Adelaide was not the sort to leave a friend to take the blame should the truth come out. Nor was she the kind to stop doing something she believed in simply because it wasn’t what a “proper” lady would do. She might be a duchess, but she was still Adelaide. Rather than make her less, her new position as a wife and titled lady only made her more determined to remain true to herself.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dylan, dear, but you will simply have to learn to deal with me as I am,” she thought. “I have never hidden behind you before and I certainly don’t intend to start now.” She paced to the fire and tossed the first page of the letter into the flames. She walked back to the writing desk and retrieved the envelope. It went into the fire as well.
As she stood at the hearth, she read the second page. A series of emotions whirled through her at the words that smudged and scrawled their way across the page. She felt the lines of a furious scowl creep over her face at his declaration she would not be “allowed” to help him and Sully again.
“Well, that simply isn’t your decision to make, is it Mr. Crosby?” She realized she had spoken the words to an empty room, but she couldn’t help it. She would not be treated like a child, especially by a man not quite two years her senior.
She rolled her eyes and huffed at the next few lines. His sarcastic tone, with his “Your Grace” here and “Your Grace” there, made her want to smack him. It was just like him to write something he knew would make her angry and then run off before she could read it. He was worse than her brothers.
“Oooh,” she mused in silent fury. “My husband is not a crusty old duke, you pea-brained oaf.” The thought of Marcus’s strong hands as he caressed her body, the smooth hard silk of his muscles as he rose over her, made her entire body flush with a heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace.
Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined her “marital duty” would be so ripe with pleasure and joy and wicked delight. All Marcus had to do was look at her and her body awoke and stretched like some sensual creature, ready for whatever new rapturous adventure he wanted her to experience. When she was in his arms, she had his complete attention. What he did not know, or at least she did not think he realized, was in those moments he was completely open to her. She had seen more of the real Marcus in this last week, than she had in the entire month previously.
Adelaide crumpled the sheet of velum in her hand and pressed her palms to her cheeks in an effort to cool the blush she knew was there. Her husband’s youth and lack of “crust” was definitely not in question.
She smoothed the page one more time and read the last paragraph. The tone was consummate Dylan, snide and superior, but the sentiments of the last few lines made her smile. In spite of everything he was her dear friend. He did want her to be happy, even if happiness meant marriage to a “condescending old stick like Selridge.”
“You and I have a long conversation in our future, Dylan Crosby,” she vowed to him in her mind. “And really, Dylan,” she continued out loud as she used the poker to stir the dying embers to light. “What on earth possessed you to put all of that down on paper? If Marcus ever read it, he would shoot us both dead first and ask questions in the morning. “
A flick of her wrist and the wrinkled page flew into the fireplace. Adelaide did not look back as she strode to the parlor door. It opened, as always, like magic.
“Thank you, Jacob,” she said. “Do you know where His Grace is at present?”
No sooner had the door clicked shut, than Marcus pushed the drapes that covered the balcony doors aside. To his shame, he’d hidden there and spied on his wife for the last quarter of an hour. At the sight of the page just starting to burn there, he rushed to the fireplace. He stumbled to his knees, uttered a foul oath and snatched the smoking page from the fire. More curses, punctuated by grunts of pain, accompanied the beating of his hands as he tried the save the singed page. Once the last ember was snuffed, he placed what he had saved on the polished wood floor and leaned back against the overstuffed leather chair. If he had any strength left he would actually get up and sit in the chair, but it simply required too much effort at the moment.
He stared at the tattered remains of his wife’s letter. There was very little left actually. One page was now ashes in the grate. This page was riddled with holes, the sides curled in like the frayed cuffs of his favorite hunting jacket. It appeared to be unreadable. He could not take his eyes off of it.
The silence in the room was unbearable. What a pitiful creature he was. He had followed Addy from room to room in the hunting lodge. The reason had eluded him until now. A room with Addy in it was warm, full of life and laughter, and never, ever empty. When she left, it was as if the colors faded and the very air left with her.
