by Cheryl Bolen
The older woman glanced at Bonny, went white and came to a sudden stop. "Why, you're...you're the Duchess of Radcliff," Lady Heffington said, fixing a smile on her face.
Bonny drew up stiffly. They had never been introduced, so Bonny decided to act as if she did not know who Lady Heffington was.
Lady Heffington regained her composure. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Lady Lavinia Heffington, and Richard is a particular friend of mine."
More than a particular friend, Bonny thought. They had been lovers. Had Richard known her body as he knew Bonny's? Had he traced his fingers over her lovely cheeks and nose and mouth and breasts as he had Bonny's? Had he ever called her the names he whispered to Bonny when she lay silently against his bare chest? Wretched emotions surged through her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, extended a black-gloved hand and tilted her head slightly toward Emily. "And this is my cousin, Lady Emily Wickham."
Lady Heffington nodded at Emily, then turned back to Bonny. "I see you are in mourning."
"Yes. My mother died immediately after Richard and I wed. It had been a last wish of hers to see us marry before she died."
"So that's why you married in such haste." Lady Heffington pushed forward. "You'll tell Richard you saw me?"
Her cheeks hot, Bonny replied, "What was your name again?"
Lady Heffington's eyes narrowed. "Just say Lady Lavinia."
"The nerve of that light skirt!" said an outraged Emily once they were in the carriage. "Calling the duke by his first name. Has she no manners? I must say, I quite reveled in the way you pretended not to know her."
"In truth, I never have met her. And Richard has never spoken of her."
"I should hope not!"
The Radcliff coach deposited Emily back home before returning to Berkeley Square. Bonny had barely removed her pelisse before Mandley announced that the Earl of Dunsford awaited her in the drawing room. She had forgotten all about him and his desire to meet Emily.
Bonny swept into the dark room at the front of the house, which was shuttered for mourning, and held out her hand. "How very nice to see you again, my lord."
"It's very kind of you to see me, your grace. May I offer you my felicitations on your marriage?"
"Thank you. Please sit down."
He folded his long legs and sat upon the satin settee, nervously turning his signet ring. "I am glad we are alone," he finally said. "For what I have to say is of a private nature."
She shot him a puzzled glance.
"I do not know the identity of your friend who was my brother's lover, but I do know this about her–she is the mother of my brother's babe."
His words slapped Bonny, leaving her dazed. How could she respond to him? She had given Emily her word never to discuss the baby with anybody.
"There's no use denying it, your grace. And I assure you I harbor no malice toward your friend. Quite the contrary. Harry loved her very much. He wrote me of how he planned to marry her. And if she loved Harry, I would have to look favorably on her. As for the babe, I want to know if I have a niece or a nephew."
"My lord, you can't know of what you speak!"
"Oh, but I do," he said firmly. "You see, my brother's man imparted to me the particulars. He was with Harry on the Peninsula, you know."
Bonny punctuated the silence with inquiries as to whether his lordship cared for sugar and cream or if his lordship would like a scone.
Her duty done, Bonny got to her feet and began to pace the room. She stood before the tall window that looked out over Berkeley Square. She watched a nurse wheel a baby through the park. And she thought of baby Harriet. Of how Emily professed that she was the image of her father. She remembered the earl dancing with her and speaking of his dead brother, his voice cracking with emotion. She remembered him telling her there were just the two brothers. Then she knew what she must do.
She turned to face the earl. "You have a niece. Harriet. Named for her father."
His face cleared, his eyes softening. "Have you seen her?"
Bonny nodded. "I am told her resemblance to your brother is remarkable."
"She is in London?"
"She stays with my old nurse on Kepple Street. No one knows, save her mother and I."
"I must see the babe."
Bonny turned back to gaze out the window. She saw her husband's coach and four coming up Berkeley Street and her heart swelled with love. "You must go now," she said, facing the earl. "I shall ride in Hyde Park in the morning. If you meet me there in a coach, I will take you to Kepple Street."
