“Exactly,” Rebecca murmured, taking a sip of her tea as she realized she had revealed far more than she had ever meant to.
“In what capacity do you assist him?” Freddie asked, sipping her tea herself, though her eyes were shrewd as she watched Rebecca carefully while she answered the question.
“I, ah, I’m his secretary,” Rebecca said, setting down her teacup.
“Well, even in such work, you must come to understand all that he does,” Freddie said with a smile, though Rebecca could read the glint in her brown eyes, telling her that Freddie was just as aware as Jemima that Rebecca was likely far more than a secretary. It seemed a woman who worked unconventionally herself could see beyond what most others did to find a similar soul. Somehow, however, Rebecca sensed that Freddie would keep her secret, and she gave her the slightest nod of thanks.
“I’d best be going,” Rebecca said, hoping her father had remembered why he was here — to meet with the master builder. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Keswick.”
“Celeste.”
“And to see you again, Jemima, Freddie.”
They murmured their farewells, and Rebecca exited with some regret. How she wished she could stay and share all with them, to have others she could confide in — others who understood her longing to do what made her happy and to be recognized for it.
The thought wouldn’t leave her as she sat down next to her father in the parlor, where he and the master-builder were discussing good times from the past. Thank goodness, Rebecca thought with relief, for that was one subject her father was still well-versed in. She looked over the plans now in front of them — plans that she had painstakingly drawn with her own hand.
Those were her balusters lining the staircase, so intricate in detail that one could see the floral design on each one. That was her clever integration of Jemima’s laboratory in the conservatory, which would be constructed so that it was easily hidden when necessary, great chemistry lurking behind the citrus plants and bougainvillea.
But it would all be attributed to her father.
And then, just when she thought her despair couldn’t pitch to any lower depths, Valentine walked into the room. Their eyes caught, held, so many words between them unsaid and yet understood. They had been separated for long enough that Rebecca had nearly convinced herself that she didn’t need him any longer — nearly. For the truth was as obvious as the broken nose on his face. She yearned to throw herself in his arms, despite the presence of any others in the room, and tell him how much she had missed him, how she longed to be with him once more.
Instead, she simply smiled demurely and greeted him with, “Your grace.”
He nodded at her, though he broke convention and bowed before her, taking her hand in his and murmuring, “Miss Lambert,” as he brought her hand up to his lips for a quick kiss.
Even Rebecca’s father noticed the motion, and he was typically oblivious to anything and everything around him that did not pertain to houses, estates, or public buildings.
Conversation halted for a moment until Valentine began to speak. He may not have been a duke for long, but he was still a duke, and these men knew enough to understand that when a man who was not only a duke but an employer directed them, they must continue with what they were paid to do — despite Rebecca’s father’s pride, which continued to blockade them.
“It is good to see you again, Mr. Lambert,” Valentine said. “And you must be Mr. Burton. You come with the highest of recommendations.”
“Thank you, your grace,” the builder said. “I do hope I live up to them.”
“You’d best,” Valentine said, with the unspoken promise that if he didn’t, he would find another.
Trust was not easily won with Valentine.
“Mr. Lambert!” Mrs. St. Vincent sailed into the room, her cloying perfume announcing her presence before she entered. “I am so glad you are here. And you must be the builder. There is much urgency.”
“Oh?” Rebecca couldn’t help but ask.
“I see you are also here once more, Miss Lambert,” Valentine’s mother said, and Rebecca didn’t miss the disdain in her voice. Interesting. It had never been there before, in all the time they had spent together. “But yes. You see, we will be hosting a ball in a month’s time.”
“That is far too soon!” Rebecca protested, but that only earned her one of Mrs. St. Vincent’s expressions of ire.
“It doesn’t all have to be completed. Just enough of the ballroom that it is impressive enough for visitors. It is nearly there already. Isn’t that right, Valentine?”
He said nothing but looked extremely uncomfortable.
“The ball is most important,” she continued. “Valentine has yet to find a bride, and it is becoming rather imperative he does so.”
Rebecca’s stomach twisted in a knot.
“Is it possible?”
Rebecca’s father and Mr. Burton shared a look, and Mr. Burton nodded.
“Not all the fine detail and the painting, of course,” he said. “But as we are simply completing it and not starting from the beginning, then I’m sure it is possible for us to have it finished enough for you to host your ball.”
“Very good,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, clapping her hands.
Valentine looked as though he wanted to punch someone.
Rebecca only wished she could do the same.
20
Valentine had excused himself as quickly as was possible and then had decided to lie in wait.
He wasn’t very good at waiting. He had situated himself in the as yet unfinished but comfortably furnished drawing room, recently vacated by his sister and her friends. He was glad that Jemima had gotten on well with Lady Fredericka — at least one of them had developed a relationship with her.
Finally — finally — he saw a flash of green fabric, and he sprinted out the door with all of the speed required of a pugilist.
“Rebecca!”
She swirled around so fast that a couple of pins fell out of her hair and pieces of her midnight tresses cascaded around her shoulders.
She was alone. Thank God.
They paused in the hall for a moment, staring at one another from across the corridor.
Then, without breaking the connection held between their shared gazes, they began to move toward one another — slowly at first, but their footsteps soon quickened, and before Valentine knew it, she had launched herself into his arms, or maybe he had scooped her up and thrown her in the air, he wasn’t entirely sure.
All he knew that when their lips met, it was as though all that he had been worried about over the past couple of weeks without her simply disappeared.
He had no idea how long they stood there in the corridor with their arms entwined around one another, but voices from down the hall soon had him stepping back into the drawing room, though he didn’t let her go.
Finally, he set her down and they just stood there, her cool hands upon his face, stroking, exploring.
Until they stopped.
“You fought again.”
“I—” The lie began to form, but he couldn’t keep the truth from her. She was too important for that.
“I did,” he admitted. “But not to worry. I won this time.”