Bewitched.
At twenty years of age, she was headstrong and coltish, angry and sad, happy and delightful, and the most beautiful creature he could imagine. He knew because his mind conjured her nearly every night before he fell asleep. Although he wasn’t twice her age, at three-and-thirty, he was still a good deal older than Isabella. Older than what she might want in a husband—if she was even hoping to marry. He had no idea of her desires these days.
His last visit had been cut short before the two could finish their first argument. She had tested him from the moment he appeared in the stables. Shocked at seeing wooden braces secured around the front legs of a colt, he had ordered they be removed immediately. Isabella insisted they remain on Endymion for at least another week, claiming they would help to straighten his legs. Although somewhat intrigued by her idea, Octavius found he couldn’t immediately agree—he had never heard of such a treatment and thought merely to have the colt put down. Isabella pushed and pushed as she tended to do, and he refused to give in. He wanted time to think on it. But her stubbornness had him frustrated and angry. Why, he had half a mind to tie her to the metal ring attached to the orangery! Instead, he had simply turned on his heel and left Huntinghurst for the immediate trip back to London.
Later, his driver mentioned she had run after the coach, not stopping until they had turned onto the road to Cocking.
He couldn’t decide if he should be angry at her for such unladylike behavior, or honored that she would chase down his coach in an effort to apologize.
Jane wouldn’t have done such a thing, he thought. Of course, they never argued the same way he and Isabella did, but he knew Jane would have been capable of doing so. She just knew not to argue.
He suddenly straightened, at once shocked that he could even compare Jane with Isabella. He was also a bit surprised when he realized he hadn’t given Jane a second thought in some time. As if time had memories of her fading in his mind’s eye.
Jane could be headstrong when she wished to be, but then, she was far more spoiled than Isabella would ever be.
Octavius blinked, remembering Isabella’s comment about her mother being too headstrong, and knowing Arabella had been just as beautiful as Clarinda, and Isabella nearly as comely, he suddenly understood Norwick’s fascination with Brotherton women.
Apparently, so did his manhood. He allowed a sigh when he realized how uncomfortable his breeches had become as Watkins held his topcoat open for him.
Now that a number of foals had made their appearance in the pastures surrounding Huntinghurst, Octavius was determined to meet each and every one. He hadn’t had a horse in the racing circuit for nearly four years and thought perhaps it was time he pay closer attention to his stables. He had learned on his last visit that several of his mares were pregnant. When he asked as to the identity of the studs, his head groom had given him a rather nervous look.
Your ward has been keeping the papers, the man had said. Rather startled by the comment, Octavius asked why Mr. Reeves hadn’t been doing so.
I cannot read or write, but she can, Your Grace.
Well, he supposed it made sense the head groom would trust Lady Isabella to complete the pedigree sheets for his new colts. He hoped she understood how they were to be completed for the Giant Stud Book.
Those at the Jockey Club in Newmarket were probably wondering what had become of his once-prolific stables. After the death of Jane, he had simply lost interest in racing. Lost interest in his stables. Lost interest in anything but his duty to his dukedom and attending sessions of Parliament. Since he was rarely at his clubs, he was sure his friends thought he was sequestered in his London townhouse with a mistress.
Or spending his days in a drunken stupor.
Well, he had done that on occasion, the liquor dulling the pain of loss. But his bouts had become less frequent once Isabella was sequestered at Huntinghurst.
Had it already been a year? Longer, he realized.
For the past year, Octavius believed Maxwell Tolson would meet his death at the hands of David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick. Despite having married Clarinda Anne Brotherton—and claiming he was quite content with his new wife and their life at Norwick House now that they had been back from Europe for a few months—Norwick always seemed as if he were trying to control a deep-seated rage.
Octavius secretly knew the earl had already killed a man, a thief who had apparently attempted to make off with one of the horses from his stables at Norwick Park. The duke often wondered if there was more to the tale, but if there was, Norwick remained mum on the topic.
So did his twin brother, Daniel.
Heartbroken that Clarinda had married David instead of him, Daniel had left London shortly after the wedding. He relocated to Norwick Park in Sussex and continued his work as the earldom’s man of business.
In the meantime, no one knew if David had ever threatened Craythorne, although if he had, his affaire with Arabella might become known to the other earl.
If Craythorne didn’t already know.
Perhaps Craythorne had learned Isabella was not his own daughter, and that had been the reason he had become so enraged, he was capable of killing her mother.
We may never know, Octavius thought with a sigh, wondering if Craythorne was still sequestered in a seaside cottage near Southampton.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Watkins asked, his manner rather hesitant. Although he was used to having to interrupt his employer’s frequent bouts of melancholy—he had been told to do so if it appeared the duke would miss an important engagement—the valet hadn’t been forced to do so for many months.
Octavius gave his head a shake, silently cursing himself for the momentary lapse. “No. Let the butler know I’ll be departing shortly,” he said as he placed his signet ring on one finger and checked the decorative links securing his cuffs. “With any luck, I can be there in time for luncheon.”
“Very good, sir,” Watkins replied, giving a bow before taking his leave of the master suite.
