A Duke's Dilemma Read online

  The frown on Susan’s face grew even deeper. “M’lady, you want to wear one of my dresses so you can walk in the village without anyone recognizing you?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said, relieved that her maid understood.

  Susan shook her head, “M’lady, that has to be the stupidest idea I have ever heard. Ladies do not walk through a village unescorted. Not unless they hope to be accosted.”

  “Don’t be a snob,” Margaret said. “I am sure it is not that bad. Besides, if you don’t help me then I will talk to Molly and go by myself.”

  Her maid’s eyes shot open wide at the mention of the downstairs maid. The young girl who had been so solicitous on their arrival, obviously maneuvering to take her job. Margaret felt a small twinge of shame at being so manipulative. But needs must.

  Susan sighed heavily as her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Why do I feel that something bad is going to happen and change our entire life.”

  Margaret smiled, “We can only hope. Heaven knows, the current trajectory does not look promising.”

  Shaking her head, Susan left her to retrieve her dress. Margaret quickly began to disrobe. Her heart raced at the thought of getting away. Even if only for a short time. She would be able to pretend her life was her own.

  .o0o.

  The cool air and high blue sky put a bounce into Lady Margaret’s step. That and the fact that no one knew where she was. The world seemed different. It was amazing what a simple change of wardrobe could do. Twice people had passed them on their walk to the village, and while both times they had smiled slightly, neither had bowed or curtsied.

  The disguise worked.

  Was this what freedom felt like? she wondered. If so, it had a lot to say for itself. Of course, no sooner had that thought occurred to her than she remembered the toad Lord Evans and her father’s intentions.

  No, she swore to herself before slipping her arm into Susan’s and smiling at her.

  Her maid shook her head then rolled her eyes. Margaret could only grin. She could trust Susan. In reality, she was the closest friend she had.

  “Remember,” she said to her friend. “I am Meg, and you are Susan. We are maids to the countess and her daughter.”

  “But the Countess isn’t here,” Susan hissed. “She remained at home.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Don’t make it difficult. No one knows or cares about the Countess, I promise you.”

  Susan gave her a doubtful look then set her shoulders, obviously willing to go along with the ruse.

  Margaret took a deep breath, gave her friend’s arm a quick squeeze as they stepped off the dirt path and onto the cobblestones leading into the village.

  Quaint, she thought as she studied the thatched cottages on the outskirts of the village. As they moved deeper into the small town the buildings shifted over to red brick with slate roofs. Almost every building had flower boxes in full bloom. Reds and purples mixed with yellow and green.

  A beautiful spring day in an English village.

  It really was pretty she thought as the road twisted, leading to a stone bridge over a bubbling brook. Margaret's heart jumped when she saw an artist on the bridge, bent over his canvas on a tripod, focused on painting the mill only a little way up the river.

  A sense of rightness flashed through her until the artist stood up erect and stepped back to study the painting. Her heart skipped twice then slammed to a quick halt. A man that handsome and that big should not be a painter. Painters were small men with rummy eyes and slight shoulders.

  This made the universe feel out of kilter. As if everything she had ever assumed was wrong.

  A memory flashed into her mind. When she was a young girl, her aunt Vera had returned from a tour of the continent and was talking to her mother about Michelangelo’s statue ‘David.’ The way she had described it made her think of this man.

  It was as if he was descending to her world to bring it beauty. Blond hair, a chiseled chin, and shoulders wider than the bridge itself. Strong fingers gripped his brush as he stared at the mill. Obviously lost in thought.

  Dressed in rough woolen trousers and a threadbare coat, a collarless shirt, and old shoes. He could have stepped off any farm or factory in the area. Yet, the common clothes didn’t hide the pure maleness of the man.

  Susan shot her a quick look, wiggling her eyebrows. Margaret fought not to laugh. It seemed her friend was as impacted as herself. But then, the man was that handsome. How could she not be?

  What is he thinking about? His furrowed brow indicated that it was important. Was it the light, color, form, context? A dozen different problems.

  The two of them continued up onto the bridge. Margaret held her breath as they approached, terrified to find the painting a disaster. It would ruin the entire fantasy.

  However, when they got within range, she could quickly see the skill and talent. Both of them stood there, studying the man, the painting, and then the distant mill.

  He had captured it perfectly she realized. The light reflecting off the water to highlight the hidden corner. The ivy hanging from the tree and brushing the stream looked as if it were in motion. Her heart ached at the beauty.

  She was engrossed with the painting when the man seemed to return to reality and turned to find two young women staring at him.

  He smiled, and Margaret felt herself become lost. A kind smile that reached his eyes bluer than the summer sky. Their gaze locked and her world slammed to a halt. It was as if she had been hit by a thunderbolt of awareness. There was only this man.

  Almost reluctantly, he pulled his gaze away to dip his head, “Ladies.”

  Susan giggled, Margaret remained frozen, unable to understand the impact he was having on her. She was a British Lady. Raised to be in control of her emotions at all times. Her mother had drilled the importance of propriety into her every day of her life. Yet now, with this man, thoughts and images danced through her mind that no proper lady should ever entertain.

