“Stephen, do still your tongue if you will not offer assistance,” Peter said in an exasperated, though affectionate tone.
“But Fotmy, what fun does that gain me?” Stephen replied as he stepped out into the hallway.
Ahh. This was Orley’s Eton chum. Stephen Woodhead, Visconte of Savoy. Chester watched as the man walked toward him. Stephen paused directly in front of him. Stephen bowed low, picking up Chester’s hand, placing a lingering kiss on the backs of his fingers. Chester blushed, especially when Orley growled low.
“That is quite enough, Savoy.”
“If you find that you grow tired of being a duchess, Lady Chester, please send word and I shall rescue you. We will return to the villa here, or perhaps we will go to some other enchanting country, and I will treat you as a queen,” he said with a rakish grin.
Chester chuckled. “If I do not want to be a duchess, my dear Lord Visconte, what pray tell would make you think I would want to be treated as a queen?”
Stephen tossed his head back and laughed. He turned to Orley and nodded. “You are right, old chap. He is perfect for you. You have found yourself quite a gem in the Duchess Chester here.” He looked back at Chester. “Treasure him. For you can never be assured that you will always have him with you.”
Chester frowned at the sadness he saw reflected in Stephen’s eyes and reached out to the bigger man but as quickly as he saw it, the man blinked and it was gone. Stephen grinned and bowed. “Now, if you will all excuse me? I must go and check the vineyard.”
He placed another kiss on Chester’s hand and was gone. Chester watched him leave and glanced at Orley.
“Your Grace?”
Orley shook his head. “I’m afraid I am just as baffled as you are, my duchess.” Placing a kiss on Chester’s cheek, he followed his friend from the house.
Chester looked at Peter, whose eyes had gone soft as he watched his son’s departure. When Peter realized Chester was looking at him, Peter sighed and gestured for him to follow.
“Come, Your Grace. Let us discuss dinner parties, linens, and receiving guests into one’s home.”
Chester’s head spun as he listened to Peter rattle off instructions. He looked around for Missy, wondering where his maid could have gotten off to. He really could have used the servant in that moment. He felt very much like he had been cast into the ocean without knowing how to swim, and without his maid or his husband, Chester was almost certain he was going to drown.
Orley climbed into bed next to Chester and propped his head up on an elbow. Chester sat surrounded by books, papers, and what looked to be diagrams. Orley peered at them inquisitively.
“Are you studying seating arrangements?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes,” Chester said in a distracted tone.
“But whatever for?”
Chester looked over at him. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you studying those things?”
Chester sighed. “Orley, I must learn how to be a proper duchess. In order to do that, I must know these things. Most ladies learn these things from the time they can speak. I was taught how to properly make beds. How to empty a chamber pot. How to walk in and out of a room without being seen. Even how to wake up a doxy and remove her from the room of a lord without his wife seeing that she was ever there.” He shook his head. “This?” He gestured to the papers on his lap. “I was never taught this. How am I supposed to be your duchess if I cannot host a ball or a dinner without causing a faux pas?”
Orley ran his fingers through his hair. “But I care not for such matters. Truly, I have no need for balls, teas, soirees, and the like. So why should you waste your time learning about them?” He tapped the pages of one of the books. “I thought Lady Piedmont was merely going to teach you about the running of a household, not about becoming a bit of fluff.”
Chester turned an exasperated look on Orley. “So you do not care for the reception our child shall receive, then, I take it?” He shook his head. “I agree with you, Orley. I would be bored to tears and more than out of my element in the push of debutantes and dandies, but what of the babe and any other children we may have? Shall we relegate them to a life of cold indifference toward society just because we have?”
“I will not become my father!” Orley roared. He panted for breath, his chest and skin tight.
Chester blinked and held up a hand as if warding off an attack, and Orley realized his right hand clenched the bedclothes in an angry fist. He released it and slid away from his husband, suddenly afraid of his actions. Fearful of the rage that boiled inside of him.
