To Love a Duchess EPB

by Karen Ranney

  He was like a lovesick boy.

  He should remember his mission, the reason he was here at Marsley House, instead of thinking about the duchess.

  He dressed but wore only a shirt and trousers, not the uniform of his position. It was nearly two in the morning. The only people who would see him were the footmen assigned to night duty. All good men he trusted. They would ensure the duchess was safe even after he was gone. Not that she knew she was in danger, but if word ever got out that the duke’s actions had resulted in the massacre at Manipora, the people of England might well take matters into their own hands. Hell, he’d even given thought to destroying the portrait of the bastard that showed him smugly smiling.

  He couldn’t imagine any man, especially a peer of the English realm, betraying his own countrymen. According to Roger, that’s exactly what had happened. The duke had communicated with the rebel leader, giving him information about the fortifications at Manipora so they could be easily overrun.

  He didn’t allow himself to think of India very often. There were times, however, when he couldn’t help but remember Rebecca. Late at night when he couldn’t sleep or when he’d imbibed too much whiskey. Or when he’d been caught up in someone else’s conversation and their talk turned to wives. Mostly he tried to avoid situations like those, but there were times when he couldn’t.

  Their marriage might have been one of convenience, but Rebecca had begun to charm him. She had a delightful laugh and the enthusiasm of a child for new things and experiences. Perhaps he hadn’t loved her in the beginning, but he’d given her his loyalty and his growing affection.

  He nodded to the footman stationed on the third floor. Instead of heading toward the servants’ stairs he walked to the main staircase. His position as majordomo meant that he was in a gray zone: neither truly a servant and definitely not one of the family. However, due to the level of responsibility given him, he was also accorded the great honor of being visible. He did not, unlike the other servants, have to duck into one of the closets accessed through the paneling rather than be seen by the duchess.

  He hesitated before descending the staircase, looking down the corridor at the nursery. He couldn’t see a light beneath the door. Hopefully, Suzanne was asleep, a more natural sleep now that she wasn’t being given opium.

  What the hell had Hackney been doing? Why had he conspired with Suzanne’s maid?

  He hadn’t seen Suzanne for days, yet he was conjuring her up from memory, down to the smell of her perfume as he entered the library. That, if nothing else, was a sign that he needed to get the hell away from Marsley House.

  After lighting the paraffin lamp closest to the desk, he turned, intent on mounting the stairs to the third level. Only then did he see her.

  Suzanne was sprawled on the floor, her dressing gown open, the belt tossed up to her neck, the tassel wicking up the blood beneath her head.

  For one frozen second, he couldn’t move. His brain didn’t function, either. He couldn’t think what to do or how to even call for help. Thankfully, his inactivity didn’t last. He ran to the base of the steps where Suzanne lay, got to his knees and placed a hand on her neck, his fingers feeling for a pulse. He let out a breath when he found one. Every instance he’d observed in his army career, every single bit of advice he’d gotten on how to treat the injured swirled through his mind. None of it was valuable at the moment.

  Her cheek was cold, her face pale. How long had she been like this? Damn it, that was something else he didn’t know.

  He stood, went to the door, and called for the footman there. When the man arrived, he ordered him to summon Mrs. Thigpen, another footman, and a cot from the storeroom.

  “And hurry,” he added. The latter wasn’t necessary since the young man had taken a look at the figure of the duchess on the floor and blanched.

  Mrs. Thigpen, thank God and all the angels, had some experience in wounds. He was sending another one of the footmen to summon the duchess’s physician when the housekeeper turned Suzanne’s head gently, showing him the blood-matted hair.

  “Poor thing must have struck her head on one of those metal steps, Adam. See this gash?”

  She parted Suzanne’s hair, showing him a two-inch wound still bleeding. He’d never been affected by the sight of blood until this moment. Nor had he ever considered himself a coward, but something clenched in his stomach and it felt too damn much like fear.

  He wanted to ask Mrs. Thigpen if Suzanne would be all right, but he remained silent. It wouldn’t do for a majordomo to express undue concern about the mistress of the house. Still, he followed the two footmen carrying Suzanne up the stairs on the cot that was doubling as a stretcher. The housekeeper and another maid bearing a large handled basket accompanied them. Evidently, Mrs. Thigpen was prepared for any emergency, including one that made no sense.

  What had Suzanne been doing in the library at this hour? None of the lamps had been lit when he entered the room, which meant that she must’ve been going up the stairs in the darkness.

  Most of the books on the second floor dealt with military history and tactics along with obscure philosophical volumes, and he couldn’t see the duchess wanting to read one of those. This side of the third floor was given over to the duke’s journals.

  Had she been going to the second or the third level? Had she wanted to read one of her husband’s journals?

  The events of tonight reminded him that he’d allowed himself to take his mind off his assignment. He couldn’t afford to feel compassion, empathy, or any other emotion for the Duchess of Marsley.

  She was just another person he needed to fool until he found what he needed.

  At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Suzanne awoke to find Dr. Gregson poking a needle in her thumb.

  “Can you feel that?” he asked, his smile nearly obscured by the gray beard covering his face. He had been a kindly figure to her all her life, at least until this moment.

