Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle Page A

“Few prospects, eh?” he muttered.
    “Oh, do not feel sorry for me, Your Grace,” she said coolly. “I was everything the late duke wished for in a bride.”
    Gareth cleared his throat and pressed on. “As the dowager duchess, ma’am, you should have the right to remain in your home,” he said. “No one expects you to leave it. My visits here will be as infrequent as possible, so we shall hardly be under one another’s feet.”
    Something like relief seemed to pass over her, and Gareth saw her shoulders relax just a fraction. “Thank you,” she said throatily. “I…I do thank you, Your Grace. But I am not perfectly sure—”
    “That you wish to remain here?” he supplied. “Yes, the place is a dreadful old mausoleum, despite its grandeur. What of your family? Your father, perhaps?”
    “No,” she said swiftly. “He…he is traveling at present.”
    Something in her words warned him not to press that point. “Have you any children, ma’am?” he asked instead. “A daughter, perhaps?”
    Her gaze shot toward him, and for an instant he saw something raw and poignant in her eyes. “No, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “I have no children.”
    Good God, was there no safe topic with this woman? “What does Cavendish think you should do?”
    She clasped her hands in her lap. “He feels I should retire to Knollwood Manor—that is the dower house—and live a quiet life away from the prying eyes of society. He believes that would be…best for me, under the circumstances.”
    The dower house? Inwardly, Gareth cringed. But outwardly, he remained expressionless. “You are far too young, I think, to live such a quiet life unless you wish it,” he said. “Pardon my ignorance, but haven’t we a house in town?”
    She nodded. “In Bruton Street, but it has been let.”
    “Then I shall un-let it,” he answered.
    “You are very kind,” she said again. “But no, I cannot return to London. And I am not sure that sort of life would suit me. I am just…not sure.”
    But he was sure. She was young and breathtakingly beautiful. She had the whole of her life before her. Though she had not been left a great deal of income, surely she could marry well on her looks alone, once the rumors about Warneham’s death died down? Unless there was something she was not telling him.
    Perhaps she had a scandalous past? He looked at her and considered it. No. More likely she was damaged goods—damaged in some way which was not readily apparent. And would those rumors ever really die down? Warneham had been dead nearly a year. Perhaps they would not. Society was quick to talk and slow to forgive. Ah, well. They all had their crosses to bear, hadn’t they? Her past was none of his concern. And his was none of hers.
    Swiftly, he shuffled through the papers to see if there was any information about the lease on the house in Bruton Street, but there was nothing. He looked up at her. “Well, we need not decide in haste, ma’am,” he said. “You are welcome to remain at Selsdon Court as long as you wish. But if indeed you prefer Knollwood…well, I suppose we may consider it.”
    She dropped her gaze to the carpet. “It is in a dreadful state, I’m told,” she replied. “Cavendish says it will take a vast deal of money to set it to rights. It was abandoned, I collect, some years past.”
    He felt his jaw harden. “Indeed it was,” he said. “I lived there, you see, as a boy. And even then, it was a run-down, rotting mess.”
    Her head jerked up. “I…I did not know,” she stammered. “It was said, of course, you once lived here—”
    “I never lived here,” he interjected. “I have never lived in this house.”
    “Oh.” She looked away. “I have never been inside. Knollwood, I mean.”
    “There is nothing to see,” he said sharply. “Indeed, it must be perfectly uninhabitable now. Twenty years ago, the roof leaked and the floors were rotting. There is no plumbing whatsoever, and the cellar is so damp