How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 30

  The tension between his shoulders eased somewhat. He had barely entered and already it was everything he’d expected of Mrs. Walker’s home. This dinner was his best idea yet.

  “Welcome, me lord,” the butler said through a heavy brogue. “A wee bit early, ain’t ya?”

  Duke blinked at the man’s greeting, not sure if he was more surprised by the incorrect address or the rudeness. So, not everything was as expected. “Just sir will do. And I hope my early arrival does not pose a problem.”

  “Well, come on then. Lemme take your things and such forth.”

  “Mr. Havermeyer.” Mrs. Walker appeared as he was shrugging out of his coat, her face flushed and a polite smile firmly in place. Then those startling eyes met his and he almost forgot to breathe. Her red-and-gold gown was clearly a nod to the season, and even Saint Nicholas himself would have glanced twice at that plunging neckline. A healthy expanse of bosom was displayed above the lace edge of her dress, her skin absolutely flawless.

  Mr. Walker was one lucky man.

  Duke forced his gaze firmly on her face. Married women were off-limits. Even fetching ones.

  He bowed. “Mrs. Walker.”

  She smoothed a few stray hairs back into place. “Good evening. Won’t you follow me to the salon?”

  Duke offered his arm and she led him toward the right. On the way, Mrs. Walker leaned around his back, and he caught her mouthing something to the butler. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make out the words. “Everything all right? I apologize for my early arrival, but I wanted to ensure you had what you needed.”

  “Never fear, all is ready. Your budget was more than generous. I couldn’t possibly have spent all that money.”

  He nodded, recalling her impressive column on the benefits of frugal living. “I did not wish to stifle your creativity in any way, especially when the tight timetable was at my insistence.”

  “True enough, which was why I didn’t hesitate in spending what I did.” She nodded at the footman as they entered the drawing room. “We’ll start the champagne now, Peter.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Duke followed her deeper into the elegant room. Delicate French furniture, thick Persian rugs, and brass lamps abounded. The wallpaper, though clean, appeared a little faded—not that he judged her. He would never presume to know more about wall coverings than the Mrs. Walker.

  “Your butler seems a colorful character,” he said.

  “He is, indeed. Been with the family for years and a bit set in his ways, I’m afraid.”

  A young brown-haired man dressed in a black evening suit walked stiffly into the room, his attention entirely on Mrs. Walker. Was this her husband? Duke hadn’t spent any time pondering the type of man she’d married, but Mr. Walker’s bookish appearance and reserved manner was somewhat unexpected. This was no gregarious charmer or boisterous industrialist. This was a scholar more tempted by lectures and experiments than dinner parties.

  He wondered if theirs was a happy marriage.

  Shaking off that inappropriate thought, he stuck out his hand. “Mr. Walker, I presume? I am Duke Havermeyer.”

  Mr. Walker pumped Duke’s hand once. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Havermeyer. Welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you, and I must express my gratitude for hosting us on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem. Our staff is adept at these sorts of things.”

  Exactly what Duke had assumed, considering Mrs. Walker’s columns.

  “Your home is lovely,” he said to them both, realizing he hadn’t properly complimented their efforts when he arrived. “Exactly what I expected.”

  The couple exchanged a quick look. “Thank you,” Mr. Walker said. “We moved in recently, so we are still settling.”

  “Mr. Walker,” she said, “perhaps you would check with Cook to see how dinner’s progressing.” She then took Duke’s elbow and turned him toward the well-lit tree near the window. “Mr. Havermeyer, have you seen our tree?”

  The ten-foot tree was spectacular. He’d never seen one quite like it. Strategically placed amongst the boughs, ribbons, and ornaments were electric lights, a relatively new trend amongst wealthy New Yorkers. Stood to reason Mrs. Walker would insist on the latest innovation for her tree. “It is breathtaking. I cannot recall ever seeing a more festive tree.”

  “Thank you. I am proud of it. Is your tree similar?”

