The Reluctant Duchess

by Roseanna M. White

  But when he opened them again, Abbott was gone.

  He took a moment to pray, though he wasn’t sure what he was praying for, exactly. For his own blinders to be removed. For his pride to be torn down before it could destroy him—though his wife and friend had done a bonny good job at that already. For his relationships to be strengthened through these travails, not weakened.

  And for Abbott’s faith—whatever that little peek into his insecurities had been about. Not unlike their conversation before Brice’s wedding, was it? Was he questioning his calling to the pulpit? Now, after working so hard for so long?

  Brice shoved himself up and strode out of the breakfast room, the house, and across the acre to the steward’s cottage. His knock was answered by Old Abbott’s ancient mother, who greeted him with a wrinkled smile and waved him in. Her son still sat at the table, newspaper before him, Miss Abbott by his side.

  She greeted him with a smile too. “Morning, Your Grace. How fares your wife this morning?”

  It still felt odd when his childhood friends called him that. But he managed a tight smile. “Still unwell, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear it. Ella and I were hoping to convince her to join us this morning for our archery practice.”

  Old Abbott grunted. “So long as you keep it to archery. Yesterday I caught my son teaching them both to handle a pistol—for which I owe you my apologies, Your Grace. I told Geoff he oughtn’t to have let Lady Ella handle a gun without your permission, but he said he didn’t think you’d mind. I don’t know where he would come by such a notion.”

  It was a notion he had never considered. But now that he did . . . given the current circumstances, it might not be a bad idea for the ladies to know how to defend themselves. Heaven knew it had saved Brook’s life when she was attacked in her stables almost two years ago. He didn’t advocate the use of violence, but if one found oneself with a weapon pointed at one’s head, one ought to know how it worked. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t asked me to learn before, honestly. I don’t mind at all, if Geoff would like to continue the lessons. He has always been a thoughtful, thorough, careful marksman. I trust no one more to give such instruction.”

  “See, Papa?” Miss Abbott gave her father a cheeky grin. “I told you it was not a problem. Which is good, because I’m shaping up to be an excellent shot—as good as Geoff, he said.”

  Brice chuckled. “Then remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  Old Abbott sighed. “Very well, I’ll make no further complaint. Only promise to be careful, Stella.” He stood, folding his paper and setting it aside. “Shall we then, Your Grace?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled his farewell to Miss Abbott. “Try to stay out of trouble, Stella-bell.”

  She dimpled. “I would, but what fun would that be?”

  Old Abbott shook his head and then reached for a hat to cover it with. “She’s going to be the death of me,” he said as they stepped out into the brisk September air. “I swear one of these days I’m going to step through my door to a telegram saying she’s run off to Gretna Green to elope with some chap I’ve never even met.”

  “Only if he’s rich enough to justify it!” Miss Abbott shouted after them.

  The second shake of the man’s head didn’t surprise Brice . . . but the lack of amusement in his eyes did. “Were her mother here, God rest her soul, she would never permit Stella to act as she does. But the harder I try to keep her in hand, the worse it gets.”

  Brice frowned and led the way to the stables. He considered suggesting the car, but the roads were a muddy mess from last night’s rain, and his Austin would likely not make it down the lane. “I daresay you have nothing to worry about, sir. For all her jesting, she is a good girl with a solid head on her shoulders.”

  “I pray you’re right, Your Grace—but fear you’re wrong. I don’t know where she came by these grandiose ideas of marrying so far above her station, but I’ve a terrible feeling it’ll lead her to heartache.”

  It was on the tip of Brice’s tongue to observe that the world was changing, that social lines were beginning to blur—what with nobility posing for postcards and advertisements and more and more often marrying out of the genteel class. But the lines in the man’s face were those of a father concerned for his daughter’s heart more than her social status. A flippant answer would do nothing for such worries.

