His Duchess at Eventide

by Wendy Lacapra

  She brushed her lips against his in a feather-light kiss. A kiss of gratitude. Of reverence. Of acknowledgment for whatever it was they’d just shared.

  He touched her hair. A tremor ran through his hand.

  “I think it best if you walk on ahead.” He spoke like a man at odds with himself. “I will be near, and I promise you will make it safely back to Ithwick.”

  Ithwick. He spoke it like a curse. The estate’s specter rose—a menace, a thief.

  “Very well.” She sighed, but a question mark remained. She knew, just as sure as this circle of stones, there were truths between them yet to unfold. “May we meet again?”

  “If you wish to meet, we will,” he replied, barely audible. “I will not deny you.”

  She nodded, bowed her head, and then turned. The mist cloaked all but a few steps of the bridle path. There was no way forward but to walk, to place each step with the faith that the next would unveil.

  Faith was not among her strengths.

  Perhaps all would be well; there was no way to know.

  She resisted the urge to look behind. She would not be able to see him anyway. But he would be there. He said he’d be near. She trusted his word.

  And, what was more—the peace she’d found in the stones. That peace she could recall. It wasn’t faith, but it was something to hold.

  Somehow, she reached the house. A candle burned in the window of the duchess’s rooms. Silently, she thanked Mrs. Renton, and entered the house. As soon as the door closed, his presence was gone.

  ~~~

  Penelope fluffed her pillow for the nineteenth time. Why couldn’t she sleep?

  Why?

  She knew why. She’d been terribly bold. She’d placed her hands just above the captain’s hips, on the swell of his chest muscles, on the planes of his cheeks. She’d taken his injured arm and wrapped it around her waist.

  The pang that lingered in her heart was not regret.

  To be held again had been a marvel. And to be held by the captain?

  She sank into the pillows, curled her arm against her face and rolled to her side, grateful, for once, to be at Ithwick.

  She could not imagine lying in the yew bed she and Cheverley had carved and thinking such thoughts about another man.

  She set aside thoughts of the captain and turned to her memories of her marital bed, and of the great yew tree that had spawned not just the bed, but many of Cheverley’s bows. Young, newlywed, and giddy with love, they’d built a cottage—the single room to eventually serve as the heart of Pensteague.

  The yew’s roots formed part of the cottage’s foundation. They’d wanted their bed—like their home—to be immovable—a veritable symbol of an ideal world they wished to create. Then again, an immovable home must have been only what she had wanted. Not long after the thatch had been set, he had gone.

  But she had not been alone forever, had she? First, the duchess had sent Mrs. Renton to help. Then later, the sailors began to arrive—each one in need. And Pensteague had grown, room by room, resident by resident. She’d had Pensteague, her son, and the sailors to love.

  But none had replaced Chev in her heart.

  That ungiven love had been spooling within for over a decade. Carrying all that hoarded love left her volatile, unstable. That lop-sided mass was what had gone still when she was standing with the captain inside the circle of stone.

  That knowledge was the source of her unrest.

  She fell into a restless slumber. And then, she dreamed of Chev.

  In her dream, their limbs entwined under the sheets of their bed, knotted together, entangled like the yew’s roots as they dove deep into the earth.

  Her hair was loose and flowing. She was a flower, opening, with trust, to the man by her side. The man that caught her breath with a single wink. A man whose laugh was the sound of bliss, whose touch was transcendent fire.

  No man now or ever could take his place, even if she wished.

  And she did not wish.

  How could she?

  Chev had been her first love. Her only true love. Father to her son.

  She reached up to caress his face, but his cheek was not clean-shaven.

  She dropped her hands to his chest, finding lean muscle, not brawn.

  And the hair that flowed past her shoulders was not only hers, but his.

  “Penelope,” he said, in his gruff, other-worldly voice.

  This time the vine choked.

  She awoke, her skin damp with sweat, blinking into the harsh, late-morning light.

  Had your husband lived, you could have been a duchess.

  She did not want to be duchess—she yanked the duchess’s pillow from beneath her head and threw it across the room—and she did not want the captain.

  She squeezed her eyes closed.

  She wanted Chev.

  The door opened. She barely had time to erase her scowl.

  “Lord bless me, my lady.” Mrs. Renton held her hand against her heart. “I thought you were up hours ago.”

  “I overslept.”

  Mrs. Renton’s gaze moved to the pillow, resting askew against the window sill.

  Pen cleared her throat. “Is Thaddeus awake?”

  “Master Thaddeus was up at dawn and to his studies. He’s determined to finish in time to make his appointment with the captain.

  “The captain?” She wasn’t the only one falling under his influence, of course.

