The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  Sampson and two footmen appeared on the top steps. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the footmen take a step forward, only to be brought up by Sampson. Good, that meant Sampson was on her side. She hit him again.

  Marcus backed up three steps. “Really, Duchess, your damned boot?”

  “How dare you bring her here!” she shrieked. “You could have gone to London on business, like most bloody men, damn you. You could have pretended. You will pay for this perfidy, Marcus!” She struck him two more times with that boot heel, one a very gratifying thud against his right shoulder.

  “Duchess, your aim is getting too good. Stop it now.” He rubbed his shoulder and his right arm. “Aren’t you tired now? All that hopping about on one foot—and your stocking is quite ruined—surely you’re getting fatigued.”

  “I will remove your head from your neck, Marcus Wyndham! I’ll strangle you with my ruined stocking. I have no intention of getting tired until you’re writhing in death throes on the ground.”

  She raised the boot again, so enraged she was pounding with it. Then something got through to her. He wasn’t angry, he was laughing. Laughing!

  At her.

  She stopped cold and stared at him. The woman was peeping out from behind him. She didn’t appear to be the least bit perturbed or frightened. If the Duchess wasn’t mistaken, the woman looked ready to break into hysterical laughter along with her bloody husband.

  She raised the boot again, then very slowly lowered it. She sat back on the ground, pulled the boot on, and rose.

  She raised her fist at him, then realized that he was nearly doubled over with laughter.

  She jumped at him, flailing at him, hitting him as hard as she could, yanking on his hair. He had his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and still she struggled. He held her there until she quieted.

  “So, that once tranquil, speechless creature is well and truly buried. You’ve a strong right fist, Duchess. No, don’t try to kill me again, consider me already suitably maimed.”

  “You bastard, let me go.”

  “Well, if I do, do you promise not to fetch a pistol and shoot me?”

  She kicked him in the shin.

  He grunted, then pulled her hard to the side of him. “Now, would you like to meet Celeste Crenshaw? Isn’t she charming? She adores me, was perfectly willing to come all the way north so I wouldn’t be deprived.”

  She was making a great fool of herself. He’d done this on purpose. He’d quite made her lose her good sense. Quite simply, he’d done her in.

  She tried to take a deep, calming breath. It was very difficult. She still tried, saying finally, knowing she didn’t have but a few moments to salvage her pride and the situation, “Hello, Celeste,” in surely a voice that was too shrill and too loud. “So you are here to take this lout out of my bed. I’m delighted, truly. I was angry at him for quite something else. Please understand, I’m ecstatic you’re here. I’m quite tired of pleading endless headaches and endless toe aches. Do you know that I have even tried to make myself become ill to keep him away from me? Ah, yes, now that you’re here, I shall be able to smile again. I am so very hungry, but to eat would have made him think that my sickness was all an act. I won’t have to pretend to illness any more. Now I can eat. Thank you, Celeste. Shall I show you to your room or would you prefer to sleep with his lordship in his bedchamber?”

  She was well aware that his hands were tightening on her upper arms. She looked up at him, giving him a lot of white teeth. “Do forgive me for acting the shrew, Marcus. It is just that you took me off guard. Now that I see the magnificent benefits Miss Crenshaw offers to both of us, I realize quite clearly what a wonderful, thoughtful husband I have. Oh, my dearest Marcus, you are far too kind to me.”

  “I will kill you,” he said between his teeth. He began to shake her, then stopped abruptly. “No, if I continue to shake you, you just might vomit in the rosebushes again. Mr. Biggs, the head gardener, was near to tears about it. You quite ruined his new bush. No, I shan’t do that again. Now, madam—”

  He paused, then he began to lightly caress her upper arms. His eyes were very blue. “If I’m a wonderful, kind husband, why you, Duchess, you are an equally magnificent wife. Now, if you don’t mind, Celeste is doubtless fatigued—from thirst, you understand. Don’t fret, my dear. I will see her to a chamber and take care of her needs.” He patted her cheek, kissed her forehead as chastely as would an uncle, and turned to the young woman who hadn’t said anything.