“I have never said that you were, Orley,” Chester said softly. “Indeed, I have never met your father, so how can I compare you to him?”
Orley shook his head and leaned away from Chester when the young woman reached out to touch him. “Orley, come here.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to cause you pain,” he said softly.
“This I am aware of,” Chester acknowledged. “Which is why I am telling you to come to me.” He held out his arms.
Orley returned to Chester’s side and looked down into the soft gaze of his beloved. He watched silently as Chester took his hand and placed it on Chester’s stomach. Orley stared as Chester placed both of his hands over Orley’s before he smiled up at Orley. Chester didn’t speak for a long time, just held Orley’s gaze.
“You are not your father, my Duke. You are you. Of this I have no doubt. Now you just need to figure it out. Just as you need to remember that you are no longer being held at the mercy of those vermin in Badajoz. You are free, Orley. You are here with me. You are the Duke of Whitcomb. You married me, for some reason which I have yet to determine, and we
are expecting our first child. The bad is gone, finally.”
Orley leaned down to take Chester’s lips in a deep kiss and tried to accept his husband’s words, but for some reason he felt as if Chester had just tempted fate.
Chester was surprised, when they went to leave weeks later, that Stephen Woodhead chose to go with them. He had expected the Visconte to stay behind in Titaly with his family, especially as he had left Angland when he’d been unable to enter His Majesty’s Navy years before, but Chester had wisely kept silent about the matter. Especially when Orley glanced over at him with a steely-eyed gaze.
Message received, Your Grace, Chester thought ungraciously.
Things had been slightly tense between Chester and Orley since their conversation in bed regarding Orley’s father. They had barely kissed good-night and had not made love at all, though Chester would be the first to admit the very idea of engaging in such acts under the roof of his hosts, Conte and Contessa Piedmont, was quite uncomfortable. However, the very fact that Orley had not once tried to tempt him or even barter him into one act of carnal congress was extremely galling. Why, if Chester was given to more dramatic flights of expression, much as he’d seen some of the Titalian women around him doing, he would have… well he would have….
Heavens above. He didn’t even know what he would have done.
Chester groaned and stamped his foot in frustration.
“Are you quite all right, Yer Grace?” Missy asked softly from near his shoulder.
Chester looked over at the maid and smiled at her with a nod. “Oh yes, I am merely bemoaning the fact that I seem to be incapable of acting like a harpy.”
Missy snorted and covered her mouth, her eyes wide. She glanced around the entryway. “Is that really a desire of Yer…. Your Grace?” Missy had been receiving lessons from the contessa’s lady’s maid while they’d been in attendance at Piedmont. Though she sometimes slipped into her Tscottish brogue, which Chester had to admit he found comforting, she was trying her damnedest to make herself presentable as the lady’s maid of a duchess.
Chester sighed. “No, it is not, Missy. I am merely at my wit’s end, it seems.”
When Missy continued to look at him, Chester just shook his head. He would neither betray his marriage
nor his husband’s confidence in such a way, but he was torn. How did one mend a rift in their relationship? Especially when one was uncertain of its origin?
Looking back to where Orley stood chatting with Stephen and the Conte of Piedmont, Chester mulled over the conundrum.
“You appear as if you were contemplating the very start of the Tearth, Duchessa,” Peter’s voice was hushed beside him, and Chester’s hand flew to his chest with a gasp.
He turned with wide eyes toward the contessa. Peter held up a hand with a soft smile. “Apologies for startling you, my dear, but I didn’t wish our conversation to be overheard. Is there a problem between you and His Grace?”
Chester looked over his shoulder at Orley, who watched him with raised eyebrows and waved a gloved hand. Glancing back at Peter, Chester smoothed his hands down the front of his dark green traveling gown, trimmed in black velvet, and sighed. He swallowed the tears that threatened and shook his head, then nodded.