With his heart constricted, Radcliff watched the Earl of Dunsford's lanky legs skip down the steps of Radcliff House. The lout had wasted no time in renewing his friendship with the duchess. The very thought of Dunsford with his wife made the duke want to run his fist through a wall.
Chapter Twelve
Before the patient arrived, Bonny went to inspect the room Twigs would occupy. On her orders, the morning room had been converted to a sickroom. A half tester bed now occupied the center of the brightly lit room. On either side of the bed, tables of substantial size featured any number of conveniences: a bell to summon servants, copies of the Morning Post, Royalist and Gazette, playing cards, pen and paper and a water pitcher and drinking glass.
When Bonny heard her husband enter Radcliff House, she hastened to meet him, but the troubled look on his face alarmed her. Had Twigs died? Slowly, she approached her husband and placed a tender hand on his arm. "Has something happened to Twigs?" she asked softly.
Her husband's gaze moved from her hand, resting gently on his arm, to the worried look on her face, and he spoke without emotion. "His man and Evans are assisting him in now."
"Thank heavens! From your grave face, I thought–well, it does not signify." She dropped her hand. "Are you all right, sir?"
His eyes darted to the drawing room. "I get along tolerably."
"I thought we would put Mr. Twickingham in the morning room. We've moved a bed and everything there for him, and it will be much easier than carrying him upstairs on a stretcher."
"A very good idea." Radcliff began to stroll toward the sickroom. "And when he is able to get about a bit he won't have to maneuver the stairs."
"Exactly." Bonny heard voices and turned toward the front doorway as the two valets angled in the stretcher bearing a solemn James Edward Twickingham.
"Twigs, old fellow," said Radcliff, who had abandoned his inspection of the sickroom to greet his greatest friend. "I would like to present you to my wife." Radcliff moved to Bonny's side.
The infirm young man met Bonny's gaze. He was fair and frail-looking, with light brown hair and eyes that were green at the core and surrounded by pink, and which–like his long nose–had a tendency to water freely.
Bonny wondered if his slenderness was the result of his accident or a lifelong condition. She walked up to the stretcher, displaying her friendliest smile, and held out her hand. "Mr. Twickingham, we are so very happy to have you with us."
Twigs broke eye contact with her and glanced around the room. "You're the duchess?"
"I am."
"Too young. Remember the old duchess. Very old woman. You sure you're the duchess?"
The duke walked up to the stretcher. "She's the duchess, Twigs. Remember, she was Bonny Barbara Allan, Alfred Wickham's cousin."
"'Pon my word, quite taken with her, you were, Richard. So this is the chit you married?" Color rose to his face. "So sorry, your grace," he said to Bonny. "Not a chit. Don't know what I was thinking to say such a thing."
"That's quite all right, Mr. Twickingham," Bonny said.
Now he looked behind him.
"She's talking to you, Twigs," the duke said.
"Oh, quite so," Twigs replied, taking a long sniff. "Not used to anyone calling me Mr. Twickingham. Thought me father had come."
Radcliff met his wife's amused gaze. "He's right, my dear. Everyone calls him Twigs."
"Then I shall, too." Addressing the valet, Bonny said, "You may
take Mr. Twigs into the morning room."
After the patient was settled in, the Duke and Duchess of Radcliff sat in the side chairs beside Twigs's bed.
Bonny spoke more to her husband than to his friend. "Twigs seems to be quite healthy, apart from his disabilities."
"Yes. I talked with his doctor, and he said he is already greatly improved over what he was two days ago. The fever is completely gone."
"Now we just need to keep him so busy he won't have time to dwell on his inactivity," Bonny said.
Radcliff nodded, his face grim. "I see we had a caller today."
We? she wondered. "Oh, you mean the Earl of Dunsford. An old friend. He came to offer felicitations on our marriage."
"Do you think it's proper for you to entertain male callers with no chaperon?"
Bonny laughed out loud. "Richard! I'm a married woman."
"I must say," Twigs said, "seems quite queer to think of you as a married man, ol' chap. Won't be the same ever again, 'pon my word."
