First they’d had to stop for petrol. Then they’d gotten bogged down in a patch of muddy road. And with each holdup, Rowena wavered between relief at delaying the inevitable introductions and guilt over that relief.
Her husband was trying. She knew it, and she wanted to like him for it. But they were so very different. And she so feared giving him hope for a physical relationship if she dared to smile or respond to him. Would this bone-deep yearning for the child she’d been ready to love ever overcome the repulsion brought on by the thought of a man’s touch?
Her eyes slid shut, blocking out the sight of purple heather and feathery bracken. She shouldn’t mourn the bairn, she knew that. It had been Malcolm’s. Or perhaps it had never been at all—how was she to know? Her heart said it had, that she had miscarried. But perhaps the bleeding had been her normal courses, delayed. . . . But shouldn’t it have lasted longer than it had? There had been none of the usual pain, either. Did that point to losing the child?
Ought that not to have hurt even worse?
She could have asked Lilias, she supposed, but even the question was too painful. And Lilias didn’t understand. Not the mourning, and not her reticence with her husband.
Thus far, Brice hadn’t so much as tried to kiss her, other than the obligatory peck at their wedding. But how long would that last? He had confessed—when she asked him how it was that he wasn’t already married or engaged, whether he hadn’t been courting someone, at least—to having kissed “a few too many” girls. He’d sworn he’d never been seriously involved with anyone other than one courtship that ended with the young lady marrying another, but that didn’t make her feel better.
If he expected kisses from those he wasn’t seriously involved with, how did he expect to maintain his patience with his wife?
“Here we are.” Sounding as chipper as always, Brice nodded toward where stone pillars marked a drive, with WHITBY PARK proclaimed upon them in gleaming metal. He turned the wheel, and the Austin obeyed. They’d not gone more than a few feet along the gravel drive before he eased to a halt and snorted a laugh. “Best not to get in their way, methinks.”
Rowena lifted her eyes from the upholstery and saw two horses bearing down on them at breakneck speed. There was a white with a man atop it, and a black with a woman. Both riders had golden hair, the lady’s spilling out behind her in a whirlwind of curls. Both leaned forward and clutched the reins, both wore a look of pure challenge on their faces.
The lady and the black pulled into the lead so steadily that Rowena had a feeling the man had started the race with her unawares, to have been even with her when Rowena first spotted them.
Beside her, Brice chuckled. “He’s always trying to find a way to cheat and beat her—one would think that the laurels Oscuro keeps winning in the races would dissuade him.”
She had to presume that the lady, who even now reined in with a laugh and leapt down beside the car, was the infamous Brook she’d been hearing so much about—the Duchess of Stafford. What no one had warned her of was how beautiful she was. Or the fact that she would rush to Brice’s side of the car and lean in with utter confidence to kiss his cheeks.
A strange feeling curled in Rowena’s stomach. It couldn’t be jealousy—she wasn’t sure she wanted Brice’s affection, so why would she care where he had given it before? But still, she had to wonder if this golden figure with the life sparking so sure and strong in her eyes was one of the “few too many.”
“We saw the carriages pulling up,” the duchess said, straightening again and shoving her mass of curls away from her face. She aimed a smile at Rowena. “I thought we’d head right in to greet you, but no. His Grace the Sore Loser decided he would seize my distraction and try to win a race.”
“Can’t blame a man for trying.” The man—most assuredly the Duke of Stafford, given his wife’s nickname—dismounted as well and also came over to clap a hand to Brice’s shoulder. He didn’t look at all perturbed by his wife’s warm greeting. He merely grinned as he hauled her to his side and pressed a loud kiss to her temple.
Brice made a show of looking around. “And where’s the little Marquess of Abingdon? Hasn’t William got his own horse by now?”
The duchess laughed. “Justin insists he needs to be able to sit up first. Now don’t be rude, Brice. Introduce us.” She leaned forward, around Brice, stretching out a hand toward Rowena. “You must be one of Ella’s friends. I’m Brook. The Duchess of Stafford, if you care to use a title.”