  “See how lovely she is, Celeste? And here you were worried that she might not find you as charming as I do. Now, let me take you to your bedchamber and assist you out of that traveling gown. It is wrinkled and you do look heated—well, not really wrinkled and in truth it’s I who am heated. Yes, a nice cool bath—ah, I’ll wash your back for you—and then we will enjoy the remainder of the afternoon.”

  “Marcus.”

  “Yes, Duchess?” he said, turning.

  “If you do not take your hands off her, I will do something that you will surely regret.”

  He dropped his hands immediately. “Now what, Duchess?”

  “If you laugh at me again, I will also do something that you will surely regret.”

  “Not a stitch of laughter in this body, Duchess.”

  “Good. Now, Miss Crenshaw, you will follow Sampson and he will take you to your bedchamber.”

  Miss Crenshaw shook her head and giggled. “I think, my Lord Chase, my lady, that this is a stalemate. Both of you have done remarkable things to the other. You two have entertained me more in the past ten minutes than I have been for the past year at Drury Lane. And to think that his lordship even paid me ten guineas for my presence here. Thank you so much for allowing me to remain. Ah, may I remain, my lord, for just tonight? Oh, yes, my name is Hannah Crenshaw. Not this Celeste, a name that is obviously made up for it sounds quite silly really.”

  “Tonight is fine,” the Duchess said. “You are too beautiful, however, to remain longer. I will see that his lordship is locked in his bedchamber. Badger is a fine cook. You just might want to stay, along with our American relatives, but you can’t.”

  Miss Crenshaw giggled again and walked away from them, her bearing more sedate and elegant than the Duchess’s.

  The Duchess turned back to her husband, saw that he was nearly fit to burst with laughter, and slammed her fist in his belly. He grunted for her, then brought her against him, hugging her hard.

  “I had you for a full five minutes. You’re more ferocious than even Spears and Badger believed you’d be. Maggie wanted to wager that you’d return to being a silent stick, and fade away in quiet misery, but Badger said no, you’d wallop the daylights out of my poor body. Spears just sniffed and told me that the entire charade wasn’t worthy of the earl of Chase.”

  She simply stared at him now for a very long time. Finally, she began to rub at his chest and arms where she’d struck him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “Yes, I’m in frightful pain.”

  She switched from rubbing vigorously to caressing. He said in a sigh, “We have quite an audience, Duchess. There is Mr. Biggs, over there, hiding behind the rosebushes you nearly killed, doubtless there to protect his new blooms.”

  “I know,” she said, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. She stared at him, lightly kissing his chin, his jaw, his ear. “You will never bore me, Marcus.”

  “You think you bore me? You just pulled off your left boot and beat me with it. Never would I have expected such a unique attack.”

  “A lady must make do with what she has available.”

  24

  SHE LAY THERE staring into the darkness, waiting for him. She’d heard him come up just minutes ago. He’d been playing whist with Trevor, and his hired Celeste, who was really Hannah. The evening had been delightful, Marcus introducing Miss Crenshaw as a distant cousin, more distant even than his cousins from America, more distant perhaps than even China, and all had laughed and enj
oyed themselves and Badger’s cooking except Aunt Wilhelmina, who was in top form, even going so far at one point over gooseberry fool, one of Marcus’s favorite desserts, to observe, “This is all quite inappropriate, this jollity. It is her fault. She was a bastard and thus doesn’t know how one is to behave properly.”

  Marcus had choked on his gooseberry fool, managed to get himself back in control, and said, “I quite agree, Aunt Wilhelmina. Consider Miss Crenshaw a hopeful for my hand once I have gotten rid of the Duchess here. Do you approve of Miss Crenshaw?”

  “She has breeding, that is obvious. I shall consider her for marriage with Trevor or James. Miss Crenshaw, have you a dowry that is worthy of my consideration?”

  The laughter had burst forth, but Aunt Wilhelmina had seemed oblivious. Thank goodness the Twins and Ursula weren’t at the dinner table.

  But that was then and now it was dark, and she was still carrying a child he didn’t want.

  When the adjoining door finally opened, she felt empty and dull, all the evening’s laughter sucked out of her.

