“Nor can I leave it undone. I need this finished.” He, too, looked toward the house. “Now more than ever. This marriage is going to require my full attention, and at the moment—”
“At the moment, we speak of the devil and she appears.” Stafford, having glanced back at Brice and hence the road, nodded beyond him.
Brice turned just in time to see the Pratt Benz round the turn. A chauffeur was at the wheel, but there was no mistaking the gleaming golden curls of Catherine, Lady Pratt.
He still found it odd how much like Brook she looked on the surface—when underneath they couldn’t have been more different. “Do you think she’s spotted us, or can we hide behind the hedgerow?”
Lady Pratt leaned forward to give some directive to her chauffeur and lifted a hand in greeting.
“That answers that. Though I could be back on Alabaster and to the house in half a beat.”
Brice took the liberty of gripping Alabaster’s bridle—just to guarantee a bit of loyalty.
The Benz came to a halt, its brakes squealing in protest. Lady Pratt ignored her cousin’s husband entirely, aiming the full force of her smile upon Brice. “Nottingham, what a pleasant surprise! I didn’t think you were due back in Yorkshire for another week.” She made a show of looking around. “Did you walk all the way from Scotland?”
He didn’t know what to do but play the game. Grin. Shove his free hand into his pocket and be who he had always been. “Your cousin just liberated my car is all, my lady.”
One needn’t have any great skills in observation to note the flash of ice in her eyes, the way her smile edged toward a sneer. “Charming as always, isn’t she?”
“Quite. Never a dull moment with Brook around.”
“Yes.” She shifted and renewed her smile. “I was so pleased to see that you and your party accepted the invitation to my little gathering, Duke. We’ll have a smashing time. I’ve a ball planned, a fox hunt, a new baritone everyone’s been going on about . . .”
She prattled on, but Brice’s ears twitched toward Stafford and his soft, “You did what?”
He had to give his friend credit—he managed to ask the question without a single shift in his expression, hissing the whole thing from between teeth clenched in a neutral smile.
Brice ignored him for now. “It all sounds lovely, my lady. I’m sure we’ll enjoy ourselves immensely—though I do have one favor to ask. I’m afraid whatever arrangements you’ve made for our rooms will have to be adjusted. I married while in Scotland, and my wife is, of course, traveling with us now.”
“Your wife.” Something flashed through her eyes, so quick and sharp that Brice had to wonder what her plans had been. Had she adopted her late husband’s hopes to marry into the Fire Eyes rather than steal them?
Perhaps it was good his plans for flirting her into a corner had been thwarted. He may have found her far too ready to strike. For now, he opted for a bright smile. “Indeed. A sweet, charming young lady. I’m sure everyone will love her.”
A chill swept up his spine at the smile she returned. “Oh, Duke, I’m sure.” She shifted her gaze, finally, to Stafford. “I hope your cousin will still come too, sir. I daresay he could use the distraction.”
Stafford went stiff as a victim of Medusa. “You’ll not convince Cayton to leave his house.”
Now her smile went downright wicked. “Oh, I’ve found it never takes convincing with Cayton. Just the right words whispered at the right time.”
The fool actually started forward, as if he could do anything but make her day by losing his head. Brice gave Alabaster just enough of a nudge to shift her into her master’s path. Stafford, thank heavens, took the hint and came to a halt.
Though his hands were in fists at his side. “Have you no shame? To make such insinuations when his wife is not a fortnight in her grave?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Stafford.” She repositioned her hat, touched the curls spilling from beneath it. “I only know that Cayton was an immeasurable comfort to me after Pratt’s death—they were such good friends, after all—and now I wish to repay him the shoulder to cry on. Is that not merely . . . neighborly?”
“Easy,” Brice muttered. Alabaster’s ears twitched, though it was the man he’d aimed the command at.
This time Stafford held his tongue.
Lady Pratt tapped the seat of the chauffeur. “Do excuse me now, gentlemen—I’ve still much to do before my guests arrive. I’ll see you in a week, Nottingham. And give your new wife my congratulations.”
