He's a Duke, But I Love Him Page 9

  “It must simply be newly wedded bliss,” she said with a dainty sip. “And how was your evening last night?”

  “Fine,” he said without any elaboration. He did not want to speak to her of last night. It had ended early, much earlier than usual as he could not rid himself of the guilt that nagged at him, nor keep her compelling face from his mind, and he had returned home after a couple of card games. Losing card games.

  “Did you go out?”

  “Olivia, I thought we had decided —”

  “Decided that we would not interfere with one’s lives, yes, that is true,” she interrupted him. “However, that does not mean we cannot show interest in one another’s activities does it?”

  “I am not sure that I feel … comfortable discussing such things with you.”

  “Such things as what? Gaming hells and brothels?” she asked without pause.

  “Olivia…” he said with a look around him at the servants. The footman, Andrew, seemed to be attempting to hide a smile at his wife’s forwardness while his butler frowned with disapproval. “We shall speak of this when we are alone.” He lowered his voice. “And I was not at a brothel.”

  “Fine,” she said with a shrug, seeming not care, “whatever you say.”

  He cleared his throat as he drummed his knuckles on the table. What game was she playing? It was certainly not like her to be so agreeable. “And I trust you slept well?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she responded. “Though it always takes some time to become used to a new bed. Why, I was tossing and turning for hours. Not that I mean to complain, Alastair, for you have very fine sheets, and the mattress —”

  “That’s very well,” he cut her off, gritting his teeth. While a barmaid could not interest him last night, her talk of rolling around on his sheets was causing quite the stir within him. She didn’t know what she was doing to him with her words — or did she? Alastair took a closer look at her. Were her lips curled slightly in a smug smile, or was he simply imagining it? He knew she was an innocent, but there was something about the little minx…

  “What are you reading?” she interjected into his thoughts.

  “Reading? Oh, this,” he said, trying to concentrate on her words as he looked down at the paper in front of him. “The Financial Register. There’s a new columnist, this P.J. Scott. The man’s brilliant. All the gentlemen are talking of him. Anyone who has taken his advice has seen astonishing results. We know not who he is or where he comes from. Perhaps it’s an assumed name, as I imagine that should his identity be discovered he would be barraged with more requests than he could possibly handle.”

  “How very interesting,” she said, turning the paper to take a closer look herself. “Have you followed any of his advice?”

  “Last year I invested some funds, as he had suggested it was advisable to do so early in one’s life. This was before my father passed, and since then I have yet to do anything further,” said Alastair with a bit of a sigh as he thought of the state of his finances, and she looked up at him expectantly.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with,” he said, masking his face in a smile. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall be in my study with the steward.”

  As he exited the room, he passed his sister Anne, who seemed positively delighted to find Olivia awake and at the table. If nothing else, he thought, it was good to have Olivia here as part of Anne’s life. Perhaps with each other for company, they both would stay preoccupied and out of any trouble.

  He met his steward as pre-arranged in the oppressive study. The dark room was steeped in family history, with paintings and statues that went back decades. It was a constant reminder of the man, who had so strictly dominated them all and yet, in the end, had lacked control over his own state of affairs.

  Alastair opened the ledgers and sighed. The facade that his father had created had hidden so much. The former Duke of Breckenridge had been in debt for quite some time and had never deemed to tell him of it. It appeared now that his father had fallen to gambling in his later years, losing a great deal of his fortune. Alastair would never have the opportunity to ask his father what had happened to push him to the tables or the track, but perhaps he had finally grown tired of all his attempts to domineer so much of life that a piece within him had broken. His father must have been careful to avoid Alastair when he was out gambling. Alastair knew his father had visited the odd gentlemen's club, but he had never known the extent to which he spent — and lost. His penchant for the horse track was well known, but it seemed he was rather unlucky when it came to placing his bets.

  Now, Alastair was unsure of how they would recover. He had considered a few investments but was concerned he would risk losing even more.

  His butler scratched at the door, and Alastair bid him to enter. He set down a tray of brandy on the sideboard before addressing Alastair.

  “Your Grace, the steward has been detained,” he said. “He shall be along when he has dealt with a matter concerning one of the tenants of Kilpenny.”

  Alastair nodded, wondering how long it would be until he had a reprieve from the responsibilities hanging over his head. Kilpenny was his country home, and he had been remiss in his attentions to the land he owned there.

  As the butler retreated from the room, a blonde head poked around the corner.

  “Alastair, I was headed to the library when I overhead Jones. I was wondering if I might come in for a moment?” his wife asked.

  Alastair nodded and motioned for her to enter and take a seat in one of the leather wingback chairs in front of the desk he still referred to in his mind as his father’s and not his own. He must take a look at redecorating this room, he thought to himself as the scent of jasmine flooded his nostrils as she walked toward the desk.

  She gracefully took a seat on the chair that engulfed her and looked up at him with wide blue eyes.

