Elizabeth, The Enchantress

by Lavinia Kent

  The Real Duchesses of London

  ELIZABETH, THE ENCHANTRESS

  LAVINIA KENT

  Contents

  The Real Duchesses of London

  The Maids

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  The Maids

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Maids

  About the Author

  Also by Lavinia Kent

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Real Duchesses of London*

  Kathryn, The Duchess of Harrington

  “I am the perfect duchess. I am beautiful, rich, well-read, well-spoken, and have a civilized relationship with the duke. What more could a woman want?”

  Elizabeth, The Countess of Westhampton

  “I may not be a duchess, but I am more of a lady than any of them. You’ll never see me in the scandal sheets. Mind you, I am not saying I haven’t ever been scandalous—just that you’ll never know.”

  Georgianna, Lady Richard Tennant

  “My son will be a duke. It doesn’t matter if I get to be a duchess as long as I know my son will inherit from his uncle, will hold the title. My husband may have broken many of his promises to me, but that one is absolute.”

  Linnette, The Dowager Duchess of Doveshire

  “I have no intention of giving up what is mine. I’ve run the house and the estates for years. Why would I ever give them up now? I don’t care who the new duke is.”

  Annabelle, The Marchioness of Tattingstong

  “They say that, because I am American, I have no taste, no grace, no style, no refinement. I have every intention of showing them just how wrong they are—and when the time comes, I will be the perfect duchess.”

  *All quotes as relayed to Miss Jane White, more or perhaps less accurately, by Miss Mary White, lady’s maid for the Duchess of Harrington

  THE MAIDS

  “There are two of them. I don’t think there have ever been two of them before.” Abby hurried up to the window.

  Jane scurried up behind. “Do you think it’s because there hasn’t been one for a few days? Oh, I like this one. The Countess of Westhampton looks so regal, like a foreign queen. I know the whispers about her are not always nice, but I’ve decided that it is because she just doesn’t let people know her. I know Lady Smythe-Burke likes her. I’ve heard her say so.”

  Bending forward, Jane examined the print. Lady Westhampton truly did look splendid; the gems about her neck sparkled, and Jane could almost smell the rose she held loosely in one hand. She was so caught by the countess that she almost didn’t see the man on his knees beside her. That was surprising because he was portrayed as a big, slightly bearish man—a man who, judging by the expression on her face, would do anything to win the lady’s approval. And the countess, she looked as if he didn’t exist.

  “Do you think that’s the same man in this one?” Abby pointed at another cartoon. This one was not as skillfully drawn as the other and the sentiment was quite different. It showed the man in the foreground, his face darkened, his look disdainful. It was the countess on her knees here—looking like she was ready to please him any way that he wished. She clung to his leg, her look beseeching, her hands begging. And the man looked away, his interest clearly anywhere but on the woman at his feet.

  And suddenly Jane knew. “I heard a rumor that he was back, but I did not believe it.”

  Abby turned from the window and stared at her friend. “Who? Do you know who he is?” She gestured at the drawing of the man.

  “I do believe that’s the Earl of Westhampton, returned after four years to claim his wife.”

  “But why two such different cartoons?”

  Jane could only stare—stare and wonder.

  CHAPTER ONE

  His wife was beautiful. It was a strange thought for a man married four years to be having—at least it was when he couldn’t remember having had it before. William Beckonridge, the Earl of Westhampton, sat on his horse and glanced across the fresh green of the fields.

  He remembered his wedding day, remembered Elizabeth turning to him and saying that she felt like Cinderella, like her prince had come and taken her away to his castle. She told him of the tale her mother used to recite each night before bed, and he’d laughed at the idea and called it fanciful, ignoring the look of hurt that had come to her eyes. He was a man of science. He did not believe in fairy stories.

  And then he’d seen her last night at Stonebridge’s ball. After an absence of four years, it had been like seeing her for the first time. She’d stood there proud and strong, her straight black hair swept up and formed into a maze of braids, her gown pale blue, the color of a morning sky before the storm clouds moved in. The air had left his body in a single breath when he’d seen her.

  His wife was beautiful, more than beautiful. She truly was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen, better than the Cleistes rosea orchid he’d found in the Brazilian jungle. His wife was rarer than a hothouse flower. Which helped him not at all as he sat on his horse and stared out at the fields. It was, in fact, the problem.

  He should be on his way home. After his long absence traveling the world, there was much work to be done. He’d promised himself that he’d head back to Beaconhill the moment he returned to England. He’d ignored his responsibilities for far too long.

  Which explained why he was seated on his horse halfway between Beaconhill and London. What it didn’t explain was why his horse was not moving. He looked across the field. Maize. Indian corn. Zea mays indenata. It was an unusual planting for this area. Perhaps he should talk to the landowner and discuss the merits of different varieties. He wondered if Zea mays indurate would do well here. He’d seen several interesting types while hiking through parts of South America, and he would love to see some of the more interesting colors grown here—although perhaps the climate wasn’t arid enough.

