“Poor Wesley,” Rhea said, feeling sorry for the bewildered earl.
“I wonder if this means the picnic will be canceled,” Robin said glumly, thinking of the tables that would have been spread across the lawn, groaning under the weight of his favorite dishes, not to mention desserts. And what of the games he would miss playing with his cousins? It was just too horrible to think about.
Francis watched in amusement while Robin tried to straighten his shirt and breeches in an attempt to bring some semblance of order to his disheveled appearance. Feeling sorry for the little fellow, he finally decided to set his mind at rest—at least about the picnic.
“I shouldn’t worry about them canceling it. If Aunt Mary arrives tomorrow as planned, then they will certainly have it. You know how she and Mother like picnics,” he said. “But right now, Father wants to see you in his study, Robin,” he added, putting his arm across his brother’s shoulders. He’d noticed them slump slightly at his mention of the upcoming interview with the duke. “It’ll be all right. Father really doesn’t care much for the earl, you know. But he will not stand for discourtesy of any kind in his home, especially toward a guest under his roof. So you’d better have a good explanation on your tongue,” he advised.
Rhea Claire glanced between her two brothers, each so different, and not just in one being so fair, while the other was dark. Robin was a little devil, and Rhea Claire had heard her father say often that he was her mother all over again. Francis, on the other hand, was quieter, more deliberate in his actions; he was definitely the duke’s son, or so her mother often swore with a shake of her curly black hair.
“Well, all I’ve got to say on the matter,” Rhea declared, taking each of her brothers’ arms as they walked beside her through the gardens, “is that I hope I do not have to serve as your witness, Robin, for I’d have to swear that I saw you glance back and laugh when poor Rendale fell into the lily pond.”
“I wasn’t laughing near as hard as you were, Rhea,” Robin reminded her, glancing up to catch her grin before they all started to laugh.
* * *
From the Private Drawing Room in the south wing, Sabrina, Duchess of Camareigh, watched her three eldest children approach and wondered what it was they found so amusing. She could see Robin’s dark head bobbing up and down as he hurried alongside his fair-haired brother and sister. Robin would always seem her baby, even though she had given birth to the twins almost two years ago. Finding herself enceinte after eight barren years had come as a complete surprise, but not as great as the actual birth when she had brought two lives into the world, instead of the one she had been expecting. It had been a difficult time for her, and she knew that there would be no more children, but she accepted it, and indeed was rather relieved about it. Far too many women died in childbirth, and she intended to fully enjoy watching her children mature into adulthood, and to share with them the pains and joys of living.
The duchess stared down at her eldest child, Rhea Claire, and found it hard to believe that her daughter was seventeen. What a beautiful girl she had grown into, the duchess thought, filled with pride for her firstborn. At times she could be a stubborn and willful young beauty, but that arrogant streak was tempered by an incredible gentleness and compassion that had at times worried her, for Rhea Claire was inclined to let her heart, when it was troubled and touched, rule her head. How many times, the duchess wondered with a sigh, had Rhea Claire brought a wounded bird or stray cat into the house to be protected. And how different were her feelings now, pondered the duchess, thinking of the Earl of Rendale, whom she suspected had aroused nothing more than pity in her daughter’s tender heart.
The duchess smiled wryly, amazed at her thoughts, for it seemed only yesterday that she herself had come to Camareigh as a young bride. She hadn’t been much older than Rhea Claire when she had first seen Camareigh. She could still feel her own awed panic when she’d caught sight of the magnificent house. The coach which had carried her away from her own home and familiar surroundings seemed to be approaching the grand house far too quickly, and the house had seemed to her, at that time, not to be very welcoming. But whether she resented it or not, she had become its mistress and duchess, and soon would give it its long-awaited heir.