  Reluctantly, she pulled herself back to reality. Her cheeks flushed with warmth at the realization she had been staring at the man with open interest.

  “It is very good,” she said indicating the painting.

  He smiled slightly then shrugged. “I am having problems with the field stones along the bottom.”

  Margret squinted so that she could see where he pointed. “Yes, I can see what you mean, the color is pulling the eye to that part instead of seeing the entire painting as a whole.”

  His brow rose as if reevaluating the young woman before him.

  “I think it looks wonderful,” Susan said next to her.

  He smiled at her, then returned to studying Margaret. Once again. she became lost until a stiff breeze ruffled her hat, reminding her they were standing on a bridge talking to a strange man.

  “Are you well known? Should we have heard of you?” Margaret asked, desperate to find out his name. In fact, desperate to find out everything about him.

  A strange look passed behind his eyes. “No, not really.”

  Her heart fell. It would have been so much more dramatic to find out he was a famous painter. Someone she could introduce to her family and friends. But, a poor artist, No never.

  She lifted an eyebrow, silently asking him to introduce himself. It would be impolite for her to initiate the exchange of names. Or at least it would be in her world. Perhaps things were different with people like him.

  No, Susan hadn’t put herself forward.

  “Ian Temple,” he said with a slight bow. “And may I know who I am addressing?”

  He was educated at least, she realized. His speech, the words he chose to use told her that much.

  “I’m Susan Parkinson,” her maid said quickly then blushed and said, “This is …”

  “Meg Miller,” Margaret interjected before Susan could ruin everything. It was the first name to come to her, probably inspired by the painting before her. It seemed wrong to deceive this man, but it was even more important he not know her true i
dentity. It would change everything. They would be separated by class and standing. Unable to share a world.

  “Miss Parkinson, Miss Miller,” he said with that devastatingly handsome smile that focused on her like a sunbeam. “I never anticipated I would meet two such beauties this day. It might very well change my interpretation of what I should paint.”

  Margaret felt a thousand butterflies taking flight in her stomach. He was talking about her. She could see it in his eyes. Her cheeks grew warm as she quickly looked down, unable to hold his steady examination.

  “So, you don’t paint landscapes alone?” Margaret asked, desperate to come up with something that could maintain their conversation.

  He smiled gently, “I prefer to capture beauty, wherever I can find it. So, I will do portraits if I can find the right model of course.”

  Her heart jumped, the way he was looking at her let her know that he would consider her such a subject. She became enchanted as she stared up into his eyes.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Susan giving her a strange, concerned look. But Margaret could not pull her gaze away. She knew she was being unladylike, too forward, too blatant, her mother would be aghast, yet still, she felt drawn to the man.

  “Meg,” Susan said as she pulled at her arm. “We should be off.”

  Margaret sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her friend had remembered their ruse. The thought of this man learning the truth disturbed her on so many levels. He might stop talking to her. Concerned about their divided world. Or worse, value her only because of her father.

  Poor starving artists always needed a patron. Might he view her as a way to her father’s pockets? The thought sent a cold shiver through her. And how would she ever learn what he truly thought? No, being the daughter of an Earl would change everything. It was imperative that he see her for herself.

  “Why the mill?” she asked, ignoring Susan’s hint.

  His eyes lit up with happiness, obviously delighted to talk about his painting. He was so different than what she would have expected of an artist. Besides the obvious angelic appearance and his sheer size. There was something in his posture, his gaze, that spoke of a man well adjusted to his world. Didn’t the novels say that artists were brooding, filled with angst and worry?

  This man seemed to enjoy the world.

  “I don’t know,” he said in answer to her question. “Perhaps because I could not paint it.”

  What a perfect answer she thought as she once again studied the painting.

  “MEG,” Susan said, more forcibly this time.

  Margaret sighed heavily, Susan was right, they really should move on. It was unbecoming to be talking to a stranger like this. Even a maid needed to worry about her reputation.

  “Well, you are very talented, Sir,” she said to him, looking directly into his eyes to make sure he knew she meant it sincerely.

  “Good’ ay, Sir,” Susan said with a quick curtsey before she pulled Margaret away. When they reached the end of the bridge, Margaret turned to look over her shoulder only to be thrilled to see the tall artist looking at her. With a wide smile on his lips and an interested gleam in his eyes.

  Her heart fell as she realized what she was walking away from. An interesting man who would never fit into her world. A man her father would be ashamed of being associated with. A long, lonely, life lay before her she realized with a deep sadness.

  Chapter Three

  Ian watched the two young women turn the far corner and disappear. He sighed heavily then turned to examine his painting. But, thoughts of young Miss Duval refused to leave him alone. Something about her had captured his interest.

  Her innocence? The way her eyes danced with interest and intelligence? Or, was it that angelic face?

  That was the thing about the world not knowing he was a Duke. He was able to meet interesting people. There had been none of that instant separation. He, and more importantly, his painting, were judged for themselves. It was a nice feeling to know she enjoyed his work.

  In London, if he were to show his art, people would either turn up their nose, simply because it was such a frivolous pastime. Others would be lavish in their praise, not because they thought it was good, but in hope of garnering favor. No, here he was able to see the truth.