  He considered.

  And not the maize.

  His wife was beautiful.

  Lizzy was all grown up and more than a man could dream of.

  She called herself Elizabeth now.

  When had that happened?

  It was far safer to think about maize, about all the wonderful varieties of plant life he had catalogued during his travels. If he thought about maize, he didn’t need to think about Lizzy and how she’d stared at him like he was lower than a toad as he’d walked across the ballroom toward her.

  He thought he’d seen her smile when he first appeared, the warm, glowing welcome he’d dreamed of for years.

  A moment later, the smile had been gone and her eyes had shot daggers at him, daggers so sharp they cut.

  Maize. Think about maize. Did they feed it to cattle? It was certainly good for fattening the beasts up. He’d known certain Indian tribes that fed it exclusively to animals when preparing them for slaughter. They claimed it added a pleasant flavor to the meat—and he was inclined to agree with them.

  Lizzy had breasts. Not huge ones or even big ones, but ones that would tempt a man to hold them, to caress them, to . . .

  Now that was certainly not the thought he should be having and certainly not while seated on Wilmington. He shifted in the saddle, ignoring his unruly cock, trying to find a more comfortable position. It was impossible.

  He stared back across the field, trying to shift his mind once again. His notebooks were full of ideas to try out on his estate. It was already late for planting this year. If he was not home within days it would be too late. H
e would have to wait until next spring.

  But all he could see was Lizzy’s creamy skin, the color of tea well-diluted with milk. Had it always been that color?

  He remembered her as sallow. Sallow and skinny. She certainly hadn’t had breasts when he left. She might have been nineteen but she looked more like twelve. A tall twelve, but nonetheless twelve.

  Damnation. She did not look twelve now.

  Looking at her, it had been hard to remember why he had left.

  No, that was not true. He’d left because he’d always planned on leaving. He’d been waiting to leave since the day he turned sixteen and realized that there was nothing stopping him.

  Nothing except an earldom and its need for an heir and a spare. And so he’d waited until his cousin Timothy had a son. Timothy was a good man and more than capable of managing things, should anything happen to William. And the son—well, William had never believed in leaving anything to chance. A man must plan ahead.

  Only he hadn’t. If he’d planned ahead he was rather sure he wouldn’t be sitting astride a horse in the middle of a maize field, unsure which way to head.

  He’d left London only yesterday morning, and already he was wondering if he should turn around and head back. Was it really more important to tend to his estates than to his wife? If only he could be sure it was his brain that was asking the question and not someplace located lower on his body.

  Rolling onto her stomach, Elizabeth Beckonridge, Countess of Westhampton, plucked strands of grass, rolling them hard between her fingers. It was some type of Ryegrass she supposed. Lolium perenne, maybe? Why was she even thinking such things.

  Oh, she knew exactly why. Seeing William had her mind turning in all types of ways.

  Thinking about grass stopped her from thinking about her wedding. It had been the most marvelous day of her first nineteen years. It had not been a most marvelous night. She’d spent it alone, waiting for her absent husband.

  She remembered thinking she was Cinderella that day. So what if she’d had two mean but beautiful cousins, Hetty and Betinia—instead of ugly stepsisters—and a cold and distant aunt instead of a witchy stepmother? And her uncle—most days she worked hard not to think about her uncle.

  And she’d had her prince—well, actually he’d been an earl, but he’d seemed a prince to her when she was nineteen—striding into her life and changing everything, fixing everything.

  William. William Beckonridge. Her savior. She could not suppress the smile that formed at the corners of her mouth as she remembered that first time she saw him.

  The room had been stuffy and filled with the smell of old men, tobacco, and horse liniment. And these were her suitors. She’d doubted that there’d been a man in the room under forty-five. Her uncle’s taste in who would make her an appropriate husband was far different from her own. He evidently felt that without a dowry—and he always seemed to miss the fact that he could certainly give her one—the only thing she had going for her was youth.

  Perhaps he hadn’t been wrong. She certainly hadn’t had looks. She’d been too tall, too dark, too scraggly. And as for personality, she’d become so cautious about people and life that she’d had a hard time lifting her eyes above anyone’s knees. No, there had been very little to recommend her as a wife. Even her hips had been narrow, not wide and sturdy for childbearing.

  Then William had come. He entered the room like a sudden thunderstorm, his very presence altering the quality of the air. She could breathe again, her lungs filling with an ease she had not felt since early childhood, since her parents had died together when their coach had lost a wheel and overturned.

  William had been a compelling presence, even then. Big and well-muscled, he looked more a laborer than an aristocrat. His dark brown hair was a tousled mess and his clothing far looser than fashionable. His features had been fine, however; his cheekbones high and angled, his jaw chiseled, his nose long and refined. He might not have been the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but he’d certainly been the most captivating.