Had she realized, in that moment of uncertainty and trepidation, just what exactly was behind those honey-colored walls, she might well have leaped from the carriage and taken to her heels, for nothing in her previous life had quite prepared her for the responsibilities of being the Duchess of Camareigh. Nor had she been prepared for the army of servants who had greeted her—rather suspiciously, she remembered—upon her arrival. Of course, she had not known them then, nor they her, and she could well understand their dubious opinion about this new mistress, who looked as if she should still be playing with dolls.
She had held her breath as she’d stared down the long line of unfriendly faces, their expressions striking terror into her already quivering heart. She could remember meeting the austere butler, Mason, his stern countenance seeming gentle compared with the tight-lipped and obviously resentful housekeeper, who she later discovered recognized no mistress other than the dowager duchess. Well, the ex-housekeeper had certainly misjudged this duchess, Sabrina remembered with a chuckle, for she had sent the old harridan packing with a flea in her ear and a note to the dowager duchess that the woman’s services would no longer be needed by this duchess. It had also served warning to any other malcontents to beware, for this was no mealymouthed and cowed mistress they were dealing with. And from that day forward the new duchess had a loyal staff eager to serve her, for no one had much minded that she’d fired the housekeeper. In fact, the housekeeper had been heartily disliked by everyone, because every misdemeanor or infraction of household rules, no matter how slight, even an incautiously spoken word, had been parroted back to the dowager duchess by her overwrought and insanely loyal lackey. Now that the old battle-ax had left, they could get back to doing the work they’d been hired to do, which had been woefully neglected during the reign of the previous housekeeper.
And indeed, the duchess remembered, there had been a lot of work to do before the great house once again assumed its proud mantle of excellence. From the tireless Mason, who oversaw every polished silver spoon and dusted off every bottle of wine, to the new housekeeper, who personally saw that every bed had been aired and made up with freshly scented sheets, to the cook, who saw that her kitchen was scrubbed down to the bare wood and her scullery maids worked almost to the bone, to the steward, under-butler, assistant housekeeper, footmen, maids, ostlers, master of music, secretary, chaplain, stable boys, grooms, porters, coachmen, dairy maids, and the head gardener and his staff—all worked together to build the harmonious atmosphere that now existed at Camareigh. They made it the great house that it was, and a great house it was indeed.
There were two wings consisting of the ducal apartments, family apartments, and State apartments, all of which were comprised of various drawing rooms, dining rooms, salons, bedchambers and dressing rooms, antechambers and studies, the ever-expanding Library and Grand Ballroom, the music room and Long Gallery, kitchens and servants’ hall, and other rooms and backstairs’ cubbyholes too numerous to even know about. Outside, there were the stables, greenhouses, and orangery to be looked after, as well as the topiary gardens, rose gardens, kitchen gardens, and natural gardens, and the extensive grounds of the estate itself.
Close to twenty years now, the duchess thought with a reminiscent smile, she had been mistress of Camareigh; she’d borne her children under its bountiful roof, and seen many a summer turn to autumn as she’d basked in the glow of its honey-colored walls. This was her home now, a home she’d come to love as much as her husband Lucien did, and he’d been born and raised at Camareigh, and had had pride for this great house drummed into him all of his life.
While he was still in the nursery, his indefatigable and imperiously proud grandmother, the dowager d
uchess, had instilled in him all of her own dreams and hopes for Camareigh, and she had not allowed death to take her until she’d been assured of Camareigh’s survival through succession. The duchess knew that the dowager duchess had been disappointed to find her first great-grandchild was a girl, but she had taken to Rhea Claire, and when Francis had come along a year later, she had been exultant and had presented her granddaughter-in-law with her most prized possession—a ruby and pearl pendant, suspended from a pearl necklace, which had been a wedding gift from Queen Elizabeth I to a Dominick bride. Lucien had gained his grandmother’s undying devotion, and he had the satisfaction of knowing, when she died a few years later, that she’d been a very happy and smug old woman who had lived life to the fullest, and seen all of her dreams come true for the house she loved above all else. The dowager duchess may have been a tyrant, the present duchess thought, but despite all of the old woman’s scheming, she had liked her, for the old woman hadn’t really been mean or horrible, just stubborn and determined to have her own way. Much like her grandson. The duchess smiled, thinking how Lucien would have hated that comparison, for he’d been at odds with his grandmother for most of his life and had only got back in her good graces by siring a son and heir, so…
“And what are you daydreaming about, my love?” the duke inquired softly, startling the duchess, for he’d come up behind her without her having heard him. He pressed a light kiss on her nape, his warm breath tickling the sensitive spot beneath her uplifted curls. “Odd, is it not, that I should have never tired of your fragrance?” he questioned, breathing deeply of her lightly scented skin.