He picked up the burned page and started to throw it back into the fire. The glimpse of a phrase stayed his hand.
he will never know
Marcus steadied his hand and scanned the page for more.
we can carry on as before
He ground his teeth in frustration. The black burned spots made it impossible to make out more than a few words at a time. Not a single sentence remained intact. It had been difficult to read Addy’s expression from his place behind the drapes. When she’d stood and paced the floor, moving from carpets to floor to carpets again, he had caught a brief look or two. Her face had alternated between nervousness and worry to anger and frustration. Any effort to match an exact emotion to each phrase was impossible.
indeed fortunate you married a duke
Why was it fortunate? Had she planned to get herself compromised? Ridiculous. No one planned to fall into an underground cave. This marriage was his idea. It had been since the moment he saw Addy weeping at Julius’s funeral. Marcus’s stomach knotted itself into a solid ball. Why was he doing this? Addy cared deeply for him. He was sure of it. This letter meant nothing at all.
a duchess can be forgiven almost anything
What had she done that needed forgiveness? And from whom? The last phrase he could make out made his heart lurch to a stop.
love you so much
In a slow deliberate motion, he fed the leaf of vellum to the flames. Whilst he had not seen her every expression, he had seen her skin flush and her mouth curve into a sensuous smile at one point. A phrase like that would certainly bring a smile to a woman’s face, if written by the man she loved. Suddenly the only words he had been able to hear her say made perfect sense.
“If Marcus ever read it, he would shoot us both dead first, and ask questions in the morning.”
Oh, he had questions. That much was certain. He did not think he would wait until morning to ask them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Adelaide dropped into the low-set tufted blue chair and immediately toed off her shoes. The door, framed in rosette anchored cornice-work, beckoned to her from its perch set in the middle of the damask covered wall. Even the cheerful periwinkles patterned on that damask seemed to assure her escape was possible. Duplicitous flowers. She wiggled her toes and sighed.
Moments into her search for Marcus, just as she was about to go into the gardens, she was caught by Mrs. Church, Winfield Abbey’s formidable housekeeper. The irony of a woman named Church in service at an abbey made her smile from the moment they were introduced. Of course, they were introduced over a month ago as servant and guest. Now the efficient no-nonsense woman was in service to that guest. How swiftly all of their lives had changed.
Without delay, Adelaide must decide which rooms to put under Holland covers, and which to keep made up in case of unexpected guests. In the mistaken belief this would be an interview of brief duration and easy solution, she’d led the smiling matron to the duchess’s office, now her own domain.
An hour later, just as Mrs. Church exited the neatly appointed room, Adelaide tried to follow. It was not to be. Fosters arrived with questions about which china to set out for the evening meal.
“How many sets of china do we have here at the Abbey, Fost
ers?”
“Only two, Your Grace. The very best china is at Winfield Park.”
“Of course.”
“Along with the second and third best china.”
“Third best?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The other two sets are kept at the house in Town.”
“And those would be?”
“The fourth and fifth best.”
“I see.” Actually, Adelaide didn’t see. Her head was set to spin off her shoulders at any moment. She was now in charge of not one, not two, but seven sets of china. In her twenty years, she had lost seventeen pairs of shoes. How was she to keep up with seven sets of fine china? Did her mother know the Selridges were in possession of so many pieces of Sevres, Limoges and Wedgewood? Probably not. It would have been featured somewhere on the wedding invitations if she had.
“Your Grace?” Fosters inquired.
It took a moment for her to realize to whom he spoke. He awaited her decision… about… china. Yes, that was it. She squared her shoulders and gave the solemn butler her most regal look of consideration.
“Which is most appropriate for a dinner en famille, Fosters?”