  While they waited for the carriage to be brought around and then rode into town, they spoke of the more menial matters of the estate—the ones Old Abbott could recite in his sleep and which Brice was finally beginning to get a handle on. But as the countryside gave way to shops and houses, silence fell.

  He hadn’t seen the former footman since they left Midwynd in the spring. And the man had only been employed with them for six months before that. But that wasn’t what made him seem almost unfamiliar when they arrived at the jail and the constable led them to a cell. It was the way he looked up at Brice with hatred in his eyes. Definitely not something he had noted in the fellow’s gaze before.

  He nodded to Constable Morris. “Could I have just a moment to speak with him?”

  “You can, Your Grace. But he likely won’t say much—he hasn’t to the rest of us.”

  Brice smiled and made a show of leaning against the bars, casual and comfortable. If he weren’t mistaken, the particular flavor of revulsion in Humphrey’s eyes would take umbrage at that. Perhaps it would goad him into opening his lips.

  Indeed, the moment the others had shuffled off, the young man sneered. “His Grace himself deigned to come, did he? Ought I to feel important?”

  Brice chuckled. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Umstot, shall we? We both know who hired you to do what you did—though no doubt you’ll go mum again rather than give their names. But you’ve chosen the wrong side. Whatever they’ve paid or promised, I could have given more.”

  He must play to his greed. More, try to figure out what Catherine’s plan had been—had she paid Humphrey simply to upset him . . . or had he actually been looking for the Fire Eyes?

  Humphrey leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Think so?”

  “Mm. But do you know, especially, why you’ve made a grave error?” Brice tipped his head down. “Because never, in a lifetime, would you or anyone else find it.”

  Humphrey sat forward, hands braced now on his knees. “Oh, don’t be so sure, Your Grace. They’ve already found them.” Them. Brice had deliberately said it. So he must have known what it was he was looking for, to realize it wasn’t just one thing.

  Never mind the claim itself. To that, Brice just grinned. “Funny. I happen to know otherwise.”

  What had he ever done to this man, that he snarled at him with such revulsion? “Didn’t say they’d been handed over yet, did I? But they will be. They’ve another on the inside, ready to meet.”

  He wasn’t about to show any concern over that, though his mind immediately began to run through the list of every servant in the house—and, blast it, why were there so many? No doubt the whole point of telling him this was to send him home in a panic to dig out the Fire Eyes from their hiding place . . . where some other traitor would indeed be waiting to seize them.

  Fat chance.

  He straightened, slung his hands in his pockets, and smiled again. “Good luck to them all, then, and to you. We’ve only trespassing to accuse you of, so I imagine you’ll be out of here soon enough.” He turned, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He wouldn’t threaten. He wouldn’t brandish his power.

  Humphrey already knew exactly who he was, of what he was capable. He had deemed the Fire Eyes worth the risk.

  So be it. Let them all imagine his reactions. Let them guess at his next move. He’d surprise them all.

  He’d do absolutely nothing. Nothing but wait for them to move and be ready to pounce . . . as soon as he figured out who else in his house was waiting to betray him.

  Twenty

  Everything all right, Lily?”
<
br />   Lilias looked up, shocked to hear the familiar version of her first name from anyone but Rowena—but upon spotting Mr. Child a few steps away in the moonlit slumbering garden, she smiled. First that he would approach her, and all the more that he would call her by a given name. She sat on a bench that was cold as the night air, her fingers folded in her lap. “Just worrying o’er the duchess is all.”

  “Still sick?” He took a few slow steps toward her. When she motioned him to the seat at her side, he moved far more quickly and settled beside her with a lovely muted smile.

  “Aye. It’s been five days. The poor lass ought to be better by now.” But every morning Lilias entered to the sounds of Rowena retching. Every day saw the duchess so exhausted and spent that she could do little but lie about. Every evening His Grace had to practically kick Lilias from Rowena’s chamber, assuring her he’d take care of her.

  He did—she knew that. Rowena, despite her misery, smiled whenever she spoke of him now. Her eyes lit up when he came into her room. That, at least, was good to see. This was not the way she would have chosen for it to happen, but seeing them fall in love brought a balm to Lilias’s heart.