  “Yes. I believe they intend to hunt rabbits.” Mrs. Renton stepped into the room and closed the door behind. “There’s something else you should know. Lord Thomas has just returned from London. And”—she lowered her voice—“he is not alone. There’s a woman with him in the drawing room.”

  “Honestly!” she huffed. “You’d think he’d at least attempt to observe propriety while Thaddeus is under this roof... I’ll go down once I dress.”

  Carefully she wound her hair into the tightest knot yet. It pulled from her nape, from her forehead, from the place behind her ears.

  A quarter hour later, she approached the drawing room ready to face Lord Thomas armed with a riding habit, a stiffened spine, and a furious scowl.

  The couple in question were already speaking in low tones, though she would not have been able to understand them even if they were shouting.

  She spoke only the most basic French.

  She recognized the petite, thin-but-amply endowed form of the widow staying with the vicar, still dressed and heavily veiled in grey.

  The widow stamped her foot. Lord Thomas reddened. The widow made a slashing gesture with her arm. Thomas grabbed her by the shoulder and then tossed aside her veil. The widow smacked him hard across the face.

  Pen gasped. Lord Thomas and the widow turned in unison.

  The widow’s face was beyond beautiful. She had naturally puckered lips painted a deep, unnatural red. Her thin brows delicately arched, and she had chiseled cheekbones and eyes so vividly green their color was unmistakable.

  Sin.

  The widow possessed a face carefully sculpted for sin.

  The widow lifted her lips into something akin to a smile, but smaller and more knowing, as if she were as fully aware of Pen’s secrets as she was her own. Then, she arranged the veil back over her face.

  Penelope blinked to recover her balance.

  “Forgive me,” the widow said in her indistinct accent. “I beg your pardon. I have a...loose temper.”

  Thomas huffed and looked away. “Among other things.”

  “Forgive my intrusion,” she continued. “We arrived early and did not wish to disturb the vicar. I was on business in London. Your cousin recognized me and was thoughtful enough to bring me home.”

  In a carriage? “London is more than a day’s drive.” Travel to London was far easier in a boat.

  “Oui.”

  A moment passed before Pen realized the widow had merely agreed.

  “Perhaps, Lady Cheverley,” the widow asked, “you would accompany me back to the vicar�
�s?”

  Madame LaVoie.

  She exhaled as she remembered the widow’s name.

  Lord Thomas’s glance to the widow spoke volumes—volumes Pen could not decipher. Clearly, however, he did not wish Pen to comply.

  “Of course,” Pen replied.

  “Lord Thomas,” the widow practically purred, “you are no longer needed.”

  Madame LaVoie glided across the floor, and then took Pen’s arm with a firm grip. Pen strode quickly, following through the hall, out the front door, and down the steps.

  Then, Madame LaVoie climbed into Lord Thomas’s carriage and settled in beside the window. She rapped on the front as if she owned the conveyance and employed the coachman.

  “You, too, are, I understand, a widow.”

  Something about the way she said widow set Penelope’s teeth on edge.

  “So,” the madame continued, “you understand a widow’s...particular needs.”

  Penelope arched a brow. “I am not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Oh, you English. So prudish.”

  “You owe me no explanation,” Pen said. “Your...friendship with Lord Thomas is none of my concern.”

  “No indeed?” Madame LaVoie chuckled softly. “And yet I was under the impression he was one of your many suitors.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  The widow shrugged. “If you do choose him...” A breeze lifted the bottom of her veil, revealing another small, but vicious smile. “You should know he appreciates a lady with a firm hand.”

  “Madame LaVoie”—Penelope faced the veil as if she could see through the layers of heavy gauze—“I would appreciate it if you do not return to Ithwick.”

  “I am sure you would.”

  “No matter what Lord Thomas has told you—”

  “You would like to know what he told me, wouldn’t you?” She interrupted. “Well, I did not believe a word he says and nor should you. Lord Thomas is a bad boy.” She emphasized each b. “He tells bad lies.”

  “You lovers’ quarrel is no concern of mine.”

  The widow turned her face toward the window, though Penelope continued to feel her gaze. “I will not trouble you at Ithwick again. I do not intend to stay in Cornwall much longer.”

  Pen frowned. “I was under the impression you were unable to return home.”

  “Now you are mistaken.” She chuckled softly. “Home. Such a quaint illusion.”

  “Illusion?” How could something as important as home be an illusion? She longed for Pensteague. For her own, marvelous bed. “I am sorry for you.”

  “What you call home is wherever I am.” Madame LaVoie leaned forward as the carriage slowed. “And make no mistake, I always rule my home. Au revoir, ma petite.”

  The grey veil swished as she climbed out of the carriage. In the sunlight, the color reminded Penelope of a storm-churned sea.

  Lord Thomas’s warning echoed in her ears. A storm is coming, cousin. You’d be wise to batten down the hatches.

