The Unexpected Duchess (Playful Brides #1)(49)

Derek rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. He had nothing to do for the moment but get back to the business of courting Lady Cassandra. And he should be pleased by his progress on that score. Last night she’d told him she would entertain his courtship. Finally. This is what he’d been waiting for. Why didn’t it feel like a victory?





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


“Lucy, please, you must, for me.” Cass was lying propped up against a large group of pillows in the middle of her bed.

“No, no, no. I couldn’t. You know how the duke and I get along. Like oil and water. I think a housemaid would be much better to do it.”

Cass sneezed into her handkerchief. “But I cannot send a housemaid to tell the duke how sick I am. He’s certain to think I’m making it up to dodge him again. If you go, you’ll be ever so much more convincing.”

Lucy watched her poor friend. Cass’s eyes were red, and her nose was running. She clutched a handkerchief in her fist and had a score of sneezes on her lips. Cass was ill. That was obvious. And no wonder. The poor young woman had been under severe strain for days. Lucy would do anything she could to help her friend. Bring soup. Read stories. Check her fever. Keep her company. But she drew the line at traveling to Derek’s rented house on Uphill Drive and informing him that Cass would not be able to see him today because she was ill.

First of all, Lucy didn’t trust herself around Derek, and second—and perhaps more important—she feared Derek would doubt her. Given their history—passionate kisses notwithstanding—she was the very last person he would believe when told that Lady Cassandra didn’t want to see him. The whole notion was ludicrous actually.

“Write him a note,” Lucy pleaded. “You can be convincing.”

“I’m rubbish at writing letters,” Cass replied. “You’re ever so much more convincing than I am. You know that.”

“You’re not rubbish at writing letters, Cass. You’ve written to Julian every day for years.”

Cass waved the hand that held the handkerchief in the air. “That’s different, that’s Julian. I can say anything to Julian. The duke still intimidates me a bit.”

Lucy snorted. “I don’t see why.”

“Oh, Lucy, please do it. You’ve such a way with words,” Cass begged.

Lucy breathed deeply. “Such a way with outlandish words. When delivering a simple message, I’m no more adept than a housemaid would be.”

“Please, Lucy?” Cass batted her eyelashes at her.

“Cass, no. Can’t we ask Jane?”

Cass laughed, and it sent her into a coughing fit. When she recovered she said, “Jane would have her nose so far in a book, she’d bypass the duke’s house.”

“What about Garrett?” Lucy pleaded.

“That would just be strange. The duke knows you, Lucy. He likes you.”

Lucy gulped. “Are you daft? He most certainly does not like me, and he only knows me because I’ve been inserting myself into your affairs for far too long. It’s high time I remove myself from the entire situation. Besides, Lord Berkeley intends to pay me a call this afternoon.”

Cass gave her puppy-dog eyes. “That won’t be for hours yet. Please, Lucy? For me?”

In the end, Lucy should have known she was helpless to say no to Cass. First of all, if Lucy protested too vehemently Cass was certain to wonder why. And second, Lucy apparently couldn’t resist the urge to see Derek once more. But she hated being a messenger for Cass. And Derek would think she was lying, there was no question about it.

She tied her bonnet under her chin, pulled on her gloves, and set out with a footman down the street, around the corner, and four streets over to Derek’s rented house. She closed her eyes and said a prayer to the heavens. Perhaps he would not be home. That would be ever so convenient.

When they finally reached Derek’s address, the footman rapped on the door. Lucy squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, ready to explain her presence to an overly arrogant butler and leave as quickly as possible.

The door swung open.

“Lady Lucy Upton to see his grace, the Duke of Claringdon,” the footman pronounced.

“I have a message for His Grace,” she added. “I’m happy to leave it and—”

“Just a moment,” the butler intoned. She’d been correct. Overly arrogant. Just like his employer.

The butler ushered her into the foyer. The footman waited outside. Lucy glanced around. The house was decorated sparingly but tastefully.

With his head held high as if he were serving the king in the royal palace, the butler strode down the corridor. Lucy fidgeted, hoping he’d return as soon as possible and inform her that His Grace wasn’t accepting any callers today.

No such luck.

When the servant returned two minutes later, he offered to take Lucy’s pelisse, and then escorted her into a drawing room a few paces away. “His Grace shall be in momentarily,” he intoned.

Lucy tried to manage a smile. Oh, of course His Grace was going to torture her with his company. And since he knew it was her, he’d probably make her wait. In fact, the minute he’d heard she was at his door, he no doubt set about taking his time.

Lucy made her way around the room, touching the bits of art and figurines that lay on the tabletops. Who had Derek rented this house from? She wasn’t certain of the owners. But it was a grand home. Certainly fit for a duke. Would he purchase it? Live here? Would she return to this home in future years, the guest of the Duchess of Claringdon, her good friend Cass? The thought made her inexplicably melancholy.