  “Oh, I don’t bother with a tree.”

  Her head tilted as she studied him. “A tree is hardly a bother. Besides, I assumed you would have a team of decorators outfit your home for the holidays.”

  “I’m afraid not. Perhaps when I have a family one day.” An event he could not begin to picture in his mind. He knew nothing of small children and even less about being a decent husband and father. His own father had certainly set a poor example.

  Besides, short liaisons were best, with women who wanted nothing more than a quick tumble. Who would never complain when he put his business needs above his personal ones.

  “Incidentally, what does Mr. Walker do?”

  She waved her hand, gaze sliding away. “He is in silver.”

  “Ah, yes.” Walker had probably struck it rich somewhere out in Dakota and traveled east. “We should swap stories, then. My great-grandfather mined for copper out in Montana.”

  “I’d heard that. Good, here is the champagne.” She nearly lunged for the footman carrying a tray of champagne. Had Duke made her uncomfortable somehow?

  He’d try harder to put her at ease. Just tonight, he needed her relaxed and friendly enough to impress the HPC board.

  That reminded him. Reaching into an inner pocket, he withdrew a faded piece of paper. “Before I forget, I have another favor to ask of you.”

  She frowned, her expression suddenly wary. He forged ahead anyway. Undoubtedly, she wouldn’t like the request, but he was the boss, after all. “I thought it might be fun for the board members to see you at work in the kitchen. You’ve written extensively about your love of baking and the recipes you have mastered. You make it sound easy. Something all women are able to do.”

  He was rambling. Get to the point, man.

  Holding out the paper, he continued. “I have a Havermeyer family recipe for shortbread cookies that came over with my mother from Scotland. Perhaps after dinner you could whip these up while we watch?”

  Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She remained mute, staring at him with her startling blue gaze. He hadn’t expected her to express joy at the request, but her silence concerned him.

  “I realize this is an unorthodox request,” he said. “However, there are but a few ingredients listed, and I am certain it’ll be a snap for a woman of your talents.”

  “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes. No one’s made them since I was a boy, and I cannot even remember the taste. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “What if I make them tomorrow and send everyone a box—?”

  “No. It’ll be far more memorable for the board to observe you actually creating them. Furthermore, that it’s my family recipe connects the experience to me and to the newspaper.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  “Very.”

  He decided to confide in her. She deserved to know the truth, given his strange requests. “You see, the board could, through some clever maneuvering, remove me as president of HPC, a company my family has built up and overseen for four generations. I need the board to equate me with the company.” A non-Havermeyer running HPC? He could never allow that to happen. Tonight, it was imperative to remind everyone of his legacy, his family’s roots in starting the company. Rose Walker could help him accomplish this. “Please, Mrs. Walker.”

  “The kitchens will be in disarray after the meal—”

  “I’ll give you a thousand-dollar bonus.” A staggering amount of money, but he hardly cared. He wanted her to agree and he would cajole, bribe, and threaten to get his way.

  Then he remembered his surr
oundings—the stunning tree, this house, and Mr. Walker’s silver fortune—and immediately felt like an idiot. Mrs. Walker didn’t need money; yet, she had cared about keeping her job at the paper. He blurted, “Furthermore, I won’t fire you.”

  “Mr. Havermeyer—”

  “Call me Duke, please. Now, do you plan to help me and keep your job?”

  She blinked, her cheeks turning a flattering shade of pink. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Three

  Rose’s heart was galloping in her chest. The HPC board of directors, all eight of them, were now convened in the drawing room. Only three had brought their wives, but the group was still quite large. Duke held court, his tall frame the center of attention. The man was magnetic, his confidence and presence drawing everyone closer just to be near him—except for Rose. She was in no hurry to join the party. She was still attempting to understand how he kept maneuvering her into doing what he wanted.

  No wonder the man had amassed an empire. Who could say no to him?