  “Well,” he said after a moment as he sat on the edge of her bed, “I was hoping for a carolling hello and winsome smile. I get neither?”

  She swallowed the silly tears. “I have a winsome smile. You just can’t see it.”

  He lit a candle.

  She turned her head away, but he was fast. He gently cupped her chin in his fingers and turned her to face him. He gave her a look more brooding than a hero in a Gothic novel. “Don’t cry, Duchess. I would rather you shoot me than see you cry.”

  “I would rather shoot you too. It’s nothing, Marcus, nothing at all.” He snorted at that and she knew, of course, that because he was Marcus, he would dig and dig, and thus, she sat up and threw herself in his arms. “Please, Marcus, please forget that you never wanted me. Forget I made you marry me. Please forget I carry a child you don’t want. Kiss me and love me.”

  He went very still, but not for long. When he was deep inside her and she was trembling from the aftershocks of the pleasure he’d given her, he dipped his head down and kissed her. His breath was warm and sweet in her mouth. “You were made just for me, do you know that, Duchess? Just for me. Feel, just feel how we are together. I never would have believed such a joining possible, but it’s true. Feel us, Duchess.”

  She did. She’d believed herself beyond sated, so exhausted with pleasure that she surely couldn’t want more, but his words and the touch of his fingers on her flesh, made her suck in her breath. It was she who brought his head down again and kissed him with all her heart, all the feeling that was within her, feeling that was older than the Duchess was surely, deep and full, all that feeling, and it was all for him and it always had been and it would be until she died.

  He fell asleep with her gathered against him, her face in the crook of his neck. She wanted to sleep, but it eluded her. She wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time since she’d found out she was carrying his child, what she was going to do. Her arm was over his chest. Slowly, she caressed his warm flesh, feeling the strength of him, the power. She rested her hand finally on his hip, aware that her belly was pressed against his side and she was hot from the touch of his flesh.

  Would she still be here at Chase Park when her belly would be rounded? If she was, would he still want to hold her like this, the child he didn’t want between them?

  He felt the wet of her tears against his neck. “No,” he whispered against her ear, “no, Duchess, don’t cry. Scream for me instead.” He came over her, coming into her, and when she did find her release, she didn’t scream, just moaned softly into his mouth.

  The day, Marcus thought, was one of those few days in high summer when the sky was so clear, the air so fresh, it nearly sent one into tears, that or poetic raptures, that or a good fast gallop. He decided on the gallop. He and the Duchess had seen Hannah Crenshaw off early that morning. She’d had the impertinence to say to him quietly as he’d handed her into the carriage he’d hired to return her to London, “She’s very special, my lord. I hope you see that. She’s also unhappy. She shouldn’t be. I trust you will see to it, and not become like so many husbands I have seen and known and none of them worth a pig’s snout.”

  He’d said nothing to that, but he had wanted to box her ears for her damned effrontery. Instead, he’d just closed the carriage door and waved to the coachman. He had stood back, watching the carriage bowl down the wide drive.

  The Duchess had said, “She was an experience, Marcus. You are a bounder, a perverse bounder, but your sense of humor pleases me. I suppose it is up to me now to outdo you.”

  He’d recoiled in immediate alarm. “No, don’t even think it. Promise me, Duchess, not until you’re well again.”

  “I am well again, Marcus. I’m pregnant and quite healthy.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice clipped, looking for just an instant at her belly, flat beneath her morning gown of pale blue muslin. He’d massaged her belly the night before, caressing her pelvic bones, oh yes, he’d felt with his hands how flat she was. It didn’t seem possible his child could be there in her womb. He didn’t look up when she sighed and left him.

  He’d stood there, cursed quietly, then took himself to the stables.

  As Lambkin saddled Stanley, he looked up again at that sky that deserved a poet’s praises. The clouds were whiter than a saint’s soul.

  “Mr. Trevor took out Clancy,” Lambkin said as he picked up Stanley’s left front leg, crooning to the stallion as he examined the hoof carefully.

  “Riding my horse without a by-your-leave,” Marcus said, picking up his own saddle and hefting it over Stanley’s broad back. “Damned encroacher.”