“The Wedgewood, I should think, Your Grace,” he said. There was no hesitation in his answer. Better still, the look he gave her could only be seen as one of pleased approval. Once again, she’d obviously asked the right question. Just as her decision about the eel casserole was the right one. This being a duchess was not nearly as hard as she’d thought.
It was not until the fourth, or perhaps it was the fifth member of the staff appeared in the doorway at which she now stared in desperation, Adelaide began to realize what was afoot. Only one person could be behind this sudden flurry of domestic inquiries. She shoved her feet into her shoes and rose to go in search of the culprit.
She made it as far as the other side of the door. A flustered housemaid with two vases of flowers hurried up the stairs. A footman approached from the corridor to the upstairs parlors. He carried a very old, but lovely Turkish carpet. Two guilt-faced dogs followed him.
“Your Grace,” the two servants chorused.
Adelaide held up a hand to each in turn. They stopped in their tracks. Even the dogs understood what her grim face and closed eyes meant. After a moment of complete silence, she turned to address the maid.
“Those are lovely. Would they not be appropriate in the duchess’s suite?”
The young girl swallowed and took a breath. “In your suite, Your Grace? His Grace said to put—”
The hand came back up and she shook her head. “In the dowager’s suite.”
“Oh. Her Grace said she had enough flowers. She told me to ask you where these should go.”
Adelaide didn’t realize she’d narrowed her eyes until the maid blanched and took a step back. She schooled her features into a more pleasant expression. After all, the poor girl had confirmed her suspicions in spades. “And when and where did Her Grace give you these instructions?”
The maid gulped and steadied the vases that shook in her hands. A snicker from the footman was silenced by a single glance in his direction from the new duchess.
“Just a moment ago, Your Grace, in the conservatory.” She shot the footman a triumphant smile.
“Thank you, Meggie,” Adelaide said. “It is Meggie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She seemed inordinately pleased to have her name remembered by the new mistress of Winfield Abbey. Little did she know the new mistress wanted to groan at the enormity of her task and her own sense of inadequacy.
“Please place those in the front parlor, Meggie. They will look lovely in there.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsy and turned to go.
“Oh, Meggie?” A sudden thought occurred to Adelaide. The maid turned again to face her.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“What did His Grace say about the flowers in my suite?”
A bright smile wreathed the girl’s face. “He said you were to have wildflowers, Your Grace. Nothing but wildflowers.”
“Thank you, Meggie. Carry on.” Adelaide smiled at the catch in her voice. A sliver of joy shot through her at the maid’s words. It was such a small thing, but not really small at all. Now she was for the conservatory and a little tête-à-tête with her mother-in-law.
“Your Grace?” the footman inquired. He tilted his head and raised the rug for her to see. Adelaide sighed and approached the trio of the footman and the two dogs. One look at her face and Romulus and Remus immediately sank to their bellies on the floor and rested their heads on their paws. The poor young man in the Selridge livery looked as if he wanted to join them.
Two small ragged holes marred the middle of the intricately woven design. She put her fingers into the holes and tsk’ed her disapproval. The footman tugged at his collar with his free hand whilst the dogs whined in contrition. She had this instant discovered the hardest part of a duchess’s job, the maintenance of a façade of disapproval, when all one wanted to do was laugh.
“Very well, boys,” she said sternly. “Which of you wants to explain this?”
The footman goggled and looked down at the dogs before he glanced back up and saw Adelaide’s smile. His lips twitched and he cleared his throat. “I guess I had better, Your Grace. These two would only lie about it.” Adelaide did laugh then, which put the red-faced young man completely at ease. “His Grace asked me to fetch these two ruffians in from the gardens and to put them in his study. I stopped to help Jacob clean the soot tracks from the hall and these two,” The twin furry behemoths raised their heads and then dropped them again in shame. “wandered off. I found them playing a game of tug-a-war with this in the billiards room.”
“Shame on you two,” she scolded as she shook her finger at Romulus and then Remus. “You both know better.” Never had she seen two more penitent sinners. Not even her brothers had given such consummate performances of regret. The footman struggled not to laugh as the dogs whined and covered their faces with their paws.