  The men in the room had clearly felt it too. He might have only been something over twenty, but not one of the men had looked at him with anything less than respect. Even her uncle had nodded with extreme politeness.

  A soft sigh escaped her lips and she stared down at the Ryegrass, the bright green staining her fingertips.

  Yes, William had been her prince. He’d swept her off her feet and out of her uncle’s house.

  They’d been married less than three months after that first meeting. She’d known it wasn’t all quite real—he’d mentioned it being a marriage of convience, but even then she’d pushed unpleasant thoughts away and focused on her dreams.

  William had been her prince.

  And she’d been Cinderella.

  But that had been then.

  Now it was four years after happily ever after.

  Four years since her husband had married her and left within the month.

  Four years since she’d begun to live alone.

  Four years since she’d decided that she didn’t need anyone, that nobody was deserving of her trust.

  Four years.

  And now William was back.

  Dropping the grass, Elizabeth reached over and picked up the book she’d planned on reading when she’d come out to the garden. She opened to the marked page, but instead of beginning to read she unfolded the paper she’d been using as a marker and stared down at it—stared down at it and smiled.

  It captured William so perfectly—at least perfectly in her mind, big and bearish and uncivilized. And she looked beautiful, the strength and elegance she’d developed these last years clear upon her face.

  She tapped a finger on the paper. That was just how she wanted it, William begging her forgiveness for his transgressions, begging her to take him back—and her refusing.

  She didn’t need him.

  She didn’t need anyone.

  How dare he return after four years and pretend that nothing was wrong? When he suddenly appeared at Duke of Stonebridge’s two nights ago he’d acted like he’d simply been out for the afternoon, not for four bloody years.

  The nerve of the man. If he thought he could simply come home and take up where he left off, she had a few things to say to him. She couldn’t wait for the chance. Of course, it would help if the man was actually here to be scolded. But that was one more example of how little thought he gave to her.

  He appeared at a ball in a coat that was four years out of style and looked like it had been worn to sail around the world —which it had—and with no more than a few mumbled sentences about how he had to see to the estates, but then he’d be back—he left again.

  She slammed the book shut.

  William wasn’t worth her thoughts.

  Turning onto her back again, she stared up at the cloudless sky. It was a beautiful day, a day that was perfect for lying in the grass, doing nothing—and she didn’t care one bit that ladies didn’t lie in the grass. William had left her alone to do as she wished, and that is just what she had been doing—and was going to continue to do. She was going to lie here, doing nothing, not caring if the servants could see her from the windows, because that is what she wished to do.

  Of course, as soon as she finished the thought she realized that wasn’t what she wished at all.

  “I didn’t do it.” Lucille’s voice echoed throughout the garden.

  Elizabeth raised her head. Had she actually fallen asleep? It seemed impossible, given that thoughts of William’s return that had kept her awake the night before, perhaps that actually explained it. She hadn’t slept more than a few moments last night.

  Rubbing her eyes, she tried to clear her thoughts. She’d fallen asleep in a complete huff about William, her tired mind remarkably childish. Now as her brain began to function she could see other possibilities for action beyond pouting.

  “Darnation, Elizabeth. Where are you? They told me you were out here.” Lucille sounded closer.

&
nbsp; With a sigh, Elizabeth pushed herself up to her knees. She would have to wait until later to form a plan of action for dealing with William. “What on earth are you shouting about? I am over here.”

  “What are you doing—in the grass? Ladies don’t sit in the grass. Even back home in Boston, mother would never have allowed that.” Lucille blinked at her.

  “Do they lie in it? Oh, don’t answer me. I am being facetious.” With another push she rose to standing. “I don’t always care what ladies do—and certainly not when I am alone. What one does in public is what counts. I’ve always believed that privates should stay private. And I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “How can you not have been? You must have seen this.” Lucille reached into her reticule and pulled out a piece of paper.

  “Don’t bother. Of course, I’ve seen it. I think I look rather well in it. Thank you. I certainly don’t see why you’re surprised by it.”

  “You don’t?” Lucille sounded put out. “Do you really think I drew this?” She shook the paper at Elizabeth.

  “Of course, you did. We both know that you did. And as I said, your talent truly shows. I look wonderful. And I love that you’ve made William look a bit of a beast—a beast who adores me, of course.” Well, maybe she wasn’t quite over pouting. The man had been away for four years; surely she was entitled to pout for more than a day.

  “You are not listening to me. And you are not looking at what I am showing you.” Lucille spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

  Elizabeth resisted the urge to snap back. It would not be fair to take out her ill mood on Lucille. “Fine. I will say that I do not believe you drew the cartoon and I will even look at it again.”

  Lucille pursed her lips, but held out the paper.

  Elizabeth took it and glanced down at the cartoon.

  And then glanced again.

  It felt like she’d swallowed hot coals.

  “But this is not the one I have. Not the one my maid bought this morning.”