  ~~~

  Chev had slept little and hungered much. All his unanswered longing had vibrated in the body he’d denied.

  All. Night. Long.

  And the triumph of mastering his desire without humiliating himself or Penelope had eventually given way to questions he could not answer—hopes he did not know he could fulfill.

  Using his leg and his left arm, he hefted another piece of wood onto the chopping block. Stepping back, he aimed and swung his ax. The impact sent spurs prickling up his arm, but the wood’s crack-and-tumble satisfied.

  He grunted in approval.

  Behind him, Emmaus whistled. “What did that log ever do to you?”

  He glanced back—a warning.

  “Easy now.” Emmaus shook his head.

  Chev set one of the halved pieces of wood back onto the block.

  He struck again.

  “Are you splitting wood, or are you serving as executioner?”

  Chev swiveled to face Emmaus. “Are you still here?”

  “I take it,” Emmaus said, “the meeting did not go well.”

  The meeting had passed like a dream after she’d stumbled into his embrace. The atmosphere had been something out of a myth, and the night infused with inspiration. If he were a different kind of man, he might have believed some goddess had intervened.

  Athena, perhaps.

  Then again, Athena was the goddess of wisdom and holding Penelope had not been exactly wise.

  Emmaus clucked. “Quite the conversationalist this morning, aren’t you? Very well, I can see I am not wanted. There’s stew on the coals. And”—his gaze raked Chev’s dripping torso—“I’d wash up before Lord Thaddeus arrives.”

  Again—fuck. He’d forgotten his promise to hunt with his son.

  That was how dangerous Pen was. One would think she has harmless, given her slender form and those soft, inviting—

  He cast aside his ax.

  “I apologize,” he said, catching up to Emmaus.

  “No need,” his friend held up his hand. “I understand. Women.”

  “I only wish she were the problem.”

  They stopped at the pump. Chev drew a bucket of water.

  “She isn’t the problem?” Emmaus asked.

  “Of course not. The problem is me.” Holding his wife had unleashed something within. He had no words to describe what was happening. “Douse me, would you, please?”

  He bowed his head as Emmaus poured earth-cold water down over his back. The water ran in rivulets and then dripped down from his chest.

  Now that was what he had needed—to work himself into a sweat and then be refreshed, washed clean.

  Contrast. Life was full of it.