  “Yes!” she said, jerking back her hand.

  He pulled out the covers from the bottom of the bed and did the very same thing to her big toe.

  “And that?”

  “Yes!” she said, drawing her foot away.

  He wasn’t the only person doing odd things to her. Mrs. Thigpen was placing a wet cloth on her forehead and Emily was standing there looking terrified while fanning her the whole time.

  Even Adam was involved, keeping vigil at the door with his arms crossed, looking as fierce as one of those statues in the Egyptian parlor.

  “Have you any pain anywhere, my dear?” Dr. Gregson asked. “Any pain at all?”

  She couldn’t imagine why he was asking her that question. Then it slowly came back to her. She’d gotten out of bed, put on her dressing gown, gone downstairs, and entered the library. How very odd that she couldn’t remember anything after that.

  “My head hurts,” she said, and would’ve put her hand exactly on that spot except that the back of her head was covered up with a substantial bandage.

  “What happened?”

  She looked from one to the other, but none of the people in her bedroom seemed to know any more than she did.

  “I went into the library,” she said. “But that’s all I remember.”

  “Drummond found you at the base of the stairs, Your Grace,” Mrs. Thigpen said. “Did you fall?”

  She couldn’t remember. When she said as much, Dr. Gregson nodded.

  “It happens that way sometimes,” he said.

  “Will she ever remember what happened?”

  She looked up at Adam. She had wanted to ask the same question, but he was faster.

  Dr. Gregson came and sat on the chair someone had moved beside the bed. Once there, he took her wrist in his hand, felt for her pulse, and then nodded approvingly before speaking.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes not. It all is determined by the circumstances.”

  She didn’t have the slightest idea
what he meant, but decided that it would be a waste of time to inquire further. In other words, Dr. Gregson didn’t know.

  She closed her eyes, tried to remember, but all she got was darkness. She wasn’t comfortable with the idea that something had happened and yet she had no inkling of it. Was the memory simply gone forever? Or would it pop up unexpectedly like a word she couldn’t recall and that suddenly—when her mind was no longer on it—appeared before her as if it were written on the air?

  “We will let you rest,” Dr. Gregson said. “I’ve left a tonic for you with Mrs. Thigpen.”

  Her eyes flew open. “No tonic. No preparation. No potion. Nothing, Dr. Gregson.”

  He frowned at her. His beard didn’t obscure his disapproval.

  “Your head will begin to throb, my dear. You will need something for the pain.”

  “I will take my mind off it or occupy myself in other ways, Dr. Gregson. I will not be taking anything.”

  He looked at Mrs. Thigpen. “Nonetheless, my good woman, I will leave the tonic in your hands. Perhaps you can convince my patient to do what is best.”

  She was not going to take anyone’s tonic, a fact that Adam alone seemed to understand. When she glanced at him he nodded. At least she had one ally in the room.

  “Emily will sit with you for a while,” Mrs. Thigpen said. “I think it best that she have someone with her, do you not agree, Dr. Gregson?”

  He nodded emphatically. “That I do. I will return tomorrow. I do not expect you to be out of this bed. I don’t expect any further complications, but you must take care not to overdo.”

  She doubted that anyone would let her do anything. She started to nod, but the throbbing at the base of her neck stopped her.

  “Very well, Dr. Gregson, I shall be a model patient.”

  He shook his head, his way of saying that he strongly doubted that fact, and left the room, followed by Mrs. Thigpen.

  “What time is it?” she asked, looking at Adam, who’d moved to the end of the bed.

  “Nearly dawn.”

  Only a few hours had passed since she’d entered the library, then. She suddenly got the impression of darkness, something swooping down on top of her.

  “Would it be possible to have some tea?” she asked, turning to Emily.

  The young girl jumped up from the chair she’d taken when the physician left the room and nodded.

  “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’ve remembered something,” Adam said the moment the door closed behind Emily.

  “I don’t know if I have or not.”

  Before she could say another word, the door opened again. Mrs. Thigpen entered, bearing a brown bottle. They were going to go to war if the woman thought she was going to take another dose of laudanum or opium or anything designed to strip her wits from her. To her surprise, however, the housekeeper merely held up the bottle.

  “Will you reconsider, Your Grace?”

  Suzanne managed a smile for the woman, who had always been a dear to her and Georgie. She didn’t deserve a show of temper.

  “No, Mrs. Thigpen, I will not.”

  The housekeeper nodded and tucked the bottle back into her dressing gown pocket. “I told the physician that you were set in your mind, but he would insist.”

  “He’s a stubborn old goat,” Adam said.

  Mrs. Thigpen looked like she was biting back a smile.

  If they’d been alone, she would have told Adam what she’d remembered, but she didn’t want to speak in front of the housekeeper. There were times when Mrs. Thigpen became a trifle histrionic. She expanded on things and used hyperbole when none was necessary. Several threads of gossip had originated with the housekeeper. If she hadn’t been so exemplary at her job, her enjoyment of a good story might have been cause for dismissal.

  Consequently, Suzanne remained silent.