  Not her, obviously. The beautiful man had stared down at her with his mesmerizing dark gaze, the rough scar making him somehow appear vulnerable, and her resistance melted like hot candle wax.

  She blew out a long breath. Goodness, she hoped she appeared calmer than she felt, because her heart was threatening to skip out of her chest. She, along with a dozen members of the Lowes’ staff, had pulled off a minor miracle getting them this far. After paying off the real estate agent, they had borrowed enough furnishings to decorate four rooms and the entryway, while the rest of the home remained barren and dirty, a housemaid’s worst nightmare. However, as long as none of the guests wandered, the ruse should work.

  Except for the cooking demonstration in the kitchen after dinner. How in God’s name would she manage it? After Duke’s unusual request, she had raced belowstairs. She instructed the kitchen maids to gather the ingredients listed on the recipe card and then clean the kitchen as best they could to make it presentable. Mrs. Riley had unfortunately already departed, so Rose hadn’t even been able to ask the cook for advice.

  How hard could it be to make shortbread cookies? All one needed to do was follow the instructions carefully.

  Never mind that her last three attempts at baking cookies had all failed miserably, each time for a different reason.

  “Breathe,” Henry said quietly at her side. The two of them watched the board members from the entryway. “You’ll figure out the cookies. Just stick to the recipe—and stop staring at Havermeyer. You’re supposed to be happily married.”

  She sent him a sharp glance over the rim of her champagne glass. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I am talking about—not that I can blame you. He is striking.”

  The man was indeed striking. Her skin prickled with awareness whenever she was near him. “And unmarried.”

  “Staked a claim, have you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He is my employer. And he thinks I’m married to you.”

  “Good point. Though I must say, I’ve noticed him watching you when your attention is elsewhere.”

  Duke Havermeyer, watching her? Likely to ensure she didn’t screw up his campaign to win back the board. “Sure—and next you’ll say you have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell me.”

  He chuckled. “Doubt if you must, but we shall see. What is the story behind the scar, I wonder?”

  She studied the fascinating mark on Havermeyer’s forehead. “Initially, I thought a circus accident, or perhaps a broken bottle in a saloon brawl. Of course, there is always the angry mob theory. My current favorite, however, is a crystal figurine thrown by a scorned lover.”

  “I can see you’ve hardly given this any thought at all,” he drawled. “Is your journalistic heart quivering with desperate curiosity?”

  Yes, it rather was. “If not for the scar, he would be too pretty. I just find it interesting, is all.”

  “If you say so. Shall we mingle?”

  “I suppose—oh, I forgot. Havermeyer thinks you made your fortune in silver mining.”

  His body jerked in surprise. “He what?”

  She patted his arm. “To be fair, I told him you were in silver. He chose to interpret it as silver mining. Don’t be surprised if he asks you about it.”

  Henry began to sputter, but Rose ignored him, towing him into the room. “There she is,” a booming male voice—Duke’s—said. “There’s our most popular writer.”

  “Good evening,” she said to the room at large. “Welcome to our home.”

  One by one, the guests approached, hands outstretched and smiles in place. They all seemed genuinely happy to meet her, and she tried to play her part. Duke watched from a distance, arms folded over his chest, a proud expression on his handsome face. His eyes, though . . . His gaze burned with a raw intensity she could not name, one that warmed her in dark places, places an unmarried woman should not yet know about.

  Yes, but you are playing a married woman tonight. Perhaps a little flirtation—

  Heavens, from where had that thought come? Staring at her nearly empty glass of champagne, she promptly handed it off to Henry. No more spirits. She couldn’t ruin the evening with inappropriate thoughts about her employer, even if he was the most compelling man in the room.

  Besides, what did she know about men? She hadn’t ever been seriously courted, too busy with her writing career to bother. There would be time enough for romance later in life, after she and her mother were financially secure. For now, her focus had to remain on her job as Mrs. Rose Walker.

