Moonstruck Masness

by Laurie McBain

  Blanche preened herself, feeling very pleased. "When do I get the family jewels?"

  "In due time. The Dowager Duchess has them in her keeping, and will turn them over only to my wife, so I would imagine you will receive them on our wedding day."

  "Oh," Blanche murmured in disappointment. "I so wished to wear them with my new gown tomorrow night. I've already told Lettie I would. Oh, please, Lucien, talk her into giving them to me. Please, Lucien," she pouted prettily, glancing at the Duke under her eyelashes expec­tantly.

  "I'm hardly on favorable terms with the Dowager, Blanche," he replied crushingly. "Of course, if you tempted me with a few kisses I might intercede on your behalf," he added sarcastically, expecting the look of re­vulsion that she could not hide as her big blue eyes were drawn irresistibly to his scar.

  As she shuddered delicately, Lucien was suddenly re­minded of another woman's eyes that had looked at him unflinchingly, even going so far as to rub her cheek against his scarred one.

  "What are you going to do when we wed, Blanche, and I demand my rights as a husband and lover?" he asked, a smile of contempt on his lips.

  Blanche turned her delicate profile to him and replied steadily, "I shall submit to you, of course."

  "Of course," Lucien laughed harshly.

  Blanche turned to him in puzzlement. "What do you

  want, Lucien? I know that you do not love me. You are

  only marrying to gain your inheritance. I want to be a

  duchess. It is all very simple, isn't it?"

  Lucien stared at her moodily. "Is it?" he answered enig­matically.

  Blanche looked away from the Duke's scarred cheek, feeling uncomfortable as he stared at her, and looked out of the window instead. She could hear the carriages pass­ing by, and a gleam of anticipation entered her eyes as she remembered the thrill of lips against hers and the promise of more to come.

  Lucien sat back against the cushions of his coach and contemplated the rabble beyond the coach window, his farewell to Blanche having been brief and desired by both. Taking out his pocket watch he checked the time impa­tiently and was putting it back in his waistcoat pocket when his coachman poked his head into the coach, and he knew he would be late visiting the Dowager Duchess.

  "Bit of a snarl-up, Your Grace. Damned riffraff clog­ging the streets; don't know how to handle the ribbons, the bog-trotters," he said with disgust at his fellow travelers.

  "Very well, but do try and hurry us along before I need another shave," Lucien answered dryly.

  "Right, Your Grace," the coachman chuckled as he hopped off, flinging curses at the wagon blocking the way ahead. The wagon had lost a wheel directly in front of them and another wagon had closed behind, wedging them between the two. Directly to the right a narrow street joined the busier one and it was on this one, opening directly onto the place where Lucien's coach now sat im­mobile, that a runaway farm wagon careened out of con­trol, heading straight toward the big black coach with ducal crests boldly emblazoned on the doors for all to see.

  Lucien heard the cries of terror and warning blending with a rumbling sound and glancing up curiously, looked out of the coach window to see a wagon, heavily laden with supplies and gaining tremendous speed, rolling down the narrow side street toward his coach.

  He reacted on a surge of adrenaline and dove through the coach window, hitting the cobbled street in a hard, tumbling fall, rolling over and over until he was clear of the wheels of the coach. Faces and feet flew past him and he heard the loud crash of splintering wood as the two ve­hicles met. His team of horses panicked and pawed the air in fear, their neighing screams piercing the moment of stunned silence before the crowd reacted.

  Lucien felt rough hands help him to his feet as he stag­geringly tried to rise. The cloth of his coat and breeches was torn and muddied from his fall, and somewhere beneath the shuffling feet of the crowd were his wig and hat. The cobbles were slick from the light rain that was falling, but people still came running to see the destruction of his coach, and any injuries he might have suffered.

  "Cooee! But that was a grand bit 'o tumbling, guv'nor," an awed voice congratulated him. "Never seen anyone fly like ye did. Eh, but it was a sight to see. Yer wig and shoe going one way, and the rest o' ye going the other," the man chuckled in remembrance.