  Then it hit him. The fix he needed for the fieldstones. A touch of mustard yellow to dim the light. And with that, he was once again lost in his work.

  It was only when the light was waning that he relented and stepped back. As he cleaned his brushes, he smiled to himself. Miss Duval was a most distracting woman. Perhaps he should remain in the village for the entire time. He had briefly thought of moving on to Sheffield. But the prospect of perhaps running into her again held a surprising enticement.

  Heaven knew, the grocer would be thrilled to continue to rent the small room above his shop. With three windows it made for an excellent studio. Yes, he would be staying.

  Strange, he thought as he folded up his paint box. He knew a dozen beautiful women. Many of them intimately. Yet, he couldn’t imagine changing his plans for any of them. What was it about this woman? A mere girl.

  Was it the hazel eyes that held so much intelligence? It was as if she could say a dozen different things with a simple look. The blond hair tucked up and out of the way. Or, the heart-shaped face framed by her blue and white bonnet, a face that defined perfection. The high cheekbones? Or, the cream like complexion? And then there was the female form. Hips that mesmerized, a tight trim waist, and best of all, full breasts that strained her dress ever so slightly.

  He sighed again as he removed the canvas from his tripod, being careful not to smudge the wet paint. One of the many problems working with oils, it took forever to dry.

  Yes, the perfect form he thought as her image danced in his mind. Of course, it would be hard to capture the true beauty, but it would be such a rewarding challenge.

  .o0o.

  Margaret let out a long sigh of relief when she and Susan slipped into the house via the garden’s entry into the parlor.

  “We’ve got to get you upstairs, M’lady,” Susan hissed, reminding her that they were not yet home free.

  Margaret nodded as she followed Susan into the hall and then up into her room. Both of them on edge until they reached her room. Only then could she relax. They had made it. She had experienced a day of normality. At least normality as the rest of the world saw it.

  A sense of satisfaction mixed with excitement filled her, making her smile.

  Not for the first time she questioned her father’s demand that she remain cloistered at home. Oh, it wasn’t as bad as being locked up in a nunnery. Although, she believed her father might have contemplated converting to Catholicism just so he could ship her off to a convent.

  Instead, he had refused to send her to London for a season. The few gatherings she could attend were well-controlled parties. Almost always with people, her parents’ own age. No wonder she had never been able to find a husband.

  For some reason, an image of the tall painter jumped to the front of her mind. The way he stared down at her, his eyes capturing her, holding her, commanding the world around him. She thought of his painting and his amazing talent.

  Most of all, she remembered the way he had listened to her. As if her opinion had value. As if she could actually contribute.

  Then it hit her. Had that been her father’s plan all along? Had he been keeping her hidden to save her for his best friend? The thought sent a shudder through her. Well, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  “Dinner will be announced soon, M’lady,” Susan said as she opened up the amour and pulled out a gown, holding it up for her approval.

  Margaret sighed as she nodded her acceptance. As she removed her maid’s dress, she felt a flash of regret at having to return to her own world. It had been so fun being incognito.

  “Susan, leave your dress, I may wish to use it again.”

  “M’lady?” Susan gasped as her eyes grew very
big.

  “Don’t worry,” Margaret said, “I will replace it. In fact, let’s buy you three or four more. I have enough pin money. There is no need to go to my father for funds. And, you never know, this may very well become a recurring event.”

  The color drained from Susan’s cheeks. “Lady Margaret, you can’t be serious. Your Father …”

  Margaret sighed, “I’ve allowed my father too much say in my life. I believe it is time for a change.”

  Susan rolled her eyes as she shook her head. Margaret didn’t care. Her maid might very well be right. She might upset her father. She may very well come to regret this new aspect to Margaret Duval. He would fume and fuss, he could very well take away her freedom. Instruct the servants to watch her like a hawk. Stopping her from having any kind of life. But she knew she had to find something new. Something different.

  After she had finished dressing for dinner and Susan had left, Margaret looked down at the maid’s dress on the bed and smiled. A plan was coming together. Faint, hazy, but it was there.

  The next morning found Margaret with a racing heart as she slipped into the maid’s dress. The style was tighter in the waist than her normal style. More feminine she thought with a smile.

  Susan would be upset. But her friend would keep quiet. A quick note explaining that she would be gone for the day and Susan was to tell everyone that her mistress wasn’t feeling well and was to be left alone.

  Her father would believe she was pouting. Fine, let him, she planned to find out more about the real world.

  Escaping was easy, she waited until the servants were at their morning meal. Her father wouldn’t wake for hours. A quick look over the upstairs railing confirmed the hall was empty. Margaret flew down the stairs and out the door to the garden. From there, it was easy to slip around the side and onto the path to the village.

  The day was once again a spring wonderland. The birds sang, the high blue sky filled her with hope and the flowers waved in the morning breeze. As she hurried down the path her heart quickened and her feet begged to run.

  He won’t be there, she thought with sudden fear. It was too early. The light wouldn’t be right. Or he’d moved on to some other town. He’d captured what he wanted and no longer found their little village of interest.