  “Aye, an excellent rider Mr. Trevor is, just excellent. Like one of them ’orse men, you know, my lord, ’alf of ’im a ’orse and the other ’alf a man?”

  “A centaur, curse his damned eyes. A centaur was never named Trevor.”

  “Aye, that’s it, and Mr. James was with him. He enjoys riding Alfie, a fine fellow old Alfie is, all spit and growl, but ever such a sweet goer. Mr. James is different from Mr. Trevor. He treats his ’orse like a man would a pretty lady. ’E’s got magic in ’is ’ands, ’e does.”

  “Ha,” Marcus said, gave Lambkin a sour look, and clicked Stanley from the stable yard.

  On his ride he didn’t see Trevor or James, even though he rode to the ruins of St. Swale’s Abbey. Not a hair of him to be seen. Where was the damned bounder? Where was James? He found that he began searching for the dell and the oak tree and a well and something that could resemble a nine. A bloody nine. A Janus-faced nine. What the devil was that? Two nines back-to-back? Why did folk insist on leaving clues that were so obfuscated that even a brainy fellow like himself didn’t stand a chance of figuring them out?

  He saw a lone female on the narrow country road close to the drive leading into the Park, saw that it was Ursula, and pulled up Stanley beside her. “Good morning, cousin. Why aren’t you riding?”

  “The day is too magnificent. When I ride I’m too afraid I’ll fall off and I wanted to see everything today. Even the leaves on the trees look greener today, don’t you think? This is a day to treasure. It rains a lot here, my lord, a lot more than back home, although Baltimore is nature’s blight. That’s what my papa used to say.”

  He grinned at that. “You miss your home, Ursula?”

  “Yes, but England is also my home since my papa was born here. Chase Park is the most incredible place. There are no houses like it in America. Oh, there are mansions, but they’re new and shiny, not centuries-old with hidden passages and hidey-holes and clues for the Wyndham legacy if we could just find them.”

  He dismounted, looped Stanley’s reins over his hand, and walked beside his cousin.

  “Legacy? Why do you call it that?”

  “Mother says it isn’t just a treasure but rather a legacy meant for the younger son since the elder son becomes the earl and gets the Park, the properties, and all the money. Thus, it’s a l
egacy for her husband and since Papa died, it’s now hers.”

  “I see,” he said, wanting to applaud Aunt Wilhelmina’s circuitous logic. “Well, I fear that if there is a treasure or a legacy, it must belong to me, the earl. Sorry, my dear, but I shan’t hand it over to your mama. Now, James and Trevor are out somewhere but I haven’t seen either of them.”

  “No, nor have I. Trevor is getting impatient to leave. He keeps giving Mother harassed looks. As for James, he wants to find our legacy, but I don’t think he wants to steal it from you, not like my mother does, if it truly is stealing, and as of yet, I’m not certain who it should belong to. I think I should like to have it though.”

  “Your mother,” he said carefully, “is a very unusual person. Has she always been so very unusual?”

  Ursula cocked her head to one side. “I think she has but she’s become more unusual as I’ve gotten older, or as she’s gotten older. It’s difficult to know which when one is young. Do you think the Duchess is upset at what she says? She doesn’t seem to be, though perhaps she should be, for mother is many times quite unaccountable. She does odd things, then forgets them. Or perhaps she doesn’t forget, just pretends to.”

  “The Duchess is far too intelligent to be cast down by insults, no matter how smoothly couched. As for your mother forgetting things, that’s interesting.”

  “It wasn’t, until she mistakenly served some spoiled food to a neighbor and he nearly died.”

  “Did she, ah, dislike this neighbor?”

  “However did you know that?”

  “Wild guess. Look over at that oak tree. By heaven, it’s older than you are, surely.”

  “Older than me, Marcus? More likely your age or my mother’s age, but surely that’s too old, even for a tree. Come now, it would be a mere sapling were it my age. Oh yes, Mr. Sampson said that a Major Lord Chilton was coming today.”

  “Oh good lord, I clean forgot, what with all the excitement.”

  “What excitement?”