“Lucien,” Sabrina whispered, never failing to find his touch exciting. “Odd, is it not, that I should never have tired of your touch?” she responded in the familiar banter they used with one another.
The duke’s arms tightened around his duchess’s small waist. “Not at all, my dear, for I have made it my life’s work to please you, and I accept nothing less than your undying love and devotion,” he warned, his mouth covering hers for a lingering moment. “Especially as you have mine. And as you well know, we Dominicks are a stubborn breed.”
Sabrina stared up at him, all her love for him openly revealed in the dark depths of her violet eyes, eyes that had captivated the duke since he’d first glanced into them. With a flash of sapphire and ruby rings, the duchess ran a gentle finger along the scar that etched its way from his left cheek to the corner of his mouth. “My only love, my heart,” she said simply.
Lucien pressed his lips to her soft palm before tucking her arm within the crook of his elbow. “Now, what were you daydreaming about? Perchance ’twas me, and your wish has been granted?”
Sabrina smiled indulgently. “You Dominick males are also very vain; however, you are partly correct. I was thinking how amazing it is that Rhea Claire could actually be seventeen. I was watching her come across the gardens with Francis and Robin, and I was feeling very proud of our children.”
“What were they up to?” the duke demanded, glancing out of the window. But the garden below was empty.
The duchess raised a delicate eyebrow at his choice of words and his doubting tone of voice. “You sound suspicious of something, my dear, but you really needn’t be,” she told him confidently, feeling little cause for concern. “I shall set your mind at rest, for all they were doing was laughing. Now what else should they be doing but enjoying themselves on a warm afternoon?” the duchess asked as she made herself comfortable on her favorite rose-colored silk sofa, which had been positioned near the fireplace for maximum warmth. The early morning fire had long since burned itself out, and the duchess’s embroidery lay long-forgotten on the carpet.
“Laughing? That is precisely why I am worried. And I suppose Robin was laughing harder than the others?” the duke asked with a gleam in his sherry-colored eyes that boded ill for the duchess’s young son.
“And what is wrong with that?” she demanded with a laugh of her own. “And why have you singled out Robin for your displeasure?”
“I have singled him out, my love, because he should be soundly spanked.”
“Whatever for?” the duchess asked, a little less confidently this time, for she knew only too well what sort of mischief her son could get up to.
“For causing Rendale the dunking of his life,” the duke informed her as he sat down beside her. “That damned pony of Robin’s knocked the earl into the lily pond,” he continued, waiting patiently for her laughter to stop before he continued. “I would imagine that is what your three children were just laughing about. Although I should think that Robin would find the situation less amusing since he has been ordered to my study.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Lucien,” Sabrina said softly, her eyes entreating on behalf of her precipitate son while her slender fingers caressed Lucien’s hand.
“Have I ever denied you anything, Rina?” the duke responded with a tolerant smile, his eyes lingering on her slightly parted lips.
“Yes, many times,” the duchess returned with a low laugh. “You can be a terrible tyrant at times, and I quite despair of coaxing a smile out of you.”
“Liar,” the duke whispered, a tantalizing smile curving his lips. “I shudder to think what my life would have been like if you had not stormed into it that night,” he speculated, smoothing a soft, unpowdered black curl from her temple. He pressed his lips against her hair, approving of her refusal to bow to convention and society by hiding the beauty of her hair under layers of white powder. “Do you remember that night, my sweet?”