Even through the kid riding gloves, Rowena could tell the duchess’s fingers were long and slender, elegant. She clasped them for a moment, keenly aware of her own chapped skin under the frayed gloves she wore. “Rowena.”
Brice cleared his throat. “The Duchess of Nottingham. If you care to use a title.”
For a moment, the blonde scarcely reacted, as if waiting for it to be pronounced a jest. Her lips were still turned up in a smile, her green eyes still sparkling like emeralds. Then she looked to Brice, and all mirth faded.
The lady’s husband seemed not so stunned. He laughed and punched Brice in the arm. “Married? You old dog, and you said nothing? I’d such pranks planned for when your day finally came.”
Was Brice’s smile halfhearted or true? With him turned a bit away from her, Rowena couldn’t tell. He chuckled. “Exactly why I acted so quickly. To avoid your shenanigans, Stafford.”
The duchess didn’t laugh. “This isn’t amusing. Why would you marry and not tell us—ring us or wire us to come? By train we could have been there in—”
“Not then, you couldn’t have. It was the same time that Lady Cayton died.” Brice shifted the car out of gear and looked to Stafford. “How is your cousin?”
“A wreck,” the lady answered before her husband could. “But let’s not change the subject. Could you not have waited a week?”
Now Brice turned to include Rowena, his gaze soft and his smile small but somehow all the warmer for it. He reached for her hand, held it lightly.
A facade, like they had been putting on before his family? Smiles and acceptance of all the good-natured teasing? She’d been happy enough to play along before his mother and Ella, the Abbotts, the grandparents and aunts and cousins whose names had all swirled together. If they thought all was normal between them, then they wouldn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.
But this felt different. More sincere. And she didn’t know whether it made her want to cling to his fingers or pull hers free.
“No,” he said quietly. “We couldn’t. I’ll explain it all in a bit.”
Her stomach turned. Of course he would tell them . . . but must he?
The blonde narrowed her eyes at him, pursed her lips, and tapped a finger on the arm she’d crossed over her chest. She muttered something, but it sounded French, and Rowena’s few years of it had long since faded from memory.
Stafford lifted his brows. “Brook.”
Admonition? Understanding? By his tone, Rowena couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was, the duchess stirred and renewed her smile. “I’m sure Rowena and I will be good friends. You, however.” She leveled one of those elegant fingers at Brice’s nose. “I’ll not forgive so easily. Out. I’ll deliver your car to the carriage house for you.”
Rowena’s turning stomach clenched tight. And threatened to heave when Brice opened the door and slid happily out.
“You mean I get to ride Oscuro?”
“Are you daft?” She gave the horse a slap on the rump, sending him running off up the drive, and leapt into the place beside Rowena, pulling the door shut behind her. “Have a lovely walk, mon ami.”
“Oh!” Rowena clapped a hand to the door to hold on when the duchess put the Austin back in gear and pulled away far more quickly than Brice ever had. Why did she get the feeling she’d just been kidnapped?
Perhaps because they were barely out of sight of the two laughing dukes when this baffling creature turned cold green eyes on her. “All right, it’s just us girls. Out with it.”
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Both Ella and Brice had described their Brook as bold and fearless, but it wasn’t just her beauty they had failed to mention—they also hadn’t said how terrifying she could be. “I-I dinna ken what ye mean.”
Golden brows lifted. “Please don’t play coy. Do you love him?”
They lurched around a curve in the drive, and Rowena’s stomach felt as though it kept on going the other direction. She clutched her handbag to her hollow middle. “I-I scarcely know him.”
“Then why did you marry him? For the title?”
“No.” Rowena squeezed her eyes shut, though that only made her more aware of how the car bumped over the road. “No. I dinna want to be a duchess. I only . . . I had to get away.”
The car slowed abruptly, luring her eyes open again. She braved a glance at her companion, but the perfect face hadn’t relaxed so much as a stitch. “And why did he marry you?”