“Oh, my dear. Come,” Peter whispered, taking Chester’s hand and leading him into the sitting room.
“Lady Peter? Where are you taking Her Grace? We are to be on the road posthaste.” Orley’s voice followed them.
“Just some last minute encouragement from one experienced fotmy to an expectant one, Your Grace,” Peter stated.
“Ahh, well, carry on, then, my lady.”
Chester sniffled, tears rolling down his cheeks to wet his bodice. Peter swept him into the sitting room and closed the door behind them. Chester looked up at the taller male who regarded him silently. The contessa shook his head and withdrew a handkerchief from inside the sleeve of his own gown.
“Wipe your eyes, Your Grace. It would not do for you to appear before your husband as if you are weak and spineless. You must be made of sterner stuff than that if you are to take your place beside him as his duchess.”
Chester smiled shakily. “You sound like Lady Kent.”
Peter grinned, walking over to the sideboard. He poured a few drops of wine into a glass, which he brought over to Chester. Chester sipped from it delicately as he’d been taught to do and walked over to the settee.
“Who is Lady Kent?” Peter asked.
“The Duchess of Pompinshire’s elder sister. I used to work as his maid, the duchess that is,” Chester said as he turned and sank onto the edge of the cushions. “When His Grace announced that we were eloping to Gretna Green, the ladies who were still in attendance took me off to the modiste to attain gowns and to encourage me. Lady Kent told me that the duke was not the only soldier in our marriage, and it was up to me to put on my armor now as well.” He gestured down at his gown. “She implied that the gowns and such were indeed my own battlefield equipment.”
Peter chuckled. “Well, Lady Kent sounds brilliant.”
Chester nodded. “She is indeed.” He took another sip of wine before placing the glass aside. He really did not like the taste of the stuff. He surely could not countenance how anyone could drink spirits. It tasted of turpentine and was better served to wave under his nose if he was having a fit of the vapors than to drink when he was emotional.
“So, Your Grace, what seems to be the problem between you and His Grace?” Peter asked as he came and sat beside Chester.
Chester glanced down at his gloves, considering what to say. While he liked the contessa, he had not known him for that long, and really the matter was a personal one. It would be the height of impropriety to discuss so delicate a situation with the lady. Chester nibbled on his lower lip.
He shook his head and stood. “It is nothing. I am sorry to have wasted your time. I am making too much of it, I am sure.”
“If you are certain?” Peter asked, not rising from the settee.
Chester nodded. “Of course.”
“Just know this, Your Grace…,” Peter started, causing Chester to pause in front of the closed door to the sitting room. He turned to regard Peter carefully.
“The former Duke of Whitcomb had very exacting standards of what it meant to be a duke, which he foisted upon the younger duke. It is not an uncommon practice for fathers to be rather… physical with their heirs and spares when they know they are to receive the mantle and title of a very powerful dukedom and lineage.” Peter rose and walked toward Chester. He came to a stop in front of Chester and touched his shoulder. “And when you are dealing with someone who has been raised as His Grace has, you must love him differently than you would anyone else.”
Chester tilted his head to the side. “How so, my lady?”
Peter smiled. “You must love him hard without letting him know that you are doing so and allow him to do the same, because he is broken and doesn’t even realize that he is.”
Whitcomb Hall
Orley wanted to say it was good to be home, but as he stared up from the comfort of the carriage at the monstrosity that was his childhood home, he wanted to tell the driver to continue past Whitcomb Hall and take him away on another bridal tour with Chester. Perhaps they would go to Tindia this time? Or even to the Colonies, even though Orley held many Tamericans in utter contempt; not all of them, but some.
Many….
Most.
Chester chuckled next to him, and Orley looked over to his husband with a quirked eyebrow.
“You have the expression on your face that you often get when you think about the colonists and their separation from Angland,” Chester said as he reached up to touch Orley’s face.
