“It is,” she agreed, her teeth scraping over her bottom lip as she searched for something to say. He cut an imposing figure, and she knew that she shouldn’t be here, alone with the duke in the gallery-turned-workroom, but at the same time, it seemed so right to be here with him that she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
“We probably shouldn’t be alone together," he said, reading her thoughts, to which she shook her head.
“No,” she answered, her voice just above a whisper, “but here we are.”
He ran a hand through his hair as he practically dropped himself into one of the upholstered green armchairs that were pushed against the wall of the room. The fire lit the chiseled planes of his face, leaving the rest of it in shadows.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asked, and he looked up suddenly.
“About what?”
“Whatever has you so despondent,” she said, taking a seat in the chair next to him, forgetting for a moment her current state of disarray
“It’s nothing,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Nothing worth speaking of.”
“Nothing worth speaking of, or nothing you think should be worth speaking of?”
He frowned. “You are talking in circles.”
She chuckled under her breath.
“You were seemingly gifted a dukedom overnight,” she said, resting her chin on her fist as she leaned on the arm of her chair, studying him. “Most would see that as a great boon, would think you to be a very lucky man. But your dukedom is impoverished. You are suddenly responsible for much more than simply your family. And you always thought it would be your brother looking after them.”
She paused for a moment, tense, worried she had said too much. He stared at her in shocked silence for a couple of seconds before finally snorting and looking away from her.
“My sister talks far too much.”
“My apologies, your grace. I simply thought that perhaps you needed someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t matter.”
Those blue eyes returned to her now, holding her captive in their stare. He straightened, losing some of his defeated slump.
“Please don’t call me ‘your grace,’” he said. “I hate it.”
“Wyndham, them?”
“Valentine is fine.”
“Very well… Valentine.”
“And you, Miss Lambert, should not say that you do not matter. For you matter very much.”
Heat rose in Rebecca’s cheeks, then spread down her neck. She inwardly cursed, for she knew her skin was turning red and she was thankful for the darkness that permeated the room, lit only by the fire’s glow.
“Rebecca, please,” she said. “And to you, I am simply my father’s secretary. You can share your thoughts with me without worry that they will go any farther or have any repercussions.”
He nodded before leaning his head back and looking up at the cherubs dancing across the ceiling.
“Through all of this,” she said after his continued silence, “are you all right?”
9
She was more than a pretty face.
There was depth to Rebecca Lambert’s soul. Why she cared about him, he had no idea. Indirectly, she worked for him, that was true. But she needn’t sit here and ask him questions, provide him an outlet to share, simply for what he would pay her father.
She asked him how he had fared through all of this. The truth was, no one had really asked him that. All had assumed that he had been so fortunate, to have gone from a man with nearly nothing to the Duke of Wyndham. Only Jemima had really understood, and even then, she had commiserated with him more than had any sympathy for him.
It had been a burden. One he didn’t want.
But he couldn’t tell Rebecca that. He was not only a man, but a duke now, and vulnerability led to weakness.
“I am fine,” he said, despite the disbelief that crossed her face at his words. Tendrils of her midnight black hair had escaped from their pins and now framed her face, the slightest bit of wave providing softness to her prominent cheekbones and pointed chin.
“Truly?” she asked softly, to which he nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “What man would not desire to become one of the most powerful men in England?”
“A man who enjoys other pursuits. A man who has no taste for additional responsibility,” she countered, and he leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows upon his knees as he looked up at her.
He lifted a hand and loosened his cravat, before wrenching it off of his neck entirely and placing it over the arm of his chair. “I hate those things,” he muttered, looking up, expecting her to be shocked. Instead, her brows were raised and her stare seemed to see through all his pretense, as though she had already known his sentiments. “They are just so starched and damned uncomfortable, as though they are choking a man,” he said in defense.
“You should try wearing stays,” she said dryly, and he couldn’t help himself.
He laughed. “You are refreshing, Rebecca, do you know that?” he said, interlocking his fingers and lifting them behind his head. “I have been around the ton for too long now. I had forgotten what it is like to speak to someone who understands.”
“Someone common.”
“Someone honest. Someone truthful.”
For a moment, he wondered if he saw a flash of guilt in her eyes, but in a second it was gone once more.
“I am no saint,” she murmured, and he shrugged a shoulder.
“I never said that,” he responded. “I certainly am not. Far from it, in fact. The truth is, Rebecca…” he took a breath, “…I am not equipped to take on this role. I have no knowledge of what it means to be a duke. I barely finished any schooling, let alone have the learnings of how to balance books or manage agriculture or understand Parliament. The only way I know how to solve disputes is with my fists.”
Finally, something seemed to unsettle her, for the corners of her mouth dipped at his declaration.
“Do you not enjoy violence, then, Rebecca?”
“I—” He could tell she wanted to attempt to lie to be polite, but she stopped herself. “Not particularly. You were a fighter, then?”
“You could say that.”
It was the truth. He had been a fighter in the past. He didn’t see the need to tell her that he still was.
She was silent for a moment, and his defenses rose slightly as he sensed that she might be judging him.
“Well, we all have our pasts,” she said pluckily before sobering somewhat. “That doesn’t mean that you cannot take on the role that has been entrusted to you.”
“I have neither the skill nor the knowledge,” he pointed out, but that didn’t seem to deter her.
She leaned forward in her seat, which meant their knees were but inches away from one another, and he was losing himself in the forest of her bronzed green eyes.
“People can accomplish great things without necessarily possessing the skill or knowledge required,” she said earnestly, and as much as he wanted to believe her, Val tilted his head at her doubtfully.
“I hardly think—”
“What matters is that you have the drive to succeed. That you have the will to do what it takes and that you do not doubt yourself.”