  Lucien looked at the speaker, whose shirtsleeves were rolled above his big, hairy forearms and had a leather apron tied about his wide girth. For the first time, Lucien felt the wetness seeping through his stocking, his shoe having gone in another direction as the butcher had said. •

  "Boy, did you give us a show! Better'n the cockfights, for sure. Would've bet, though, you'da been squashed flat-ter'n a flounder. Thought ye was a real goner."

  "Your Grace!" called the coachman, a look of relief on his face when he saw the Duke standing in the center of a gawking crowd. "Are ye all right? My God, I've never seen anything like it in all my born days. Thought you'd been finished off, Your Grace."

  Lucien grimaced and shook his foot free of mud. "I thought so too."

  He made his way with his coachman towards the re­mains of what had once been a very comfortable coach. His team of horses had been released and were being quieted by his grooms. The farm wagon had split in two and practically upended over his coach. As they stood there, one of the cages full of frightened, squawking poul­try that had been precariously off-balanced by the crash, fell from its perch, sending chickens and feathers in all directions. Lucien looked down at his brown velvet coat now covered in downy feathers and then at his coachman, who was fighting a feather from the tip of his nose, and a reluctant grin curved his mouth at the picture they must present.

  "Whose wagon is this?" he demanded, his humor fading as he realized how close he'd come to being trapped un­derneath the twisted wreckage.

  "Odd, ain't a soul to say it was his, Your Grace," the coachman responded curiously. "Though don't guess any­one would want to claim it, seein' how it was a runaway and nearly killed a Duke."

  The coachman stood gazing at the wreckage, then added worriedly as he looked at the Duke who stood tall and dig­nified despite his dishevelment, "Don't see how the wagon could'a been goin' so fast though? That street ain't that steep. Seems a mite strange, Your Grace."

  One of the grooms came running up at that moment, his face mirroring disbelieving excitement. "Bloke over there says he saw two rowdies pushing the wagon down the ' street and just standin' and watchin' as it gathered speed, then took to their heels and disappeared."

  "It would seem as though someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to insure my death," Lucien commented in a hard voice as he exchanged looks with his coachman, who spat contemptuously on the cobblestones and began to curse volubly at the unknown assailants.

  "I suggest that you find me some other mode of transportation," Lucien ordered as he became aware of the coaches slowly traveling past as they skirted the accident. "I feel quite conspicuous and not exactly at my best standing here in one shoe."

  When Lucien finally knocked on the large mahogany door of the grand mansion in Berkeley Square that was the residence of the Dowager Duchess, he was two hours late. When recognized, the majordomo's arrogant de­meanor changed to obsequious cordiality as he showed the Duke through the hall that was crowded with liveried foot­men, to wait in the salon while he was announced.

  Lucien glanced at the clock ticking away the minutes and smiled in grim amusement as he realized he was to be kept waiting for his audience in retaliation for being late. He was too well aware by now of the stratagems being played out in his grandmother's Berkeley Square home to be surprised by her next move, but it never failed to amuse him and slightly irritate him, which he knew was the purpose. Only this time he would checkmate.

  Making himself comfortable, Lucien pulled from a pocket the deck of cards he'd brought along for just such an occasion and shuffling them, dealt them out on the tap­estried seat of a chair he'd pulled up close to the settee. Half an hour lat
er he was still amusing himself with his cards when the majordomo entered and announced that he would now be received.

  Lucien looked up in boredom and casually played an­other card. "In good time. You may tell Her Grace that I shall be up shortly," he said lazily, and turned his atten­tion once more to the cards before him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the majordomo's look of af­fronted dignity as he nodded his head and stiffly left the room, closing the door firmly on Lucien's deep laugh.

  Fifteen minutes later Lucien presented himself before the door of the upstairs salon, and in answer to his knock he entered the room and approached the large, winged-back chair situated like a throne before the window, the revealing light falling on the visitor as he sat in a small chair facing it.

  "Bonjour, Grandmere." Lucien greeted the Dowager Duchess, a smile on his lips as he kissed the hand held re­gally out to him.

  The Duchess snorted. "A good morning, indeed! Keep­ing me waiting two and a half hours. It's outrageous, but then you always have been."

