closely.

  Once more she had the feeling he could read her thoughts. The man’s intensity was positively unnerving.

  ‘It is delicious. Thank you. I am quite sure His Grace will be pleased.’

  She set down the knife and fork, expecting him to depart. Would he take the tray with him? She hoped not.

  ‘You need to eat more to be certain,’ he said.

  She blinked. ‘I really don’t think—’

  ‘It might be too rich,’ he said. ‘You cannot tell from one mouthful. Did you not find the oyster soup too rich?’

  ‘Oh, no, it was delicious. Really.’

  He raised a brow. ‘You ate so little, how could you tell?’

  Goodness, the man was as autocratic as he looked and that bump on his nose reinforced the fierceness in his eyes. A warrior chef? ‘Very well.’ She picked up her knife and fork and ate two more mouthfuls and found herself wanting to shovel the rest into her mouth. The more she ate, the more she wanted. Before she knew it, the plate was empty and she felt full to the brim. She sighed.

  When she looked up, the chef’s full sensual lips had the faintest curve. A smile?

  Her stomach flipped over in the most decadent way.

  What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with regard to attractive men? They didn’t want her at all; they wanted her family connections. Mortifying it might be, but it was the truth.

  She straightened her spine, picked up the napkin and flung it over the empty plate as if it would hide just how hungry she’d been. Too hungry to leave a morsel. No doubt they would be talking about that in the kitchen tomorrow while they dredged up the old scandal. ‘That was delicious, Monsieur André.’ She waved permission for him to take away the tray.

  His posture stiffened. ‘Madame would like some dessert? There is a vanilla blancmange in the kitchen.’

  It sounded heavenly. And he offered it in such velvety tones she could almost taste the vanilla on her tongue as his voice wrapped around her body. Charm. She fell for it so easily. She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘No. Thank you.’

  A muscle in his axe blade of a jaw flickered as if he would argue. A mere twitch, but it broke the spell. What was she doing, letting this man order her about? Never again would she be any man’s doormat. Her spine stiffened in outrage, at him, at herself. ‘That will be all, Monsieur André.’

  He recoiled, his eyes widening. ‘I simply saw that you did not eat and thought—’

  ‘What I eat, when I eat, is my concern alone, monsieur.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, madame,’ he said stiffly. There was anger in his tone, but something else gleamed in his dark gaze. Hurt? Gone too quickly to be sure, he was once more all arrogant male as he bowed. ‘I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence.’ He swept up the tray and strode from the room.

  Blast. Now she’d upset C
rispin’s chef. Montague pride, when she had nothing to be proud about. Hopefully the man would not vent to her brother, or take his anger out on the kitchen staff. She would probably have to apologise, even though the chef was in the wrong.

  Chapter Three

  The breakfast room overlooked the lawn at the side of the house. If one stood close to the window, one could just get a glimpse of the lake, with its decorative bridge and the island in the middle. Now it was frozen and dusted with a fresh fall of snow. She would take Jane outside later to look at it. Tell her about rowing over to the island in summer. Right now the child was tucking into coddled eggs and ham and had ceased to chatter for once.

  ‘Don’t eat too quickly, dearest, or you will be ill again,’ she cautioned.

  She glanced at a sideboard weighed down with platters of food—eggs scrambled and coddled, bacon with curly brown edges and a hint of a sear, assorted breads and pastries and a juicy steak. The footman had delivered the food under Lumsden’s eagle eye from the moment she arrived.

  ‘Will His Grace be coming to breakfast soon?’ she asked Lumsden as she added cream to her coffee.

  ‘His Grace breaks his fast in his chambers, madam.’

  She stared at the array of food on the sideboard and down at her plate of ham and poached egg and the bowl which had contained deliciously stewed plums and prunes. She and Jane had scarcely made a dint in the feast. At most she might manage a piece of toast and marmalade when she was finished with this.

  ‘Then who else is coming for breakfast?’

  Jane looked up with interest.

  ‘No one else, madam,’ the butler said.

  Claire frowned. Such extravagance. All this food would be wasted.

  Lumsden must have guessed the direction of her thoughts because a fleeting smile crossed his face. ‘The food will end up in the servants’ hall, madam. The staff had a small piece first thing this morning, bread and cheese, before the fires were alight, but they will have breakfast proper when early-morning chores are done.’

  Heat travelled up her cheeks. She had forgotten how it went in a house full of servants; she had never had more than a couple of live-out maids during all of her marriage and sometimes none at all. These past months she’d been her own cook and housemaid. How would she ever fit back into this world of privilege and idleness if she kept thinking like a poverty-stricken widow?

  ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ the butler asked.

  Claire looked at her plate and at the piles of food on the sideboard and couldn’t eat another bite. No matter that she’d felt hungry when she first walked into the room, it was all just too much.

  ‘No, thank you. Jane, are you finished?’

  Her daughter, who now had nothing but a few smears of egg on her plate and crumbs on the tablecloth, nodded.

  ‘Then that will be all, thank you, Lumsden. You may clear away.’

  Lumsden frowned, looked as if he was about to speak, then pressed his lips together. No doubt he wanted to tell her the chef would not be pleased she’d eaten so little. Next the man would be bringing her another plate of food. Surely not after her unfriendly dismissal the previous evening. He wouldn’t dare to visit her room again. And a good thing too, even if she did admire his dedication to his work.

  As she’d come to admire the hard-working shopkeepers, merchants and other businessmen with whom she’d come into contact while living on her own. Unlike George, who had dedicated his life to doing as little as possible, they were dedicated to the improvement of their families.

  Perhaps that was what made the chef seem so attractive. He cared about his work.