  The board members expressed admiration for her and her column, while the wives peppered her with questions and comments about Mrs. Walker’s tips. Did cayenne pepper really work for mice? Could one truly remove stains on the skin by using the juice from a tomato? What did she think about using kerosene to prevent rust on silver?

  She answered them patiently. After all, women were the reason her column had succeeded. Rich, poor, middle-class . . . It made no difference. Her readers came from all backgrounds. So the least she could do was share Mrs. Walker’s wisdom with them in person.

  “Havermeyer, you’ve got quite a marvel on your hands,” one of the board members crowed to Duke.

  “I could not agree more.” Duke toasted Rose with his champagne glass, sending her a wink. “We are fortunate to have her.”

  Her breath hitched, a giddy sensation filling her chest. A wink? She hadn’t seen that coming, not from such an imposing, serious man. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I only hope you are equally as pleased with me after dinner has concluded.”

  Everyone chuckled, assuming the statement a joke. Rose was utterly serious, however. Mrs. Riley had prepared the entire dinner a few hours ago, unable to stay, seeing as her daughter was about to give birth. A kitchen maid would be managing the warming and plating. It was not ideal, but what else could they do on such short notice?

  Unfortunately, there was no room for error tonight.

  Henry leaned in toward her ear. “John’s given me the sign,” he said, referring to the footman who would lead the dinner service. “We should gather everyone to the dining room.”

  A weight settled in her stomach and she struggled not to grimace. “Here we go. Cross your fingers.”

  * * *

  As they came to the long dinner table, Duke noted he’d been placed two seats away from Mrs. Walker. Before anyone saw, he switched the small card bearing his name with the man next to him, the person directly to her right. He should feel guilty about moving. He should sit in his assigned seat and allow another to be charmed by her.

  Yet he wanted the chance to get to know her better, which confused him. She was married, and he had no need for a platonic friendship with a woman. Still, he found her fascinating, this young woman with an incredible wealth of knowledge at her fingertips. And was she not his employee, an HPC commodity he needed to cultivate and protect? He couldn’t have her going off to another paper instead
. . .

  Decision made, he claimed the chair beside her, with no plans whatsoever to move.

  Everyone settled, and Mr. Walker took the customary position at the opposite end of the table. Duke studied the man, purely out of mild curiosity. Were the Walkers happy together? They were solicitous of one another, friendly, but had it been a love match? And why in God’s name did it matter to Duke?

  The man on Duke’s right, Mr. John Cameron, leaned over. “Cannot wait to see what she serves. This dinner party was a stroke of genius on your part, Havermeyer. Mrs. Walker is one of the city’s most famous—and reclusive—residents.”

  “I merely wanted to show the board my appreciation,” Duke said.

  Cameron made a sound in his throat. “Please. We all know you’re worried after what has happened. However, you cannot blame us for being concerned about the newspaper’s reputation after such flimflam.”

  Mrs. Walker tapped her crystal wineglass with the tines of her fork. “Now, I must insist on no business discussions at the table.” She lifted a pointed brow at Cameron and Duke. “Tonight is for pleasant conversations and festive harmony.”

  The guests beamed at her, nodding in agreement. She gestured toward a footman and he began pouring the wine at the table.

  “I hope you don’t mind my making an example of you,” she murmured to Duke.

  “On the contrary, the reminder was a welcome one. We should stick to proper etiquette in all things this evening.”

  “Yes, of course. Although I’m fairly certain that switching name cards defies proper etiquette.”

  Heat washed over him. “I hadn’t realized anyone saw.”

  “Likely I was the only one. Do not worry—I won’t tell.”

  He leaned in slightly. “You are not allowed to tattle on the boss. It is actually in your contract.” That got a laugh out of her, and he found himself smiling in return.

  “Clever of you. So, is that how you keep all your sins private?”

  He opened his mouth to comment on said sins, but then closed it. This almost felt like flirting. Of course, it had been some time since he’d flirted with a society woman. Perhaps such interactions had changed in recent years, become more casual.