  "Thirty minutes of those two hours were of your own making, if I remember correctly?" Lucien advised her audaciously.

  The Duchess laughed grudgingly. "Trying to best me at my own game?"

  Lucien sat down, laughing softly. "No one has been able to do that yet, Grandmere."

  The Duchess smiled and leaned forward on her cane, her blue-veined hands thin and shaking slightly as she tapped Lucien's booted leg. "You insult me by coming to my house like a lackey from the stables. You young blades don't give a damn how you appear. No wonder Blanche is scared half out of her wits by you. I sometimes think I made a mistake in selecting her for you."

  Lucien stared expressionlessly into the same sherry-colored eyes as his own. "I think perhaps it is the scar, Grandmere, that makes the fair damsel ill at ease. She fears that my buccaneerish visage is more than skin deep," Lucien commented dryly.

  The Duchess snorted. "In my day— Well, that's past, but the fancy pieces strutting about today have no spirit. A lot of lace and pretty bows are all they are made of. No sense of adventure in them," she complained contemptuously, then catching Lucien's smile demanded, "Well, what are you grinning about?"

  "Oh, just that I wish you and a certain person could've had the opportunity of meeting."

  "A woman, eh?" the Duchess guessed.

  "Very much so; however, I've seen her wield a rapier, sit a horse and scare the wits from twelve men so well that you might be doubtful of her sex."

  The Duchess chuckled. "Sounds like quite a woman. Must not know her, though," she pried.

  Lucien smiled grimly. "No, and if you did meet her I doubt whether it would be under circumstances you'd en­joy," he told her obliquely.

  The Duchess banged her cane. "You've piqued my curi­osity. Tell me, who is she?" She raised her eyebrows in sudden thought. "Oh, I see. If she has that much spirit, she must be one of your opera singers or a little dancer, eh? Well, you'd better concern yourself for now with getting Blanche to the altar. Time enough for your other type of friend later."

  Lucien smiled without humor. "You remind me very much of this other woman. Both of you are willful, ob­stinate and a thorn in my side. You and your pack of so­licitors must have sat up all night figuring out that damned condition you added to your will."

  "Bitter, Lucien?" she baited him.

  "I dislike having my life interfered in, and I dislike being given an ultimatum," he said angrily.

  "You always were headstrong and difficult, even as a baby. In and out of trouble, always answering me back. Impertinent brat, that's what you were, but I must admit I preferred your insolence to little Percy's sniveling virtue."

  "Then why are you giving dear Percy the chance to in­herit my estate?" Lucien asked coldly.

  The Duchess laughed with delight. "Only thing that would finally bring you around. Thought at first all I had to do was keep a tight rein on the purse strings, but no, you have to go out and win yourself a fortune and create quite a reputation for yourself at the same time," she spoke coolly. "I'm still not certain I have forgiven you for ignoring me for two years. You didn't come to see me once, Lucien," she told him, remembered hurt in her voice.

  But Lucien remained unmoved. "Obviously it didn't af­fect you too deeply, or you would not be threatening me now. You resented the fact that I didn't have to depend on you for my every need. I proved that I could support my­self, and managed to acquire a fortune three times as large as that which I should have inherited, but you still have to try and rule my life. Well, this time you have succeeded. My freedom, or my heritage? An interesting choice, but I am no longer quite the hothead that I once was when I stormed off the first time, denouncing you and my heri­tage. I find that I can swallow my pride, because Camareigh means more to me than your machinations. It is mine, and I intend to have it."

  "So, you've learned your lesson," the Duchess smiled smugly. "I'm surprised it took you this long to realize that I intended to have my way. You don't like the idea of your cousins spending your money and living in your home? Odd to think that Percy would have been master of Camareigh and Kate its mistress, for you know that she would be there. Percy's wife has little to say when Kate is around—which is all of the time. Kate the beautiful, the heartless, the aspiring, and so jealous of you, Lucien. Wasn't it over some toy of yours that she scarred your cheek, my boy? She can be a vicious creature when she can't have her way. I wonder how Percy's wife feels about having his sister living with them now that Kate is a widow? The poor-spirited little mouse, Kate will walk all over her."