Radcliff spoke to his friend in a tone such as a father might use with a son. "It's time we were settling down."
Mandley entered the room quietly. "Would your grace be requiring any refreshments?"
"Richard," Twigs whispered, "tell him we want brandy."
"I'll do no such thing. The doctor said you need to decrease your consumption of spirits."
Twigs wiped at his watery eye with the back of his bony hand. "Hog's breath. What does that Methodist know?"
The duke dismissed Mandley, reached into the fob of his waistcoat and took out his watch. "You may have a glass of port at six o'clock." He picked up a deck of cards from the bedside table. "I see, my dear, that you have provided us with cards. Piquet, Twigs?"
A smile spread across the patient's face. "A capital idea, ol' fellow."
Bonny rose to leave, and Radcliff held out his arm to stop her. "Do you play?"
"Not in a very long time," she said. "I used to play with my father."
"Watch us to refresh your memory so that you can play with Twigs when I can't be here."
Her husband's touch and his desire that she stay had the power to send Bonny's pulse racing. She quickly sat back down and watched with amusement as Radcliff easily relieved Twigs of his guinea-a-game wagers. Before an hour passed, Twigs's eyelids grew heavy.
"I'm afraid I've tired you," Radcliff said, moving to leave.
Twigs jerked up, then winced from the pain of the sudden movement. "No such thing! Haven't been so amused in weeks."
"Nevertheless," Radcliff said, getting to his feet, "the duchess and I will take our leave." His voice softened and he laid a hand on his friend's arm. "Oblige me by resting."
Twigs pouted.
"And your reward will be a bumper of Madeira," Radcliff promised.
Closing Twigs's door behind them, the duke strode across the marble hall. "I have business to attend in the library, my dear."
"Would it bother you if I come? I should like to write a letter." Bonny wanted desperately to prolong her time with Radcliff, not just because she enjoyed and craved his presence, but because she sensed a moroseness about him that deeply disturbed her.
His face as inscrutable as ever, Radcliff said, "Not at all. Should you like to sit before the fire while I use the desk?"
She nodded, lifting her gaze to his and smiling.
His jaw tightened and he looked away quickly before leading her into the pea green library of dark wood, tooled leather volumes and a blazing hearth.
Bonny took writing paper from her husband's desk, sat beside the fireplace in a club chair and began chiding herself. She was not fit to be a duchess. A well-bred duchess would be sitting upstairs right now in her gilded lady's study penning her letter at the escritoire in front of the rose-moiré-draped window. She wouldn't be foisting her company on a husband obviously occupied with more important matters, obviously not desirous of her presence.
Without speaking, her husband sat at his desk going over some papers for several minutes before he set down his papers and asked, "Do you write to a friend?"
Bonny looked up from her writing. "Yes, I suppose. Cressida Carlisle. She said she would call on me, and since we left without notice the very next day, I thought it only courteous that I write, explaining that we were suddenly called to town."
"Very thoughtful of you, my dear."
"Truth be told, I feel sorry for her. Cressida seems quite lonely and hungry for the companionship of another young woman."
The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Young woman? Funny, I more readily accept her as a young woman than I do you, despite that she's more than a decade older than you."
"I'm wondering if I should be offended by your remark."
"You may be sure that I find you a mature woman even if you are but eighteen." His eyes locked with hers, and the air became charged, then he looked away. "On the other hand, I shall always think of Cressy as an empty-headed girl, though she be one and thirty."
"Do I take it that you prefer mature women, sir?"
His gaze flitted over her body and the dimple reappeared in his cheek. "To be sure."
Radcliff had made her a woman, and she wore his brand as proudly as a coronet. Hands trembling. Bonny returned to her letter. A minute later, she said, "Speaking of mature women, I met a friend of yours this morning at Madame Deveraux's."
He raised an eyebrow.
"A Lady Lavinia..."
"Heffington." He picked up his papers again, his face as unreadable as a stone wall.
