“What is the matter with you?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “You are acting as though you’ve never made polite conversation in your life!”
“I cannot say I have ever been particularly skilled at it,” he said apologetically, but his mother was already shaking her head.
“You know what you must do, Valentine,” she said, stopping and turning so that she was standing in front of him. “You must find a wife who will be able to raise our esteem among the ton and provide us the funds to support our family until you can sort out this dukedom. I know you have it in you to do what needs to be done.”
Her face and voice softened.
“Your father would be proud of you were he alive, Valentine,” she said, cutting through deeply to what she knew would most affect him. “You are proving yourself to be an excellent duke. Just do this one thing, Valentine. It’s all I ask.”
Then she assumed the persona of the elegant titled woman once more and continued on, Valentine following in her wake with an ache in his gut that had nothing to do with his earlier brandy.
“The Duke of W— was finally seen last night at Almack’s, making the rounds in his search of a wife,” Rebecca read aloud. “Judging by his conversations and dances with Lady A—, Lady P—, and Lady R—, one can assume he is looking for a bride who will bring a fortune with her into the marriage.”
She threw the paper back down upon the table. “Disgusting. He is practically selling himself.”
“Which means we will be paid,” her father said with a grin as he finished his plate of eggs and toast. Rebecca pushed aside her own meal, no longer hungry.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” her father said, quite lucid this morning. “You’re always going on about how the most important thing is that we look after our finances.”
“Yes, but this seems wrong.”
“It’s what they do, Becca. You know that.”
Rebecca knew very well who he meant by they — the aristocracy. The very people who they relied on to continue their work.
“Anyway, I’d best take a look at the drawings this morning.”
“I spent most of yesterday on them,” Rebecca said. She and her father had developed a good working relationship. When he had moments of genius, he would add to her work or draw an idea that had been swirling in his mind. Their roles had gradually switched over the years. No longer was she the apprentice, learning from him. She now spent most of her free hours teaching herself the latest styles and modernizations. They visited every new building, taking careful stock of each new design and what was in high demand.
But Rebecca went a step further. The key to designing was to determine just how the space would be used, how the family would live in it. It was more than simply impressing the guests that came to the door.
Of course, no one could ever know that she was the primary architect, for if they did, she and her father would never work again.
They now entered their study, which looked nothing like the traditional study found in most homes.
Their two desks in the room looked like typical writing desks — until their work began. Then they would raise the top of each desk so that it was slanted on an angle, and the chair they sat on in front of it would rise and fall as they wished when they pulled a simple lever.
Rebecca led her father over to her own desk, and the two of them pored over the plans. Rebecca left her father to his musings while she took a seat at his desk and pulled out much more tedious yet required work — the ledger book.
The numbers were still written in red, causing a panicky flutter to fill her chest. If only her father hadn’t seen the need to distinguish himself with the latest London neighborhood. If only he had taken a much more cautious approach, building for clients and not on speculation. If only he hadn’t begun to lose his faculties during the project. If only she had seen the issues earlier and taken a greater role in it all.
If only, if only, if only.
It seemed to be all her life consisted of at the moment.
They had to sell these houses. They were sitting there, empty, taunting her. In fact, Rebecca refused to even walk by the redeveloped Mayfair street because they reminded her of what had caused their near-ruin.
She had to hope that the duke — or his mother — wouldn’t find about their recent failure. He was obviously looking to make a mark for himself in his world, and hiring a failing architect would do nothing to further that.
The duke. Valentine, his mother had continued to call him. An interesting name, and a fitting one. She was sure he had broken many hearts in his day.
Rebecca must ensure that her own heart would not be one of them. She had no time for romance, particularly one that was ill fated from the start. Too much was at stake. She couldn’t allow him in close as she held too many secrets close to her chest. It was not as though there was any lasting relationship available to them. Any thought that he would even consider such a thing was fanciful.
He was already out looking for a bride — as all of London now knew thanks to the gossip columns of the papers — and she was a charlatan commoner who did not have a title nor a fortune to tempt him with, but rather debt of her own.
There was only one thing to do.
Keep her distance and her head free of any thoughts of the fascinating promise of a handsome duke.
5
Two weeks.
It had been fourteen days since Valentine had last seen the woman who had captured his attention.
It was ridiculous that he couldn’t rid her from his thoughts. He had met dozens of other women throughout those days, at the many events that his mother had dragged them to night after night. The opera, the theatre, and numerous balls and parties. He couldn’t remember the last time he had an evening alone to breathe.
His traitorous sister had feigned illness the last few nights, though Valentine knew she had been busy in the ballroom she used as her laboratory.
But today was the day. The day when Albert Lambert would return with initial plans for Wyndham House.
Valentine could only hope that he would bring his daughter with him.
This time he would not be late for their meeting. In fact, he was already in the drawing room waiting with anticipation.
“I don’t believe we should be hosting an architect in the drawing room,” his mother opined when he strode into the room, but on this he overruled her.
“The man is one of the greatest architects throughout all of England. Evidence of his work will live forever, Mother. I will not relegate him to the parlor.”
“Oh, very well,” she said with a huff.
“Mr. Lambert and Miss Lambert,” Dexter announced, and Val shot to his feet. So she had come.
Valentine sought out her gaze but she averted it, instead greeting his mother and then taking a seat on one of the two sofas in the room.
“Well,” she said. “My father is pleased to show you his ideas for your home.” Finally, she looked up at him, but there was nothing upon her face but professional courtesy.
Why her father didn’t speak for himself, Val wasn’t sure, but he assumed it was one of his eccentricities or egoisms.
Rebecca unrolled the large scrolls on the table, moving around it as she did so. Her light blue skirts brushed against him when she walked by, and just that slight whisper of muslin over his pant leg stirred something deep within him.