  It couldn’t quite eclipse the worry, though. Rowena had never been sickly. What was causing it now? If it didn’t relent, if she wasted away, if it was some disease she caught in England, where Lilias had forced her to come, she’d never forgive herself.

  “Probably nothing to worry about.” Mr. Child leaned back against the cold iron bench and grinned—actually grinned. “I daresay you would know better than I if it’s good news rather than bad, but the timing’s right, isn’t it? It was always right about now that my late wife, God rest her soul, would start feeling so poorly.”

  Lilias just stared at him for a long moment. She already knew of the late Mrs. Child, of the four children who were grown and off making their own way in the world. She knew exactly what he meant by good news.

  And it made her own stomach clench up so badly she nearly retched. “I hadn’t considered that.” Because Rowena had bled. And had never lain as a wife with His Grace. She couldn’t be with child. . . . Except the bleeding had been so short. Painless, Rowena had said. Light. And it should have come again in the time they’d been here. Should have, but it hadn’t.

  Heaven help them.

  Warm fingers closed around her frigid ones. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped by saying such a thing. I only meant to offer a happier alternative to the duchess having a serious illness.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Child.” Lilias’s smile wasn’t as forced as she’d expected it to be. Not given how perfectly right it felt to have her fingers tucked in his. How long had it been since a man had held her hand? Just held it, to give comfort and perhaps a touch of pleasure? Over two decades—that was how long. Since Cowan had clutched it in his last moments. Since she’d been a lass herself, no older than Rowena. But oh, with so many life lessons stored inside already, and four years of a happy, if hard, marriage behind her. “It would indeed be a far happier reason. But I canna be sure, ye ken.”

  He studied her for a long moment in the moonlight, making Lilias infinitely aware of how frazzled her hair no doubt was, how plain the wool jacket she’d put on. How faded the serviceable grey dress beneath it.

  How very different from when she sat in the moonlight with Cowan as a lass, so sure of her own beauty and charms. When there were no lines on her face, no sagging in her figure, no grey in her hair. When she hadn’t felt the fool for entertaining notions of romance.

  She turned her face up to see the smattering of stars studding the night sky.

  Mr. Child didn’t release her hand. “You’ve said you’ve served her family since before she was born. You must care deeply for her, as I do for His Grace and Lady Ella.”

  Lilias smiled up at the winking diamonds above. “Even more, I’d wager. She’s a daughter to me, the only one I’ve ever had. I daresay I mothered her as much as Lady Lochaber ever did.” She’d cried for her when the Kinnaird lashed out against her. More, certainly, than she did for Nora. And more than Nora ever did for Rowena, so busy was she crying for herself.

  “Her Grace is a lucky young lady, indeed, to have you. And I daresay she has no fear of you taking a position elsewhere.”

  Was that a question? A probing? An asking if she would be here as long as the new duchess? Lilias smiled up into the night. “Nay, she’s no fear of that. She may perhaps occasionally wish me elsewhere, as every young woman does her mother, but we have got each other through some difficult times.”

  “Well.” He squeezed her hand. “Let us hope that ahead of you lies far more good times than difficult ones. And new life to love rather than sickness, eh?”

  “Aye.” But even as she agreed, she had to fight back the sting of tears. Their every action since the wedding night had been based on the assumption that there was no babe. No need to lie to His Grace. No need to rush Rowena into the marriage bed.

  But if she were with child . . . there would be no lying now, even if they wanted to—which she knew Rowena hadn’t to begin with. There would be no choice but to throw themselves on the duke’s mercy. Nothing to do but pray he chose to protect Rowena rather than toss her out.

  He liked her, Lilias could see that. Might be coming to love her. He was kind, and he was gentle. He was good. But he was still a duke. He had a long family legacy to uphold.