Adelaide chuckled and shook her head. “Let’s bundle the rug up and send it into York to be repaired, shall we, George? No need to worry His Grace with it.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Very good. Come along you two.” He snapped his fingers and led the dogs away. His voice drifted back down the hall. “We’re all lucky Himself landed us such a good duchess, boys. Very lucky indeed. The dowager would banish you two to the stables and me along with you.”
“Speaking of the dowager,” Adelaide mused. She peered down the staircase before she descended it. For the last three hours or more servants had lain in wait for her. If she had to skulk from doorway to doorway and hide behind every potted palm and statue in the house she fully intended to have a long talk with the Dowager Duchess of Selridge.
Marcus intended to have a long talk with his mother. That is, if the old windbag who presently held him hostage in his study drew breath long enough for him to interrupt. The moment he’d descended the stairs in search of his wife, he was cornered by Fosters, who announced Sir Delbert Finch had come to call.
“Tell him I am not at home,” Marcus had instructed, even as he’d glanced behind the butler and tried to spot Addy in the drawing room.
“Her Grace, has already told him you would see him,” Fosters had replied. His voice held the exaggerated patience of a man instructing a particularly dull child. “I have put him in your study as she instructed.”
“My wife has an infinite supply of nerve,” Marcus had muttered.
“As you say, Your Grace,” Fosters had agreed. “But it is the dowager duchess who spoke with Sir Delbert and informed him you were at home.”
So, now, thanks to his mother’s noblesse, he had listened for nigh on two hours to a rambling oration on everything from people who cheated at cards, to spendthrift wives and children, to sons and daughters of the peerage who had nothing better to do than rob good citizens of their precious property. Another second of this and he would direct Sir Delbert to visi
t each and every attendee of the wedding in search of his three, no doubt, mangy dogs and his equally mangy missing son. Anything to get the man out of his house.
If asked, he doubted if he could repeat a tenth of what the man had said. All he could hear, all he could see were Dylan Crosby’s scrawled words on the burnt half page of a letter. Whilst Sir Delbert went on and on about thieves and kidnappers, Marcus pondered the possibility of a theft of quite a different sort.
He did not know which disturbed him the most—this newfound fear Addy might be unfaithful, or the fact he had become so attached to her as to scramble about in the ashes of a fire in search of evidence against her. Even now, rather than listen to a man with a legitimate complaint, as his duty as the ranking peer in the area demanded, he sat in a distracted daze in contemplation of how to confront his wife about a letter from another man. More to the point, how to enact said confrontation without her discovery of exactly how he came to read the letter.
“Good Lord, at this rate, I’ll be dead in a month.”
“I should think they would be dead in a month,” Sir Delbert blustered. “Murderers and thieves should be hanged, no matter what their station in life.”
Marcus stared at the man in disbelief. Had he said that last bit out loud? He suppressed a groan. In less than a week’s time he had become so involved with his wife he could think of little else. Well, to be perfectly fair, they had been thrown together for over a month, if one counted from the moment she had arrived at Winfield Abbey. If one counted? Now she had him counting.
Worse, she had his stomach tied in knots. The words on that tattered page had blended themselves into a song. Its refrain mocked him over and over as Sir Delbert droned on about dog thieves with nooses around their necks. Marcus tugged at his cravat, a cravat which had been perfectly comfortable an hour ago.
He could think of a fate worse than a noose around one’s neck. It involved a man and his young wife’s little finger. The thought of her little finger brought visions of her delicate hands to mind. Heat crept over his body like the caress of cool lavender-scented fingers. His body shifted in the large worn leather chair situated mercifully behind the massive study desk. Dukes of Selridge had sat behind this desk for nearly three hundred years. He wondered if he was the first to use it to hide the very visible evidence of his reaction to a mere memory of his wife’s touch.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 23