  "Would you really have turned Camareigh over to Percy-and Kate, Grandmere?" Lucien demanded, his voice frigid.

  The Duchess looked sad for a moment, then straighten­ing her shoulders, replied regretfully, "You are still angry with me, resentful. I fear I have lost your love, my boy, but I intend to see future Dukes of Camareigh inherit all that your ancestors built. I'll not have our line die out. I do not want a Rathbourne to walk the halls of Camareigh, but at least Percy has children, our blood will continue through them," she said obstinately, then her eyes softened slightly as she gazed on Lucien's face. "But I would prefer that they were your children, Lucien. If it were left up to you, you would never marry, and I despaired of your death before you could insure that our name and title would live on."

  "Well, you will have your cherished wish, Grandmere," Lucien answered quietly, "and I will have Camareigh—but don't ask me to forgive you."

  The Duchess' lips trembled as she spoke in little more than a whisper, "I never expected to have a complete vic­tory over you, Lucien. I knew I would lose something as well."

  Lucien looked away from his grandmother's face, tired and lined with age, but still alive with emotions. He felt guilty, but he resisted his feelings, knowing that this was probably one more of her stratagems to bring him under her influence. He knew her too well to fall for her act of suffering a broken heart. He looked back quickly and caught the Duchess watching him slyly, a smile curving her mouth which quickly disappeared as he turned to her.

  "I think we both know one another by now. After all, Grandmere, I am you grandson."

  There was a knock on the door, and the majordomo an­nounced visitors below. The Duchess smiled tartly. "Show them up."

  Lucien walked over to the mantelshelf and stared at his reflection in the large mirror overhanging it.

  "Were I a young, pretty thing, I'd find that scar of yours most intriguing, Lucien," the Duchess commented as she saw him run a finger down it.

  Lucien smiled at her in the mirror. "Ah, but you, madam, were and are a woman of spirit and adventure, and as you yourself have said, there are few of that caliber of female left today."

  The Duchess was laughing when the majordomo showed Lord Percy Rathbourne and his sister, Lady Katherine An­ders, into the room, their smiles of greeting fading abruptly as they saw the casually dressed figure of their cousin standing before the fireplace, completely at home.

  "Lu
cien," Percy greeted him shortly, a sour look on his face before he turned to accept the Duchess's hand, a smile of delight now lighting up his features. "Dear, Grandmama, how lovely you look today."

  "Nonsense! I'm old and wrinkled, but I'm not a fool yet, so you can stop humoring me."

  Percy flushed and then, shrugging, turned to Lucien in puzzlement. "I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you and the Duchess were not speaking."

  "Oh, we manage to call a truce every once in a while, much to your disappointment, eh, Percy?" Lucien inquired dryly.

  "Why should we care?" Kate commented as she sat down, her perfect profile turned for Lucien's admiration.

  "As always, you are looking lovely, Kate," Lucien told her to her satisfaction. "A pity it goes only skin deep," he added, wiping the smile from her lips.

  Lucien watched as the pale blue eyes narrowed with malice. Her features were unbelievably perfect, like those of an angel. Her silver-gold hair and translucent skin created an almost ethereal quality about her that contra­dicted the diamond hardness of her eyes. Percy came to stand behind her, his face as delicately moulded as hers, his silver-gold hair hidden by a wig. The only difference was Percy's sherry-colored eyes. Twins, with Kate being older by a few minutes. They seemed to think and breathe as one as they faced him. It had always been like this when they were children. Kate and Percy against him, banding together to gang up on him. He had been lucky that he'd always been bigger than they, and could usually manage to fight them off. Only once had they caught him off guard, and in that instant Kate had scarred his cheek—branding him for life. He still remembered the tri­umphant smile on her angelic face as the blood had dripped from his face.

  "You should know about things going only skin deep," Kate retaliated, caressing the smoothness of her cheek with the back of her hand as she stared at his scarred cheek.

  "Odd, isn't it," Lucien said conversationally, "how some of the worst-looking apples on the outside are the sweetest to the taste, and yet how often, I wonder, does one find that shiny, red apple to be rotten to the core?"