Stephen laughed, and Orley scowled at his friend, who sat across from them in the carriage. “Bloody hell, Whitcomb! You let old Professor Bartleby get you all riled up over that?” Stephen shook his head. “Let it go, old chap. We were babes when it started, and Bartleby got it wrong.”
Orley narrowed his eyes at his friend. “How do you know?”
“Trust me,” Stephen nodded. “I do.”
Chester touched Orley’s elbow, and Orley turned to look at the young woman. “Will you not admit that much of what you have been taught about other countries and classes has been incorrect, Your Grace?” He smiled softly. “If it were not, you and I would not be married right now.”
Orley sighed and huffed out a laugh, conceding the point. “I must concur, on that matter you are correct my dear.” He pressed his lips against the back of Chester’s hand and passed a hand over the bump that now showed beneath Chester’s gown. He smiled when he felt the movement of their child beneath his hand and turned back to the open carriage door.
He climbed out and assisted Chester in exiting the carriage. He wanted to rub his forehead when he saw the entire staff of Whitcomb Hall lined up outside, waiting to be introduced to the new duchess. While he’d fired all of the previous staff, he had kept the butler and housekeeper since they had been surrogate parents to him. Standing before them now, Orley was nervous and hesitant even though they smiled affectionately at him.
“Welcome to Whitcomb Hall, my dear,” Orley said to Chester. Turning to the staff he said. “Please join me in welcoming to Whitcomb Hall the new Duchess of Whitcomb!”
A greeting of welcome went up, as the servants all bowed and curtsied, and Orley could feel Chester stiffen next to him. He wondered how difficult it was for the young woman. It had not been too long ago that Chester had been in their position.
Orley watched as Chester stepped forward and raised his head, not much, and looked each servant in the face.
“It is a pleasure to be here among you all. Thank you for your service to His Grace. I am sure you have lived and worked here faithfully. I would like to extend my gratitude for all you have done to serve the duke, and I know that you will do the same for me and any and all children that the Lord will see fit to bless us with.” Orley watched Chester’s chest rise and fall with his deep breath, and felt pride surge through him. “I appreciate the warm welcome from the bottom of my heart, since I know you have heard of my humble beginnings and know I was once a maid in Southerby Manor. But, know this, just as you strive to be the best staff for Whitcomb Hall, so too wi
ll I do the same to be the best duchess it has ever seen.” Chester nodded and turned to look at Orley.
Orley walked up to stand next to his husband, took Chester’s hand, and kissed the back of it.
“Well done, Angel. You have already proven yourself more than worthy to them,” he said with a nod in the servants’ direction. As he looked toward them, he saw nothing but respect and smiles on their faces, but more than that, he saw a fierce protectiveness. It was something he saw usually reserved only for him. They would guard Chester and any children he had with their lives, as it should be.
Orley felt that suspicious clenching in his chest, and his eyes burned. Blinking away wetness, he nodded to his butler, Mr. Banks, and housekeeper, Mrs. Crawley, and led Chester and Stephen inside.
Southerby Manor
Chester had convinced… okay, he had pestered… Orley into visiting the Duke and Duchess of Pompinshire. Chester would deny it to his dying day, but he was sincerely hoping his mother would see his growing belly and would finally talk to him.
Orley and Lord Savoy had laughed at Chester when Orley’s horse, Gideon, was brought along for the trip.
If we are to go to Southerby to visit His Grace Pompinshire, I must have Gideon, love. He is the only one who can handle that beast stallion that his duke always rides.
Chester would never understand men and their… pets, but what did he know? All he knew was that he was anxious to be back at the manor. It was familiar. Comfortable.
Home.
Not that Whitcomb was uncomfortable—per se. The staff was lovely. They all went out of their way to make Chester feel welcome. Thanks to the contessa, and also Mrs. Crawley, Chester had settled into his role as lady of the house quite nicely. The only problem was… well….
The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb Page 20