Within a half-hour and just as the sun was lightening the eastern sky, the Huntington coach made its way south.
Chapter 24
Homecoming at Huntinghurst
Later that day at Huntinghurst
Upon entering the large vestibule of Huntinghurst, Octavius knew in an instant that something was different. The entry to the multi-winged manor home had always been a bit on the dark side. A bit forbidding. He glanced up and studied the walls, suddenly sure the color on the plaster was lighter. A quick look at the transom above the door showed it was still there, although the glass was no longer as opaque with age and years of accumulated dirt.
“Has a colorman been here?” he asked as the butler hurried to take the great coat from his arm.
“Indeed, your Grace. Her ladyship thought it time for a new coat of paint.” The response was delivered as if the man were holding his breath, sure the duke would be annoyed at the change in the vestibule.
“Well, it certainly improved the place. And I can actually see you, Peters,” Octavius said with a grin. “Don’t know if that’s an improvement or not.”
Peters allowed a wry smile and gave a deep bow. “It’s good to see you again, Your Grace,” the butler said as he moved to take Octavius’ top hat. The duke had shed the great coat he had worn whilst riding, rather surprised at how much warmer it was in Sussex compared to when he had left London that morning.
“I trust all is well here?” Octavius dared a look beyond the vestibule, wondering if he would see evidence of a subtle change in the rest of the house.
The butler offered a shrug. “For the most part,” he hedged, almost as if he were a bit afraid to say anything else.
Having stepped beyond the vestibule, Octavius did a quick visual sweep of the two halls that jutted off to either side. Finding no evidence of anything different, other than maybe the paneling appeared newly polished, he dared a glance up the central staircase. Like the windows in the transom, the mu
llioned windows at the first landing appeared almost clear. Light poured in, illuminating the patterned carpet that covered the stairs all the way to the bottom.
“And what part would not be well?” Octavius countered as he turned his attention back on the butler.
Peters dipped his head, as if he regretted his words. “Lady Isabella has been...” He paused and gave a quick shake of his head. “A challenge, I suppose,” he finally managed to get out. At the duke’s sudden frown, which made the man appear even more imposing, if that were possible, the butler added, “She’s become friends with the maids, and she allows the dog to sleep in her bedchamber.”
Octavius couldn’t help the sense of relief he felt just then. He had imagined the butler about to claim the chit was a challenge because she was sneaking off at night, or imbibing in the liquor he kept in the study, or locked up in her bedchamber in a perpetual state of melancholy. She would have learned how to do that from me, he thought suddenly. “The house certainly doesn’t seem to have suffered for it,” he remarked.
“When it rained last week, I discovered her cleaning the windows alongside the maids,” Peters whispered, the manner in which his bushy eyebrows arched up giving him the appearance of someone who had been thoroughly scandalized. “Said she had to do something since she couldn’t go on a ride.”
This last had Octavius frowning more than learning Isabella had been discovered cleaning windows. “Has a favorite mount, does she?”
His eyes darting to the side, Peters nearly nodded before angling his head first to the left and then to the right. “Oh, other than her own horse, I don’t believe she has a favorite, Your Grace.”
The response had the duke even more alarmed. “Where will I find Lady Isabella right now?”
“The stables, no doubt. She spends most of her days out there, sir.”
Although he would have liked to get a bit to eat and have a cup of tea, Octavius elected instead to check on his ward. “Seems I’m headed out there then. See to a luncheon for us.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler responded before giving a bow. “I’ll let Cooper know you’ve arrived. He’ll act as your valet whilst you’re in residence.”
Glancing back at the vestibule, tempted to go out the way he had come in, Octavius instead headed down one of the halls to the short passageway that led to the back of the house. The entire way, he was aware of how much cleaner, nay, newer, the place seemed.
Lighter.
Faith!
Had the chit hired a colorman to paint the entire house? If so, he hadn’t received the bill, which had him wondering if it had been done. And then he realized he couldn’t smell any evidence of new paint. Certainly the place would have reeked of oils.
Upon closer inspection, he realized the walls in this hall weren’t painted at all, but covered in silk fabric. The mouldings at the top and the baseboards at the bottom hid the edges, making it appear as if the fabric was wallpaper.
Octavius gave a shake of his head. When have I ever paid a mind to the wall coverings before? he wondered.
He took a breath and continued on his way out the back door, nearly stopping at the sight of the riot of color that made up what he had at one time hoped would be his wife’s favorite garden. Although he employed a gardener or two for the property, he hadn’t paid much attention to the grounds since Jane’s death. He hadn’t the patience to review the gardener’s plans, nor the desire to see the results knowing they would only remind him of what he had lost. Remind him of Jane and the life he once had. The life they should have been enjoying right now.
Octavius stared at the boxwood hedges. Perfectly trimmed into a pattern of curved hedges, they met in the middle from which a fountain erupted. Inside of each set of bright green hedges, rows of red tulips and bluebells filled in the remaining space. From the windows above, he realized the central part of the garden would have looked like a six-petaled flower. Rhododendrons in white, yellow, and pink lined the sandstone walls of the house, and smaller flowers surrounded the crushed granite path that encircled the parterre.