“He . . .” She wished Brice were by her side. How was she to answer for him? She had only the words he’d given her. “He said it was God’s plan. That the Lord had been clear.”
Just like that, the lady was sunshine instead of storm clouds. “All right, then. I daren’t argue with Brice on matters of the Lord’s will, or I end up being proven the fool. But, Rowena . . .” She eased to a stop in front of the stables, where grooms emerged to catch the bridle of her horse, who’d apparently arrived just ahead of them. “He deserves to be loved. I pray you’ll fall quickly for him, and that you find utter happiness together.”
With that, the duchess switched off the car and opened the door. Was it possible that she had accepted Rowena so quickly?
No. It couldn’t be, not really. She, with her legs daringly encased in trousers and her jacket the height of fashion, with her golden curls and effortless confidence, would have no use for Rowena as a friend.
Yet she paused, turned, smiled. “Coming? I daresay my husband will take pity on yours and walk with him, which means they’ll be a while yet. I’ll show you inside. You can meet my father. And, if he’s awake, my son.”
If she ever intended to find a place for herself in this world, she had better make an effort to stand on her own two feet. Nodding, Rowena let herself out of the car.
“You must be tired. Your husband drives at a snail’s pace, which doubtless all but bored you to death.” Brook rounded the car, linked their arms, and tugged Rowena forward.
She stumbled at the unexpected pressure upon her bad ankle. Standing on her own two feet was still somewhat metaphorical. The injury was improving—it would accept her weight now—but it still protested if she turned it wrong or stood too long. Under her stockings were streaks of black bruises that made her wince each night.
Brook halted again, eyes wide. “Are you all right?”
“Just a sprained ankle. It’s on the mend, but—”
“But not when careless acquaintances yank you around. I’m so sorry.” She looked genuinely concerned and certainly led her forward with more care on the next step. “Brice would have my head if I contributed to new injury.”
The distance between the stables and the house suddenly looked like miles. “He and Ella both speak so warmly of you and your husband. You must have all known each other for a long time.”
Brook snorted a laugh. “Not really. Two years or so, soon after I came to England—I was raised in Monaco.”
Had Ella perhaps mentioned that? Something about being reunited with her father after being separated for eighteen years. And it explained why she’d lapsed into French there at the end of the drive. Though it raised a host of other questions. Not least of which was how Brice and this woman had come to be so close—and whether she was the one he had courted, who had married another.
Rowena didn’t mean to stare. But she could hardly help it as she willed answers to materialize on the woman’s flawless face.
Brook grinned. “We are close, and it must confuse you. Brice and I hit it off right away. That’s when I first began to realize Justin’s feelings for me had gone beyond friendship. He’d always been protective, but Brice made him outright green.”
Perhaps it was jealousy that unfurled inside her, though tinged with shadows of uncertainty. “You . . . you and Brice were . . . ?”
“Heavens, no.” Brook led her toward the steps and the door that opened for them in anticipation. A gentleman stood framed within, somehow looking pleasant without smiling. Brook’s father, she would guess, given the strands of grey at his temples. “I entertained a notion for about two seconds, but only because I was trying desperately not to be in love with Justin. And Brice was never daft enough—to use his own words—to think such thoughts of me. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
The Earl of Whitby’s lips twitched in the corners. “How lucky we are that your Justin can survive you, being the one to cultivate your wild ways to begin with.” He turned sparkling dark eyes on Rowena and offered a hand. “Your new family has informed me of the happy tidings. Welcome to Whitby Park, Duchess. Your father is the Earl of Lochaber?”
Her spine tingled. Of course some of the lords would know Father. He didn’t make the Sessions every year, but whenever matters that concerned Scotland were to be discussed, he would carve out the time for the trip to London. She managed only a nod, her lips feeling glued together, and slid her fingers onto his palm.
Whitby bowed over her hand, kissing her knuckles lightly. “I remember when he and your mother were recently wed—she and my Lizzie struck up a friendship that spring, being similarly indisposed. You and Brook should be within weeks of each other in age, I should think.”