  “You seem rather not yourself since we have been married,” she began, causing him to frown immediately. What did she know of who his usual self was? “You were always so charming, so talkative, so … happy, and in the past few days you seem uncharacteristically much less so.”

  He steepled his fingers together and brought them to his chin, inwardly sighing.

  “Previously I did not have a wife to answer to, in case you have forgotten.”

  “I have not,” she said with a bow of her head. “I have considered that it could all be due to my presence, but I believe there is something else causing you melancholy.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the arms as his gaze wandered over her — the ample bosom he longed to touch again, her delectable curves under her simple lavender muslin morning dress, and her face, open and eager. He sighed. He might as well tell her. After all, she deserved to know what he had planned for her generous dowry, and also what may be awaiting her in the future.

  “I am not sure how else to say this but to come directly to the point,” he said. “When my father passed, he left my family in significant debt. It seems that he gambled away our entire fortune and more, much on horse racing. Currently many of the gambling establishments in the city are owed money due to his losses. I am trying to determine the best course of action. I am selling a couple of our smaller, less profitable estates, and am determining how much can be fetched on auction by some of the pieces around the house. It will not, however, be enough.”

  To her credit, she did not react. In fact, she barely blinked as she listened to his words, but maintained her composure and stared at him.

  “Did my dowry help at all?”

  “I have not touched your dowry,” he responded. “I will use that only when it comes to matters of keeping you fed, clothed, and entertained. Basically it is yours to live off of, should I not be able to recover our finances.”

  “That is generous of you, but not entirely necessary,” she said, lowering her eyes before standing and beginning to pace the room. “What of investments?�
� she asked, surprising him.

  “I may take some of this Scott’s advice and invest what little I have.”

  “That would likely be wise,” she said, biting the fingernail of her thumb as she paced the room, deep in thought. “Put half into something risky that could allow you to see a good return in little time, and the other half in something more stable but that will grow exponentially.”

  What in the … she must have read the column, he thought. But why? He couldn’t understand her interest in the subject.

  “I appreciate the advice,” he said with a droll smile. “I believe I have it handled, however.”

  She stopped her pacing and looked at him.

  “You do not wish for the advice of a woman, is that it?” Her mouth formed a thin line as she crossed her arms, and he was taken aback by how his flippant words had seemingly affected her.

  “Not a woman,” he said, “but I would prefer the advice of someone with experience in such matters.”

  “I learned from my father,” she said.

  “I understand, love, but you have never actually invested, have you?” he asked, looking up at her, trying to explain himself without angering her.

  “I have not,” she said, though her ire was clearly raised. “If I am so inexperienced, however, then in terms of the investments, perhaps you should contact this Scott person directly,” she added, coming to lean over his desk to take a look at the accounts spread out before him.

  “That, my dear, is actually quite a splendid idea,” he responded, a bit of a grin returning to his countenance as he attempted to remain unaffected by her nearness. “I shall do so immediately.”

  “And as for the debts to the London establishments…” her eyes gleamed. “I have an idea.”

  Somehow, he had a feeling that her ideas always led to some sort of trouble, and he was not going to like what next came out of her mouth.

  “I will come with you, and win back the money!” she said with some glee. “Oh, what fun it will be. You have seen my skill at whist. If I am able to continue to play the game, I know I shall win, although I believe with practice I could improve in some of the other games as well. It may take some months, but we should be able to clear the debts in due time.”

  He let her finish, but began shaking his head at her last words. “Olivia, I cannot very well take you into a gaming hell or even back to one of the gambling parties. You are my wife now — a duchess. Never mind the fact that half of the establishments I now owe money to are gentlemen's clubs!”

  Her face fell, but her brow quickly furrowed, which he now realized meant she was deep in thought.

  “Perhaps, then,” she said coyly, sliding a finger along his desktop. “I should go not as myself.”

  He swallowed at the lushness of her creamy décolletage, overtop the fabric of her dress, that stared him in the face as she leaned over the desk, and he refused to allow her to distract him, though he was not sure whether or not she was purposefully trying to.

  “Please do not tell me you are suggesting wearing that awful wig again,” he said, shaking his head. “Never mind that, however. These are gentlemen’s clubs we are discussing. There is no need for you to be at any sort of gambling establishment. I appreciate your concern, Olivia, but I have it handled. I felt you should know what we are facing, but please do not become overly concerned about it.”

  “You will find, darling, that I am not the swooning or worrying type,” she said. “Rather, I prefer to determine how best to solve a dilemma.”

  “Olivia, leave this alone,” he said, raising one eyebrow as if to ensure her acquiescence.

  “Very well,” she said, the serene smile that so concerned him reappearing on her face. “I trust that you, husband, shall make the best decisions for our future.”

  And with that she turned and exited the room, leaving him staring after her in bemusement.

  14

  Olivia did trust that he would make the best decisions — as well as he could. For what most of society failed to realize was that leaving all of the decisions to men was, in fact, not a wise choice in itself. For it was women who saw how various outcomes affected not only the man, but his wife and family. Or so she believed. She knew she was in the minority, but her opinion would not change. She considered all of this as well as her marriage while she continued down the hallway to the library, the muslin of her skirts rustling with her quick steps.

