Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle Page B

the downstairs reeked of mildew.”
    At that, the duchess wrinkled her nose and made a face. It made her look perfectly girlish—and it made him want, inexplicably, to laugh. Not at her, but with her. For an instant, he forgot about the cold and miserable nights he had spent in that grim old house—and the nights which had come after.
    “It actually looks quite lovely from the outside,” she said apologetically. “Like a little fairy castle, I sometimes think.”
    “It’s the turrets, I suppose.” He forced himself to smile. “They appear rather romantic from the exterior. And if you really wish to live there—and never mind what Cavendish wants—then the necessary repairs can be made. Assets must be maintained, and I’ve no doubt the estate can afford it.”
    “Indeed, you are one of England’s wealthiest men now, Your Grace.” Suddenly, she paled. “Not to suggest, of course, that you weren’t before. I cannot presume to know your circumstances—”
    She had succumbed to blushes. “Just what did that old prune Cavendish think he was getting when he ran me down?” Gareth muttered. “Some back-alley blackleg? A cutpurse? A grave robber, perhaps?”
    The blush deepened. “A stevedore, I believe he said,” she answered. “Or a dockhand? Are they the same?”
    “More or less.” Gareth smiled. “I’m almost sorry now that I wasn’t one. I’d have had a devilish good time watching him mince about the docks with a handkerchief clamped to his nose.”
    For an instant, she looked as if she might laugh. He found himself waiting for the sound with an inexplicable eagerness, but she kept silent.
    He laid the file aside and set his hands on his thighs as if to rise. “Well, we can do no more at present, I think,” he said musingly. “What time is dinner served these days?”
    “Half past six.” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “And it is Monday, Your Grace.”
    “Monday?”
    “Sir Percy and Lady Ingham usually dine at Selsdon on Monday, along with Dr. Osborne,” she answered. “And usually the rector and his wife. But they are on holiday in Brighton. Do you mind terribly?”
    “I mind it a great deal indeed,” he returned. “I should much prefer to be on holiday in Brighton myself.”
    The duchess gave another serene smile. “I meant Dr. Osborne,” she clarified. “He is our village doctor in Lower Addington. And Sir Percy and his wife are quite nice people. They have all—well, stood by me, I suppose, during this terrible time.”
    “Then I shall look forward to meeting them,” he said, rising. And it would have the added benefit, he inwardly considered, of helping him avoid another hour alone in her company. With a deliberately distant smile, Gareth offered his hand and helped the duchess rise from her chair.
    At the door, however, she hesitated and turned to face him. Her expression was once again bleak.
    “Your Grace?”
    “Yes?”
    “I realize this is your first afternoon at Selsdon.” Her eyes were focused somewhere beyond his shoulder. “It is but a matter of time, however, before you…well, before you hear the rumors.”
    “Rumors?” He smiled a little bitterly. “I should think Selsdon is rife with those. To which do you refer?”
    She returned her gaze to his, her eyes bleak. “There are some who believe my husband’s death was not an accident,” said the duchess quietly. “It has been whispered that perhaps—well, that perhaps I was unhappy in my marriage.”
    The words, spoken so emotionlessly from her own lips, sent a chill down his spine which Xanthia’s rumor had not. “Are you saying that you have been openly accused?”
    She gave a muted half smile. “Accused? No. That would be too complicated. It is far easier to simply blight my reputation with whispers and innuendo.”
    Gareth held her gaze steadily. “And did you kill him?”
    “No, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I did not. But the damage is done.”
    “I learnt long ago what an ugly, destructive