She’d gotten lucky—if you could call being stranded in a different era lucky. The Duke of Aldridge was one of those Renaissance men written about in history, like da Vinci or Voltaire, a philosopher and a scientist rolled into one. A nimble thinker, he’d happily embraced the unknown, and spent hours engaging in theoretical discussions on time travel, even as he probed for answers to scientific, political, and moral questions that he hoped had been resolved in the twenty-first century.
What to say, what not to say? Time travel was only a theory in the twenty-first century’s scientific community, but there was no shortage of dire warnings about the unintended consequences of changing the future. She was forced to treat every discussion that they’d had with extreme delicacy.
“Which dilemma are you referring to, then, if not mine?” Kendra said, bringing them back to the Duke’s earlier pronouncement.
Aldridge picked the pipe up off his desk and studied it like a new plant species he’d found growing in the woods. “I was considering the situation of your being an unchaperoned female living under my roof, Miss Donovan.”
Ah. If there was one thing she’d learned about Regency England, it was that there were rules. Lots and lots of rules. Most of them, she thought, ridiculous. And most of them targeted at women.
“You have a lot of unchaperoned females living under your roof,” she pointed out drily.
Aldridge Castle was, quite frankly, enormous. The main section dated back to William the Conqueror, and as the Duke of Aldridge’s ancestors became more affluent and powerful, they’d built wings onto the central tower—and then wings onto those wings. And because the Industrial Revolution was only beginning in the north of England, vast numbers of men and women were required to maintain the ancient fortress, keeping it from tumbling into a pile of rubble.
“My dear, you are well aware that I am not referring to the staff,” the Duke replied. “You are not a servant, Miss Donovan. Nor are you a relative.” His gaze flitted to the oil painting of a woman and child that held a position of honor above the fireplace.
Kendra followed his gaze to the portrait. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty was Aldridge’s late wife, and the young girl she held his late daughter. Both had died tragically in a boating accident twenty years before. While the Duke had recovered his wife’s body, his little girl had never been found.
His eyes were shadowed when he finally shifted his attention back to Kendra. “I would not want your reputation to suffer unduly, Miss Donovan.”
“There are hundreds of rooms in the castle. We could live here together for a year without even seeing each other.”
“That is not how such things are judged.” He gave a slight smile, well aware that Kendra Donovan came from a time when social mores were much more lax. Women had not only gained the right to vote, but Great Britain had even had a female prime minister—it had fascinated him when they’d spoken of it. “You are not living in your future, my dear; you are living in my present. You must fully adapt to the customs and expectations here—for your own sake.”
Kendra was already considered an eccentric around the castle because of what many deemed her brazen behavior. Even her looks had caused comment when she’d first arrived, with her raven hair cut short in a pudding-basin style reminiscent of a medieval page. The style, while odd, was becoming on her, emphasizing her long-lashed, onyx eyes that glowed with intelligence. Yet in matters of fashion, the Duke’s opinion mattered naught, and someone—perhaps his goddaughter, Lady Rebecca—had convinced her to grow out her hair and pin it up in the style that was the custom of ladies.
All for the best, he supposed. It was one thing to be considered an Original, and another to be regarded as an oddity and ostracized completely.
He tapped his pipe bowl with his forefinger. “However, as I mentioned, I believe I have come upon the solution.”
“Great. You’re going to rewrite the antiquated rules of society?”
He smiled, his blue-gray eyes twinkling. “I would if I could, Miss Donovan. Rather than take on such a formidable task, I shall do something much simpler—I shall make you my ward.”
Kendra stared at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand. You’d be my legal guardian?”
“You would be under my protection, yes.”
“I’m too old to be anyone’s ward.”
“It is slightly unconventional, but I have given this a great deal of thought. We shall put it out that you are, in fact, the daughter of an old friend, who immigrated to America before you were born. Arrangements were made that I would become your legal guardian should anything happen to your parents. When they perished, and you found yourself alone on these shores, I fulfilled my duty, and took you in.” He grinned at her, clearly delighted by the tale he’d spun. “By proxy, you would be my daughter.”
As cover stories went, it was inventive. Still . . .
She shook her head. “It won’t work. Everyone here will know it’s not true.”
“The staff will take their direction from me.”
“It’s not just the staff. Everyone who attended the house party knows that I was working as a servant before Lady Rebecca hired me to be her companion.”
“My dear, I am the Duke of Aldridge. No one who attended the house party would have the temerity to question my account.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you really have that kind of power?”
Kendra knew that the Duke lived in the top echelons of this world of rank and privilege, and few people would want to make an enemy out of him. Yet it was difficult to believe that he could simply rewrite history by putting out another version of that history.
Then again, people did it all the time in her own era, she thought. It was called public relations. Spin.
The Duke smiled at her. “Let us just say that I could make life uncomfortable for anyone who disputed my claim. Do not fret, my dear. ’Tis a mere formality. I do not want you to be gossiped about while you are living under my roof.”
It was too late for that, Kendra knew. The servants had been gossiping about her since the moment she’d arrived.
But she thought of something—or, rather, someone—else. “It’s not the servants you’ll have to convince. Lady Atwood is not going to like your idea at all.”
“Nonsense! My sister will not only like it, but she will approve,” he said confidently. “If there is one thing Caro does best, it’s adhering to the proprieties.”
The Countess shared the same coloring as her brother—blue-gray eyes and blond hair that, now that they were both past fifty, had taken on a silvery sheen. And, in the Duke’s case, thinning considerably on top.
“’Tis madness, Aldridge.”
“Caro, be reasonable—”
“Reasonable? How in heaven’s name is making Kendra Donovan your ward reasonable? It was outrageous enough when Lady Rebecca hired her as a companion! And why the devil didn’t Lady Rebecca take the creature with her when she returned to her home?”