"She referred to you as Richard. Are you very old friends?"
"We have long been acquainted." He put his papers down again. "How did you find Mrs. Deveraux?"
Bonny would oblige her husband and avoid talk of Lady Heffington. Or was she sparing her own feelings? The thought of him lying with Lady Heffington was torture. "She assisted me personally and seemed quite happy to have the patronage of the Duchess of Radcliff. I hope I can learn to act like a proper duchess."
He raised his chin, looked at her squarely, and spoke with authority. "You are a proper duchess."
Whether from the crackling fire or her husband's words, warmth spread through Bonny like brandy.
As she neared the finish of her letter, she spoke again to her husband. "What would you think of my inviting Cressida to London?"
Radcliff closed his account book and chuckled. "The offer would be most generous of you, but, pray, there is a limit to how much dinnertime prattle I can tolerate. How long would she have to stay?"
"Never mind," Bonny said softly. "I shouldn't want to annoy you, Richard."
"I am just as concerned about annoying you, my dear. I'm afraid steady doses of Cressida Carlisle would be quite tedious."
"I shan't ask her."
He shoved his papers aside. "Now you make me feel like an ogre."
"You're not an ogre, Richard," Bonny said in her silken voice. "You're kind and good."
"You, my love, are the kind one. Always worrying about the other person from dear Twigs to Cressy Carlisle."
"Pooh. You're the one who's flown to town to look after a sick friend." She placed her pen on her papers. "What did the doctor tell you about Twigs?"
A heavy frown creased Radcliff's brow. "For now, he needs to stay off the leg, but the boredom has played heavily on him. The doctor gave me to understand that Twigs is threatened by severe melancholy."
"Then your presence has helped already," she said cheerfully, "for he did not seem melancholy in the least this afternoon."
"I hope that you may be right."
"I heard what you said about the drinking of spirits. Is Twigs overly partial to drink?"
"To be sure, but all the bucks of our circle are so inclined."
"Then I am most happy you decided to marry and quit such a silly crowd."
He looked at her with hooded eyes. "Are you, Barbara?"
"Most heartily," she said with determination.
God's eyes, he could not get that o
dious Dunsford out of his mind. To think that the earl had come calling on his wife her very first day back in London. Could the man not accept that Bonny had married another and get on with his life?
Could he, Richard Moncrief, the Duke of Radcliff, ever have been able to put Bonny out of his life? It would be easier to quit breathing.
He tried for the fifth time to read the column of figures, but again his mind was otherwise engaged. He turned his attention back to his wife. "I recall your mother speaking of your legacy from your grandmother. Would you like my stockbroker to invest it for you?''
"How thoughtful of you," she said with a shaky voice.
"I shall see him tomorrow."
"I...I don't know if I'm quite ready yet."
The worry in her face tore at his heart. Rising, he crossed the room to her side and took her hand in his. "My dear, I don't mean that you need your own money for any reason. Remember when I told you my body would be as yours and yours as mine?"
She nodded, her face grave, her eyes downcast.
He swallowed. "Everything I possess is yours, Barbara."
She brought her hand to his cheek, and he fell to one knee before her chair. "You don't have to do anything with your grandmother's money if you don't want to." He trailed a finger across her cheekbone. "I promise you, you will never need it. You might wish to keep it for our daughter–or a second son."
Her face brightened. "Oh, Richard, I hope we shall have a house full of children."
"I shall do my best to oblige you." He drew her tightly into his embrace and buried his head in her breasts, reveling in the feel of her arms gathering around him, the brush of her lips on his hair, the sound of her racing heart beneath his ear.
Freeing his hand, he cupped her breasts, reverently stroking the soft muslin that covered them until her nipples went rigid. Then, his mouth closed over them. She gasped with pleasure. He kissed a trail up her neck until he took possession of her mouth. Her breath coming ever faster, she reached to stroke the swell in his breeches.
Without breaking the hungry kiss, he slowly got to his feet, pulling her with him, holding her so close it was as if there were no clothes between them.