“Remember?” the duchess questioned with an impish grin identical to that of young Robin’s. “How could I forget? You nearly killed me!”
“Ah, but I didn’t, much to my delight and eternal thankfulness. Although now that I am reminded,” he added with a mocking glance, “you certainly led me one fine chase. And here you sit now, smugly casting aspersions on my swordsmanship. Really, my dear, you do me a grave injustice.”
The duchess smiled provocatively, the slight dimple in her cheek entrancing the duke as much today as it had the first time it had peeped out at him. She was more beautiful today, if that were indeed possible, than she had been when he’d made her his duchess. With Sabrina by his side he had found the love and happiness he had always been searching for, and until his fateful meeting with this black-haired, violet-eyed hellion, that elusive bird had always flown free of his grasp. But once he had captured her, he vowed he would never let her fly free, for Sabrina was his life. It was as simple as that.
His duchess blushed slightly under the warmth of his gaze, but she did not glance away and continued to meet the message of love in his eyes as she touched his mouth with hers. And it was upon this intimate scene that the door was opened to admit a liveried footman.
“Lady Wrainton, Your Grace,” he said in stentorian tones, and stepped aside for an attractive young woman who, at the sight of the closely positioned couple on the sofa, nearly stumbled as she tried to halt her progress into the room.
“My dear Sarah, do come in,” the duchess said, beckoning and rising to greet their guest.
“Please, I do not wish to intrude, Your Grace,” Lady Wrainton said nervously, quite in awe of the duchess, even though she was her sister-in-law. “I-I had not realized His Grace was in here,” she added, completely in awe of the duke also, whose scarred cheek gave him a sinister look that left her knees shaking. He was an undeniably handsome man, and the years had certainly been kind to him, for there was no excess weight to slow him down or to strain against the buttons of his waistcoat. Tall and lean, his face marred only by the scar, he exuded a sensuality that even she, a happily married wife and soon-to-be mother, could feel, and she wondered what he must have been like twenty years earlier when he’d been in his early to mid-thirties. Despite his obvious happiness and contentment in his marriage, his face was still stamped by a certain cynical hardness, or perhaps it was merely
the scar that created such an impression. But still, Sarah wondered how the duchess had managed to handle such a man all of these years.
But as Sarah stared at the duchess, she realized that Her Grace’s beauty alone could hold any man spellbound. It was difficult to believe that she could possibly be the mother of five children, for her figure was that of a young girl’s, her tiny waist rivaling any that Sarah had seen on acclaimed London beauties. The passage of time had enhanced the beauty of the Duchess of Camareigh, not stolen it away, for there was a glowing warmth and happiness from within that was reflected on her face. And that was something that no artificial beauty aid could capture.
Sarah remembered herself in time and started to curtsy, only to find herself being raised gently but firmly by the duchess.
“Now you listen to me, Sarah,” she warned her with a glint in her violet eyes. “I will not tolerate any subservience from you. You are the wife of my beloved Richard, and as sisters-in-law, we are family. I happen to be Sabrina to my family. Do I make myself clear?” she added, sounding more like the imperious duchess than ever.
“You’d be wise to do as she says, Sarah,” the duke commented lazily. “I learned years ago not to cross her.”
“You circumvent me, that is all. Don’t think I am not wise to your methods, my dear,” the duchess responded with an arch look at her husband, who was smiling complacently.
Sarah looked from one to the other of them, amazed at their teasing words, and suddenly she knew she would be blessed if she had only half as good a marriage as the duke’s and duchess’s.
“Now please do sit down,” the duchess ordered with a smile that robbed her words of any sting. “I do not intend to be the cause of your losing Richard’s heir. How are you feeling? Not nauseous, I hope? Good! Now, would you care for a cup of tea?” the duchess politely inquired. But her casual reference to so private a female condition had caused Sarah to blush with painful embarrassment when she happened to catch the duke’s eye.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 5