“Oh.” An inane response, but her tongue could lay hold of no other words. It should make camaraderie spring up, shouldn’t it? But in their twenty years, only one of them had done anything worth doing. Found a home, a father who obviously doted on her, a husband who adored her, a son sleeping in a nursery somewhere upstairs.
A far cry from an aching foot, a stranger at one’s side, and a gaping emptiness within.
“Well, there we have it—friends even before we were born.” Brook went up on her toes to peer past her father. “Is Abingdon awake yet?”
Lord Whitby tucked Rowena’s fingers into the crook of his elbow. “I gave strict instructions for William to be delivered to me the moment his nappy was changed, so I must assume not. But you go ahead and check on him, my dear. I’ll see our guest to her room.”
The duchess needed no prompting. With another grin, she sped into the foyer and took off at a dash up the stairs.
Whitby led Rowena inside at a more civilized pace, though he watched his daughter’s path until she disappeared from sight. “I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” he murmured after she’d gone. “I never saw her after that year, but still, when I heard it . . . it was a bit like losing Brook and Lizzie all over again, knowing she was gone too—she who had sat in Lizzie’s drawing room in London, exclaiming with her over baby things.”
Perhaps tears shouldn’t still sting her eyes at a loss so many years old. “I dinna ken what rumors in London may have been—but she did it to herself. She was miserable. Empty.” It was none of the earl’s business . . . but he was the first in so long to speak to her kindly of her mother. To remember something other than the hollow wisp she’d been in her final years.
“I did hear that.” He angled a sympathetic gaze down at her. “I also heard your father pushed her. To be quite honest, neither would have surprised me. Lochaber is . . .”
He understood, somehow. Saw, somehow, her father’s nature from what few glimpses he must have had over the years. Rowena nodded. “Aye. He is.”
With a pat on her hand, Whitby supported her on the stairs, never asking about her slow pace. Just matching it. “It’s good you’ve come to us. And I don’t say that lightly—I far prefer the quiet months with no one but my staff, my daughter, and her husband. But I pray that the moors and the sea and the security of my home can provide for you what it always has for me.”
; She didn’t ask what that was. Didn’t need to. Even so . . . this was just a place she was visiting, and she didn’t even know for how long. It wasn’t a home for her, wasn’t her destination. Just a stop along the journey to someplace she’d never been.
Ten
Are you ever going to say anything, or just stand there with that glower of yours?”
At Brice’s question, Stafford exchanged his glower for a sigh and looked off into the distance. They hadn’t budged from the end of the drive. Once they started up it, they would have only so many minutes of quiet.
Stafford sighed again and patted his horse’s neck. “It is a less than ideal way to embark upon marriage, Nottingham.”
“But you understand why I did it. Don’t you? You would have done the same in my shoes.” After a week of fearful silence from his wife and the constant watchful gaze of Geoff Abbott, he needed to know someone out there was behind him.
“If the Lord had made it so clear to me, then absolutely. Yes.” Yet Stafford’s expression didn’t ease. “But if your instincts are right . . . if this Kinnaird fellow attacked her as you suspect . . . You’ve considered the implications, haven’t you? The questions? Do you know when, or if . . . if she might be . . .”
Brice passed a hand through his hair. “Of course I’ve considered it. I don’t think it’s . . . That is, they said . . . Not that she’s spoken of what happened or not, but . . .” He felt his cheeks heating, and his friend didn’t have the grace to hold back a laugh.
Brice let out a sigh. “From what I can gather, timing of certain things preclude it, and I pray it’s so. At the moment, however, I’m more concerned for her. And for the fact that with every day that goes by, she seems to retreat from me more and more. I never imagined having a wife who all but hated me.”
This time Stafford’s snort of laughter bespoke normality. “I like this girl already.”
He had little choice but to administer a good-natured shove to his friend’s shoulder.
With another chuckle, Stafford turned toward Whitby Park. “I suppose this changes everything. You can hardly move forward with your plans for Lady Pratt now.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 12