  Like an expert naval navigator who’d taken work as a game keeper.

  Like a pig farmer’s daughter who’d make an excellent duchess.

  Like leaving a second son and returning as heir to a duchy in desperate need of a duke.

  Like the chaos that ate away at prosperity when a leader refused to lead.

  “Have you cooled down?” Emmaus asked.

  “Yes,” Chev replied.

  “Good,” Emmaus replied. “Because I have something I have to tell you—I must leave for a day or two.”

  “Leave?”

  “I received a message this morning. A naval summons.” Emmaus squinted off into the distance. “I’ve been arguing for my portion of spoils. My solicitor believes an arrangement can be made.”

  “Will you travel all the way to London?”

  “No, just to the Vice-Admiral of Cornwall.”

  Chev nodded. He’d be on his own. He didn’t relish the thought. “Good luck.”

  Emmaus snorted. “We’ll see.”

  “I have faith in you,” Chev said.

  Emmaus clapped Chev on the back. “And I in you, my friend. And I in you. Just promise me I’ll find everyone alive and standing when I get back.”

  “I won’t lose my temper.”

  “I didn’t expect you would,” Emmaus replied. “But try not to break my ax.”

  Emmaus sauntered back toward the house...whistling.

  If Cheverley claimed his place as heir, he could make right several wrongs. For one, he could help Emmaus get his due. He’d no doubt Emmaus would eventually prevail, but it never hurt to have the heir to a dukedom on your side.

  He ran his hand through his damp hair and turned his face to the sun.

  If he claimed his place...

  Was there still, realistically, an if?

  Was he capable of abandoning Penelope again after he’d held her close?

  But should he forgo hunting down the pirate like he planned, making sure she could never hurt anyone else? Vengeance was its own duty and would impart honor and great relief.

  Last night, he’d gained one, small triumph over the pirate.

  He’d mastered his desire before it exploded into rage.

  He now knew he was capable of holding and comforting his wife, but when—and if—the time shoul
d come, would he be capable of lying with her?

  Of giving her pleasure?

  The sun turned his eyelids to red—not the red of rage, but the red of warmth. Of fire.

  He listened for the pirate’s whisper and heard only silence.

  But would the silence last?

  Chapter Ten

  PEN RETURNED THOMAS’S carriage to Ithwick and then traversed the pathway through the woods, listening for signs of her son. Halfway between Ithwick and Pensteague, she spotted Thaddeus through the trees in the distance.

  She stopped.

  First came the unmistakable sound of a plucked string; next, the near-simultaneous strike of an arrow into the earth. A white tail flashed and then the lucky rabbit disappeared.

  “You were closer, this time,” the captain said.

  “Close doesn’t end my hunger, does it?” Thaddeus replied.

  The captain laughed. Pin-pricks danced over Penelope’s skin. That laugh...

  It could not be.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  The captain was not Chev. Another trick of her imagination.

  Chev had been large, with smooth, pale skin. The captain was tanned, slim as a cord. Lines of hardship had been etched into his face—he looked older than Chev would have been.

  “Another instruction,” the captain spoke to Thaddeus, “if you will allow.”

  “Yes?” Thaddeus sounded hopeful.

  “Never turn your back on a man with a weapon.”

  “But it’s just you—”

  “Nonsense,” the captain replied. “An affinity is no reason to grant your trust. If I were a villain, the first thing I’d do is try to make you like me. Try to make you put down your guard. I am a still a stranger. You do not know my intent.”

  “My own father could be a traveler in a strange land. Are men to mistrust him wherever he goes?”

  Ah, Thaddeus. “You needn’t grant your trust”—Penelope ventured into the clearing—“in order to be kind.”

  “Mother!” Thaddeus whirled around. “You gave me a fright.”

  But she hadn’t surprised the captain. From the look on the captain’s face, he’d known she was there since she arrived.

  The captain was not a man to underestimate.

  “Thaddeus, didn’t we agree that you would catch up on your studies today?”