A dark cloud passed over Brice’s heart, the kind that portended trouble. He let go the bridle and pivoted toward the house, stepping out of the way so Stafford could turn Alabaster around. “I knew she would be ready to pounce. Her mourning is over, society has accepted her again—I even saw her in an advertisement. She has set the stage for herself, now she has only to play her role, she will think, and snatch the diamonds from me.”
But if she were allowed to get away with such a crime . . . No. Too many people had died because of those diamonds, or nearly. The feeling of having a gun leveled at his head still jarred him from sleep sometimes.
It had to stop. She had to be stopped, before the violence could follow him home to Midwynd Park.
Stafford grunted. “I don’t like it. I didn’t like it when you came up with this lunatic plan last year, and I don’t like it any more now.”
Aimed now for the house, Brice led their lopsided trio onward, the horse still between them. “Were it my lunatic plan, I may take offense. But as I said then, if you’ve an issue with it, take it up with the Almighty.”
“You’re infuriating. You know that, right? It’s no wonder your wife hates you.”
“Not funny, Stafford.” Yet Brice smiled, because it was such a relief to have someone who wanted to jest about it with him.
Stafford chuckled. “Oh yes, it is.”
Brice angled a look toward his friend—there was still tension beneath the laughter. “Don’t dwell on Catherine’s insinuations about your cousin. She was only trying to goad you.”
Hands closing tight around the reins, Stafford growled. “But honestly, Nottingham, I’ve no idea what lines he might have crossed. He never loved Adelaide—not as he should have. He wedded her for her money, and everyone knows it.”
“But Brook said he is a wreck now, from her death. If he truly didn’t care for her . . .”
Stafford sighed and shook his head, angling his face toward the sun that broke through a scuttling cloud. “Guilt, I think. He did seem fond of her there at the end—but the whispers have already started that he got her with child on purpose, knowing she wasn’t strong enough to survive it.”
People could be so vicious. “I daresay the gossips will also seize on the fact that the babe is a girl, so he still needs an heir. It will make him all the more eligible, and society will expect him to act quickly, to provide a mother for the little one.”
Stafford sucked in a long breath and released it slowly. “I know. But if you saw him . . . He is devastated. The way he is doting on his daughter, almost fiercely . . . They were married only a year, but it effected a change in him. I think so, anyway. I hope so.”
The stables came into view, and Alabaster pranced as if visions of oats danced before her eyes. But despite the soothing of the salt-laden air, the enchantment of the moors, the pall wouldn’t be easily banished. “I don’t quite understand how a woman comes to be like Lady Pratt. How she can hate so completely, even before she knows a person.”
Stafford handed Alabaster’s reins to the groom who emerged, murmuring his thanks. But he kept his focus on Brice. “You’d better be thinking of how to tell that lovely new wife of yours to be on her guard, if you intend to take her with you to Delmore next week.”
Brice passed a hand through his hair. Returning to Sussex was sounding better and better. Perhaps he could just forget he had the diamonds, forget Catherine, forget it all. Concentrate on convincing Rowena to smile at him now and the
n.
Protect her. The command still pulsed, sure and strong, inside him. But how was he to achieve it?
His only answer was a sudden gust of wind from the direction of the sea that made another chill skitter over him.
The book was there on the carriage bench, just as she had left it. But clutching it close did nothing to make the words stop swirling through Stella’s mind like the leaves in the scattering wind.
Lady Pratt. Lady Pratt.
A name, not a person. Not yet. But a name that bore promise. Whoever this Lady Pratt was, she was to be feared. If the two dukes, arguably among the more powerful men in England, uttered her name with such caution, then she was a formidable enemy. Their formidable enemy. Someone, it seemed, who would take issue with this sudden marriage.
Someone else, rather.