  Lumsden took her plate back to the sideboard and clicked his fingers, signalling the waiting footman to clear the platters.

  ‘I would like to see His Grace at the earliest opportunity, preferably this morning,’ Claire said, rising from her seat.

  ‘Indeed, madam. Smithins will collect you from the blue drawing room.’

  ‘Very well. Come, Jane.’ She swept from the room with Jane’s hand in hers. At least she hadn’t made a complete cake of herself, playing the duke’s daughter. As she and Jane wandered along the corridor lined with pictures of her ancestors, she regretted not finishing her breakfast. It seemed that standing up for herself had restored her appetite.

  Then she remembered a thought that had occurred in the deep reaches of the night. It hadn’t woken her. No, her rest had been disturbed by a low seductive voice in her dreams and images of an arrogant chef running long tanned fingers down her arm, then moving on to the rise of her breast.

  Panting and hot she’d sat up in bed, not terrified but full of longing. For passion.

  She squeezed her eyes closed against the memory of the heat and the flutters low in her belly. She would not think of that. But as she had lain there in the dark regaining her composure with the ticking of the clock and the howl of the wind among the chimneys for company, she had remembered the words spoken yesterday. Another one crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be a relative.

  What had the cheeky Irish footman meant by ‘another one’? It was a question she intended to ask Mrs Stratton.

  Jane skipped into the drawing room with its heavy gilded and scrolled furniture adorned by, Claire blinked, half-naked females. Mermaids. She had better not linger in this room for too long or Jane would be asking her about them.

  ‘Can we go outside now, Mama?’ the child asked, looking around her with obvious disappointment. ‘To see the lake?’

  ‘Perhaps. After we see the duke.’

  Jane slumped back against the chair cushions and folded her hands in her lap. Her daughter was much too obedient, Claire thought with a pang. Too still. Too careful. George’s fault. He’d had a temper in his cups. They’d both learned to walk quietly around him.

  The child needed laughter and joy.

  And she would find it at Castonbury if they were permitted to stay. There would be no more moving. No more running from debtors.

  A scratch at the door before it swung back brought her upright. An elegantly garbed gentleman of some sixty years entered the room. He was no more than five feet tall and his person was slim. He had thick white hair carefully coifed à la brutus.

  He held out both hands in a gesture that seemed almost feminine. ‘Lady Claire. How wonderful to see you home after all these years. And your daughter.’ He executed a flourishing bow.

  ‘Smithins,’ she said, smiling at his effusive greeting and obvious warmth. ‘It has been a long time.’

  ‘Seven years at least, Mrs Holte.’

  ‘Are you here to escort me to His Grace?’

  ‘Madam, I am. His Grace is quite chipper this morning.’ He beamed at her, then his smile dimmed. ‘Of a surety you will find him much changed. It is the doctor’s opinion that too much excitement is bad for him, but knowing you are here, he has made a great effort to be up and about this morning.’ He smiled triumphantly as if bestowing a gift.

  The nerves in Claire’s stomach leapt around like butterflies in boots. ‘So he has agreed to see me.’

  ‘He looks forward to it.’ He glanced at Jane. ‘And to meeting the little lady.’ He spun around and headed out of the door.

  She took Jane’s hand and followed.

  ‘His Grace uses the old state apartments these days,’ Smithins said as he directed her along the corridor to the central block. ‘Fewer stairs to climb. I am sure you remember the way.’

  ‘Smithins?’ she asked as they travelled through the antechamber towards the great double doors, ‘who else has come to claim relationship to the duke?’

  Smithins stopped and pivoted a hand to his lips. ‘You have heard already?’

  ‘I heard a chance remark. It is not one of his…his…’

  The duke had been a bit of a rake before his marriage. And after, if some of the tales were true.

  ‘No, no.’ The man waved an elegant hand like a lady batting away a fly. ‘It is Lord Jamie’s wife.’

  ‘I ha
dn’t heard that Lord James had married.’ She’d always watched the newspapers for news of her family. Births, deaths and the occasional mention in court reports.

  ‘Nor had anyone else,’ Smithins said with a sly smile. ‘Married her on the continent. She arrived just a few months ago with her son, Lord Jamie’s heir.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And very little proof, I’m told. But His Grace is happy to be convinced.’

  ‘She’s here at Castonbury?’ It was strange she hadn’t taken dinner with Claire or that Mrs Stratton hadn’t mentioned her.

  ‘She lives in the Dower House.’ He flung back the door and ushered her and Jane into a vast room where the curtains covered the windows and only one branch of candles shed any light apart from that given off by the hearth.

  A smell of illness pervaded the room. Sickly smells. And the smell of elderly man. Someone should open a window and let the fresh air in. It reminded her of visits to her aged father, the previous duke.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, she made out a male figure sitting close to the flames in a scarlet banyan and slippers with a matching embroidered cap perched on a balding pate.

  He looked like a man of eighty instead of the sixty summers she knew he owned. The gaze fixed on her seemed bright enough though. She approached his chair. ‘Your Grace.’ She dipped a curtsey. ‘It is Claire. Your sister. I am come home. This is my daughter, Jane.’ She drew the child closer.

  Jane bent her knees and wobbled only a little. Claire felt very proud. Jane might carry the name Holte, but she was also a Montague through and through.

  ‘Claire,’ His Grace said with a vague wave of a trembling hand. ‘Welcome. Forgive me for not rising. Knees aren’t what they used to be. Pull up that stool and sit in the light where I can see you. I don’t see as well these days.’ He shook his head.

  Claire did as she was bid and once seated she gazed long at her half-brother, looking for the man he had been, proud, tall, full of authority. She found only a face etched in lines of grief and a body bowed over with sorrow.