Try as he might to avoid it, he couldn’t help but allow his gaze to settle on the stone bench in the south corner. There was a similar stone bench in the garden behind his Grosvenor Square mansion. Where Jane had been seated when she told him she was expecting their first child. He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory.
He should have known she was too frail to bear a child. Too frail to make his duchess. She wasn’t strong enough for the role, even if she was stern enough to stand up to those who found fault with her. Hell, the coronet was even too big for her head, he remembered just then, the memory of her attempting to wear it bringing a grin to his face.
Dammit.
Octavius shook his head, chastising himself over having allowed the memories to consume him. If he wasn’t careful, he would begin weeping.
Resuming his trip through the garden on the crushed granite path, he noted the imprints of smaller boots, and for a moment he wondered who had made them.
Lady Isabella, of course. She probably took this same path to get to the stables if she truly spent as much time there as the butler claimed.
When he emerged from the garden and cleared the back wing of the house, he realized the path continued in the lawn. A series of flags led straight to the stables. He couldn’t remember having used them before, and now he wondered how long they had been there.
A groom was seeing to removing the saddle from Poseidon as a stableboy held the reins. The boy gave a bow when he realized the duke was upon them. “Yer Grace,” he said as he kept his attention on Poseidon.
Well, at least he had a healthy respect for the beast.
The head groom stood up and gave a nod. “Yer Grace.”
“Where might I find Lady Isabella?”
The groom and stableboy shared a quick glance. He couldn’t help but notice how they stiffened at hearing the query. “Probably in the meadow by now,” Reeves replied, although his manner suggested he was a bit nervous. “She likes to ride there.” When Octavius gave him a questioning look, he added, “About a mile west of here. The one with the pond in the middle.”
Octavius straightened. Isabella wasn’t the only one who liked to ride there. He almost asked how she had discovered it, but figured one of the grooms would have led her there. Although it was nearly surrounded by trees, there was a well-worn path leading into the clearing. The pond was the perfect place to water a horse on a hot day. “Then I suppose I’ll need my horse,” Octavius stated.
“Of course, sir,” the groom replied, immediately seeing to securing the saddle.
A moment later, Octavius was mounted and heading west, rather hoping he would simply come upon Isabella as she and a groom made their way back to the stables. But he made it all the way to the meadow without seeing anyone.
When he cleared the trees, his gaze immediately went to the pond. Next to it, Isabella stood with her back to him. Facing a horse nearly as large as Poseidon—just as black, too, although he couldn’t determine exactly which horse from this distance—she was holding up one gloved hand as she took a step back. Meanwhile, her dog seemed to be sleeping in a bit of shade next to the pond.
“What the...?” He watched a moment as she took another step back, still holding her hand up. When the horse tossed its head, she paused in her retreat and moved forward, the hand apparently moving to rest on its forehead. He could hear a soft whinny before he watched her repeat her retreat again, her hand held up as if it could stop the horse from following her. This time, she managed to make it several steps away from the horse before he once again tossed his head, this time letting out a whinny of complaint that had Poseidon giving a jerk of his head.
“Steady, boy,” Octavius murmured as he glanced around. Where the hell is the groom? Certainly she would know to have a groom or a footman join her when she was on a ride!
And then he remembered how nervous the stableboy and Reeves had been back at the stables. As if they knew one
of them should have been with her.
Dammit!
Poseidon must have sensed his annoyance, or he simply grew impatient at standing still, for he tossed his head.
Octavius spurred the beast into a quick walk, his attention on Isabella as she continued whatever it was she was attempting to do with...
Ares?
A jolt of fear shot through Octavius just then. Even as part of him realized the beast was saddled and that she had to have ridden him to the meadow, he also knew the three-year-old had never been broken.
At least, he hadn’t been when Octavius was last at Huntinghurst.
He dismounted even before Poseidon had come to a complete halt, calling out her name as he took several steps in her direction. “Isabella!”
Ares tossed his head again, and his ears suddenly flattened just as Isabella turned to discover who had called her name. Grinning, she held up her hand again in Ares’ direction, gave him a quick beseeching look, and turned to run in the duke’s direction at the same time the dog raced ahead, his tale wagging.
“Your Grace!” she called out, her face alight with a huge smile. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as her body collided with his.
Nearly bowled over, the duke took a step back as he was forced to lift her a bit and turn in a half circle or end up on his bum. There was a moment of awe at her enthusiasm, a moment of happy surprise at how she embraced him. At how she seemed so pleased to see him. At how good it felt to have her body pressed against the front of his. To inhale the scent of honeysuckle and citrus from her hair. To simply hold a woman for a moment before her feet touched the ground.
And then the moment was suddenly over. Even the dog had simply come to a halt and now sat regarding him with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
He was completely unprepared for the heady combination of conflicting thoughts he experienced just then—fright, joy, anger, surprise—that he said the first thing that came to mind.
The Dream of a Duchess Page 16