  Nor did it look like the housekeeper was going to leave, not as long as Adam was standing there.

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said. “I understand you found me.”

  He nodded.

  He looked straight at her, almost as if he were examining her. Did he know how handsome he was, with his green eyes and freshly shaved face? He didn’t wear a mustache or a goatee. She had an inkling that he would be as handsome with both, but she was strangely glad he had gone against fashion.

  “A good thing,” Mrs. Thigpen said. “Otherwise, it might have been morning until one of the maids discovered you.”

  Left hanging in the air was the question—what had either of them been doing in the library at that hour?

  Adam bowed slightly. “I will say good-night, Your Grace.”

  She smiled in return. A very cold and frosty smile that she’d perfected in the years of being married to George. It was a reserved expression, one he’d approved of, that gave no hint of true favor toward the recipient.

  She watched him leave the room and instantly felt the difference.

  Mrs. Thigpen took the chair beside her bed, reached out, and patted the mattress beside Suzanne’s hand.

  “A most unusual man,” the housekeeper said, as if expecting a confidence. “At first all the maids were afraid of him. Now they just act silly around him.”

  So did she. A thought she was definitely not going to share with the housekeeper.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Adam wasn’t able to see Suzanne again for a few more hours. He did so on the pretense of taking her a luncheon tray, a duty that was not strictly in his list of responsibilities. He needed to see the duchess in order to learn what had happened the night before. That was in keeping with his mission, more important than being a majordomo at Marsley House.

  He made his way up the grand staircase with a large tray containing a teapot, a cup and saucer, Suzanne’s lunch that was covered with a lid but smelled of roast beef, and a small vase with one of the flowers from the conservatory. This one had a bright yellow center with pink petals. He knew nothing about flowers and couldn’t have named it if pressed, but it was a cheerful little thing that bobbed as he went up the stairs.

  He set the tray on the table beside the double doors and knocked lightly. When Emily opened the door, he refused to surrender the tray to her. Instead, he asked that she open the second door for him.

  “It’s very heavy,” he said in explanation as he stepped inside the sitting room.

  She smiled in thanks and led the way to Suzanne’s bedroom, standing aside as he entered.

  The duchess was awake, sitting up against both pillows. He wasn’t surprised to note that her hair had been artfully arranged around the bandage to conceal it. He wouldn’t consider her vain, but she was careful with her appearance.

  What did startle him, however, was the fact that she had dark circles beneath her eyes. He wondered if it was the effect of the head wound.

  “Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I have a beastly headache, Drummond,” she said, smiling. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

  “Mrs. Thigpen has some karpura.” He glanced at Emily and then back at the duchess. “Camphor,” he added. “If you massage it into your temples, it should ease your headache.”

  “That sounds lovely. Emily, would you mind fetching some for me?”

  The young maid looked torn at the prospect of leaving the duchess alone with him. Thankfully, Suzanne eased her conflict by saying, “Thank you, Emily,” and adding a smile.

  Emily finally nodded and excused herself.

  Once they heard the sitting room door close, he moved toward the bed. She pushed herself up with both hands. He steadied the tray as she moved the pillow behind her back.

  “Are you going to tell me what you remembered?” he asked, sitting beside the bed.

  “How did you know?”

  He only smiled.

  “Very well,” she said, somewhat crossly. “I did remember something, but I’m not sure what it was. Or who it was.”

  He sat beside th
e bed, knowing he had some time before Emily and Mrs. Thigpen found the camphor where he’d hidden it. He’d taken the metal box containing the white, waxy camphor and hidden it behind the sack of flour in the pantry.

  “I was climbing the stairs,” she said. “At first I thought something had fallen on me, but then I realized whoever was there was wearing a cloak or something black. They pushed me.”

  “You’re saying someone was in the library?”

  “Yes. On the third level. At first I thought it was you.”

  “Is that why you went to the library? To find me?” That was probably the most improvident question he could have asked and he wanted to immediately call it back.

  Her cheeks turned pink as he watched. The metamorphosis from haughty duchess to embarrassed woman fascinated him. He told himself to look away, to give her some privacy, but he didn’t.

  In the next breath, she turned the tables on him.

  “Tell me about your wife, Adam. Has she been gone long?”

  No one asked about his wife. No one who knew about India ever spoke about it. Suzanne’s ignorance was a shield, yet her curiosity was a spear.

  “Seven years,” he said.

  “Have you had no desire to remarry in all that time?”

  “No.”

  He could only give her that one-word answer and nothing further. However, he had the feeling that his monosyllabic response would not be enough for the Duchess of Marsley. He was beginning to think that she was her father’s daughter, as stubborn and determined as Hackney.

  “Did you love her very much?”

  He reached for the teapot, their fingers meeting. He didn’t remove his hand immediately and neither did she. Their eyes met and something seemed to flow between them, an emotion he didn’t want to analyze at the moment. She finally pulled her hand away.

  “I thought her smile engaging,” he said. “And she was very kindhearted.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “It sounds like you’re describing a woman you’ve just met. Or maybe a friend about which you wish to say nothing detrimental.”