  “Look at you, shivering. You must be chilled to the bone, Lily.” Mr. Child stood and tugged her up with him. “Come inside, have a cup of chocolate before you retire.”

  There was nothing to be done about the other just now anyway. Rowena was safely tucked in her husband’s arms. His Grace was soothing her, taking care of her. Tomorrow she would speak to Rowena, first thing. Examine the possibilities with her. Tomorrow they would consider the consequences. Tonight . . . tonight, let them enjoy what ease they could.

  Tonight Lilias would let herself revel, if only for a few minutes, in the security of a warm hand around hers, in the fact that he didn’t let go as they walked back to the house. Tonight she would let herself dream that she’d be at Midwynd for years to come, have a chance to discover whether maybe a second chance at love waited with this good man at her side.

  Tomorrow she could well find herself out on her rear, a weeping mistress by her side instead.

  Brice awoke on his fifth morning in Rowena’s room with words echoing in his heart.

  Love her.

  The command was clearer than any he had heard before, resonating. Replaying itself. Turning into a veritable refrain within him. Love her. Love her. Love her.

  Her hair was fanned out over his chest, a few strands tickling his nose. He smoothed it down, lingered a bit over the long silken locks. And wondered why the Lord thought to wake him with such an insistent command when he’d fallen asleep eight hours before wondering if that was the word for how he felt about the fragile, strong woman in his arms.

  Love her.

  Usually the Lord’s promptings brought peace. Just now, it brought irritation. He didn’t have to be told to love her. He was leaning that way all on his own. Which the Lord obviously knew. So why?

  Rowena shifted, turning onto her back. Yes, his stomach went tight when he looked at her, saw the curves that he’d so quickly grown accustomed to feeling pressed against him all night. Not that desire was love. But when paired with shared laughter, with whispered dreams of someday like they’d taken to falling asleep to, with a baring of the heart . . .

  Love her.

  It was going to be a long day if the Lord kept this up. Brice sat up, careful not to disturb Rowena, and slid out of bed.

  “Brice?”

  He must not have been careful enough. Her voice still sounded sleep heavy, though—perhaps she could catch a few more minutes. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek . . . and then to her lips, because he couldn’t help himself. “Go back to sleep, darling.”

  Instead, she looped an arm around his neck and k
issed him again, softly. “Dinna leave yet. I dinna want the day to start. Perhaps if it doesna, I willna be sick again.”

  Well . . . he had nothing all that pressing awaiting him this morning. Nothing that wouldn’t wait twenty minutes, anyway. Just more names to go over with Old Abbott and Mr. Child, servants’ histories to examine. Hints to find as to who might be in the pay of Catherine Pratt.

  Though he still needed to get up, if only for a few minutes. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” A quick trip to the lavatory—and perhaps a minute with his toothbrush and powder, if more kissing was promised. “Two minutes.”

  She grinned sleepily up at him and let her arm fall. “I’ll be counting.”

  Chuckling, he raced for the lavatory. The Love her refrain hammered him all through his ablutions though, which nearly wiped the grin from his face.

  By his estimation, he was at a minute forty when he moved to the doorway again, humming as he stepped from her lavatory into her dressing room.

  The voices from the bedchamber brought him to a halt at that second doorway, though. Cowan, the outer door clicking shut behind her even as she said, “Oh, good, His Grace isna here. I must talk to you, lass.”

  Rowena levered herself up in bed, brows knit. “He’ll be right back. What is it, Lil?”

  The maid perched on the edge of the bed, her back to Brice, and gripped Rowena’s hand. “It’s this sickness. Were it the flu, it would have passed by now. But if it’s . . . that is . . . The bleeding, Wena. Perhaps it was too short. Perhaps it didna mean what we thought. This sickness—it’s just how yer mother was, when she carried you. I fear ye may yet be with child.”

  The floor fell out from beneath his feet. The walls closed in, pressing his chest until he could scarcely breathe. But the dagger—the dagger was Rowena’s gaze, which flew straight to him and pierced his heart.