Stella gripped the book tightly. The cover was worn, the gilt of the title faded. To Have and to Hold. The page edges had softened from all the times she’d turned them, reading over and again the adventures of the American, Ralph, and his English bride, Jocelyn. The book had gone with her everywhere these last years, ever since the little celebration her father had thrown for her before she left for school. She had read it so many times she all but had it memorized—nearly as many times as she had flipped it open and read the inscription.
To Stella-bell—as you begin your greatest adventure to date, you may perhaps need the respite of a fictional one. Brice
She had known that night, as she traced a finger over the then-fresh ink, that it meant something more than just a random gift to a childhood friend. How could he possibly give her a book with such a title unless it were a promise? A secret. A claim upon her, that she was the one he meant to have and to hold.
And now he had wed another.
Stella leaned against the carriage door for a moment and drew in a deep breath. He had barely spoken to her since he had offered his hand to Rowena. There had been no opportunity for her to dissuade him from his promise, no time to assure him that she loved him, had always loved him, and that she was so sorry she had been holding him at arm’s length since she returned from school.
She had thought it the best way to win him. A misstep, apparently, but it couldn’t be the end of their story. It couldn’t. How was she to know that he would have despaired of gaining her love so completely that he would propose to another?
It had been a decision prompted only by compassion, she knew, and the desire to help. The very desire that made him the man Stella so loved. He had rashly pledged his hand, and he would honor it. Had honored it. But if he was happy with his choice, why did he watch Stella so closely when she was out for a promenade with Geoff or Ella? Especially when his new wife was nearby. It must be strange for him to watch them interact—the girl he had loved so long and the wife he had hastily taken.
Pushing away from the carriage, Stella tucked the novel into her pocket. She would find a way to make things right. She must. She owed it to him, to them. There had to be a way.
It sounded as though someone else may already have one. If so, then Stella would be a fool to ignore them.
And Stella Abbott was no fool.
She stayed behind the carriage, peeking past the corner, until the two dukes meandered their way toward the manor house. Of its own will, her gaze followed the graceful stride of her beloved. She couldn’t even remember when he had first captured her heart. It seemed as though it had always been his. That she had grown up specifically for him. Made herself into what he would want her to be. She’d sought an education so she could hold her own in society, but the greater lessons had been the ones she learned with Ella—the angle at which a duchess held her head. The smile one wore in company. The way one spoke, laughed, connived.
Lessons no one had bothered teaching Lady Rowena Kinnaird. And surely Nottingham realized already what a mistake he had made. Surely he saw that his wife would bring him nothing but shame.
He had done his part. He had gotten her away from that raging laird. But a life as her husband? No, he couldn’t want that. So how fortunate for him that marriages could be . . . undone.
Lady Pratt.
Sometimes it just required a little help.
Eleven
A fitting with a dressmaker had never left Rowena shaking before. But they’d never been so long before. Nor had she ever been left standing in her undergarments with so many others in the room. In Castle Kynn, fittings were quick, efficient affairs to create her a quick, efficient wardrobe. Nothing fancier than a few serviceable evening dresses meant to see her through several years without needing updates.
At the moment, the two more experienced duchesses—Charlotte and Brook—were debating how long the hem was likely to stay fashionable at such-and-such a length, and whether the waistline was going to change again next season. The dowager duchess kept talking about trends over the years, the younger about the latest mode in Paris.
How Brook could be just as fluent in silks and ruching as she was in engines and horseflesh, Rowena didn’t know. But she was ready to escape. She wanted to go . . .
Home. But where was that?
Finally the ordeal was over, and Lilias did up the last button on Rowena’s drab grey day dress. The last day, she was assured, she would have to wear it. The seamstress promised her several simple items by the following morning.
One more day to feel like herself. Rowena’s right hand went to where the gold band encircled her left ring finger. Perhaps there wasn’t a herself left to feel like anymore. Perhaps, whomever she had once been, she had given it up when she married the Duke of Nottingham.
Or perhaps Malcolm had stolen it from her.
“You look as if you could use an escape.”