  She was aware she must keep such thoughts to herself. For truly finding your power required more than force, but cunning.

  Alastair, however, was slightly different than the typical man. He seemed to somehow see through her smiles and exterior facade. Not that he knew what her plans and opinions were, but rather, that he knew when something wasn’t quite right. She could see it in the calculating expression on his face when she glibly responded to something he had said, or the furrow in his brow if she too readily agreed with him. She would have to be careful.

  Olivia was pleased with the contents of Alastair’s library. It was modest, but the shelves were filled with a fairly wide variety of subjects. He also had subscriptions to many of the journals and newspapers she enjoyed reading, which gladdened her. She had previously read her father’s copies, and she had been wondering how to continue to access her daily reading materials.

  She picked up copies she had yet to read due to the excitement of the scandal, her wedding, and her move. She made her way over to the chaise lounge, and stretched out across the velvet surface, swinging her legs over the edge.

  She tried to concentrate, however her mind kept returning to Alastair’s predicament. If only she could help him. She knew she could assist him in making some wise investments; she only wished he would trust her. Perhaps, however, if he did write P.J. Scott, she could write back and he might listen to the advice. It was silly, really, the effort to go through to counsel a person living in the same home, but she would do what she must.

  As for the debts owed at the gaming establishments, well … she had plans for that as well.

  A smile returned to her face as she thought of what she intended to do. If Alastair wanted to keep from discussing his life with her, that was just fine. However, so too would she.

  Olivia gathered her latest column and, accompanied by her maid and a footman, set out for The Financial Register office on Bond Street. She gave the carriage driver the address for a modiste, conveniently located next door to her intended destination. When she arrived, she told Molly to wait for her in the carriage. The girl protested but Olivia insisted, and she could see the girl’s pale face watching her closely through the carriage window as she stepped out and into the brick building.

  She smiled at the owner of the dress shop, with whom she had an understanding, before passing through the swirls of white, pastel, and vibrant fabrics into the back corridor of the office, finally emerging outside. She nipped through the alley, knocking on the backdoor of the journal’s offices.

  “Come in, come in!” Mr. Ungar said with a friendly wave of his hand. He was used to her entrance through the back. She told him her employer was overly cautious about protecting his identity and wanted no one to see her. “I do hope you have another column ready for me, Miss. Your employer’s writings are proving to be quite in demand!”

  “I am so happy to hear that, Mr. Ungar. Mr. Scott will certainly be pleased. Did he happen to receive any requests from readers this week?” she asked. Often readers wrote in asking Mr. Scott for advice. She enjoyed addressing particular questions in her columns, as she felt if one person had a particular query, perhaps others did as well.

  She could not risk anyone discovering her true identity and she had learned from the incident with her mother that she certainly could not accept envelopes delivered to her home, should it be her family home or her new one with Alastair. Therefore the secretary role allowed her to correspond as she pleased without any questions asked.

  “I have received requests for Mr. Scott, my dear,” the small, rotund
balding man replied. “One moment.”

  He returned shortly with a box of correspondence and shook out the top two papers before handing them to her.

  “Here you are,” he said. “Nothing particularly interesting. Basically, where do I invest, how do I plan for the future, how do I regain a lost fortune, and so on.”

  She took the papers, thanked him, and scurried out to the back alley, eager to determine if Alastair had written, already planning her response.

  Dear Mr. Scott, the letter began, and Olivia felt a twinge of an emotion akin to jealousy run through her, although how she was envious of a person who did not truly exist, she wasn’t sure. She simply wished her husband would confide in her instead. The letter was not signed, but she had seen enough of Alastair’s handwriting to recognize the scrawl.

  I have recently inherited a significant amount of debt. I wish to make investments that would allow me to return my estate to financial esteem, while not risk putting myself in further deficit. I would be interested to know your opinion on wise investments for a man in my circumstances.

  His question was vague — one that any person with some money to invest would be inclined to ask. She wouldn’t normally respond to such a question, but this case was quite obviously different. Olivia had poured over the stocks and selected what she felt were the wisest choices for investments based on their former profit and their future potential. As he wanted to avoid risk, they were potentially profitable, and yet even the riskiest she had selected were fairly safe in her estimation. She wasn’t yet sure what amount to recommend that he invest, as she needed to learn more of his actual accounts.

  She folded up the letter, determined to respond on the morrow.

  That night as she tried to sleep, she tossed and turned, questioning herself and her advice, as well as the fact she was making it public. She had never before written of actual companies, but had spoken in more generic terms. It kept her awake, as she tried to pry her mind off of the intricacies of what he asked of her, and into the dream world that awaited. It proved a difficult task, however, and Olivia decided to make her way back to the library to write, hoping that by putting her thoughts down on paper immediately instead of waiting until morning, she might be able to go back to sleep.