Rowena wasn’t sure when Ella had slipped into the room, but her warm tone and welcoming smile relaxed something within her. Her old friend had been, at best, aloof these last ten days. Seeing a hint of the old Ella brought out a smile. “I could, yes.”
“Well then.” Ella held out an arm, over which was draped Rowena’s frayed-sleeved jacket and old hat—brown and frazzled next to Ella’s pea-green kimono jacket and stylish toque, which she positioned on her head as they turned to the door. “You haven’t seen Whitby’s maze yet, have you?”
“Only from the windows.”
“It’s great fun. I ought to know my way by heart by now, but I always take a wrong turn or two—and the earl has the loveliest statuary at the dead ends. They make it worth getting lost.” She slid the green silk-satin jacket on as she spoke.
Rowena slid comfortable, worn wool over her own arms.
Ella linked their arms and led her from the room. “From the looks of the sky, we could be in for a storm today, so I thought we had better get our exercise while we may. Though Stella is lost in Whitby’s library and wasn’t to be budged.”
“Ah.” So Rowena was second choice. She made sure to keep her smile in place as they descended the stairs at a nearly normal pace.
It faltered when the faint cry of the baby echoed to them. The way the wailing grew louder, the nurse must be searching for Brook—little Abingdon had the sound of hunger in his cry, and apparently the young duchess didn’t subscribe to the practice of a wet nurse, much to the horror of Rowena’s mother-in-law.
Rowena could understand though. If she’d had her babe, she would have wanted the pleasure of holding it close. Giving it life. Watching eyelids flutter and rosebud lips purse, little hands curl and uncurl in contentment.
She wanted a babe. Not Malcolm’s, but . . . If only she could desire her husband. If only she could master her own reactions, if only she felt as safe by his side when they were alone as she had when they were facing down the monster in her family’s drawing room.
Ella chuckled. “Well, had I not rescued you when I did, it seems little Lord Abingdon would have done.”
“Mm.” Rowena had held the wee one for a few minutes the night before. Not long—she knew her yearning would be on her face, and she hadn’t the e
nergy to face all the teasing of procuring herself a child of her own soon. But it had been long enough for her to breathe in the sweet smell of talcum powder and lavender, of young life and easy acceptance.
At the base of the stairs, she looked up and realized that Ella had been studying her. Though no suspicion darkened her eyes today. They shone with their usual light. “Do you miss your sister? I know she is hardly a babe like Abingdon . . .”
Rowena’s lips pulled up in a grin. “She would squeal in protest at the comparison. But aye, I do. Fiercely.”
“You should send for her when we get to Midwynd.” Ella bounced a bit, her eyes lighting still more. “There’s nothing like having a child about. She could stay the winter with us. Perhaps even into spring.”
Rowena’s head buzzed as they gained the out-of-doors. “I had considered asking if she might join us for Christmas.”
“Well, of course she can. No, she must! I can think of nothing better. We’ll tell the plan to Mama and Brice this very evening. I know they’ll heartily agree.”
Rowena smiled as some of the tension melted away. “Thank you.” Everything would look different, brighter with Annie chattering at her side. And perhaps, if she let herself dream, Father and Elspeth would let her stay longer. Forever.
Ella fell to studying her again as they strolled across the lawn between the house and the maze. She made no secret of it, and Rowena said nothing to interrupt her regard. Her friend didn’t speak again until they’d entered the mouth of the maze and green shrubbery walls towered over them. “I owe you an apology.”
Rowena brushed her palm over the leafy wall. “An apology for what?”
Angling a you-know-what glance her way, Ella tugged her to the left. “I’ve been reserved, and you know well it’s not my nature to withhold my affections from those who have claim to them.”
Within a few steps, they made their first turn. Rowena was too short to see over the top, so there were just deep green walls all around her and a roiling grey sky overhead. She aimed a small smile at Ella. “But it’s been a long time, Ella. We’re not children any longer.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 13
