The Duchess and the Duelist (Friendship Series Book 4)

by Julia Donner

  Mist turned to pelting rain then sleet. Dim light appeared in the window by the entrance, growing brighter. The door creaked open, an abrasive squeak that pierced the sounds of clacking rain pellets. She flinched, but the horse stood without moving, ignoring the weather.

  Holding a lamp high, Grieves swept her with an assessing glance. “If you could light the house and lay a fire, I’ll take this fellow to a warm stall and get him settled. Are you comfortable doing that?”

  “Of course, my lord.” She rubbed the horse’s nose before shifting the knitting bag’s strings so the weight rested against her back. She accepted the lamp and held up her wet skirt hem as she stepped inside.

  She should have known that Sir Harry would keep his dwellings well tended, squeaking front door not withstanding. A fire had been laid in the receiving room off the foyer. She found straws on the mantel and got that one started first.

  By the time Grieves returned, she had lit the lamps in the small vestibule and upstairs landing. The lodge had eight guest rooms on the first floor, which she checked for made beds, but did not go up to the servants’ quarters on the top floor. The ground floor had two receiving rooms, a billiard room, and a small dining hall with a kitchen in the rear.

  In the kitchen, she found the larder bare. The marble-slab shelving had been swept clean of every crumb to discourage rodents. She found well-sealed jars of jam in a cupboard, where she collected spoons and serviettes. She was about to head back to the foyer when Grieves came through the kitchen door.

  He carried the saddlebags over his shoulder. With a grin he gestured at the leather satchels. “Find something to go with this?”

  “I’ve never eaten pistols.”

  His face looked taut and weary when he smiled. “They’re on one side. I had the cook at the inn fill the other with a meal. May I help you with something?”

  She hoisted a tray. Thin she might be, but she’d never been weak. “Thank you, no.”

  He went ahead of her to hold open the baize-covered door. As she moved along the narrow the passage, she said over her shoulder, “This is a lovely hunting box. The beds are not made, but I removed the holland covers. If you like, the linen cupboard has been left unlocked. I can make up beds.”

  “We’re both too tired for that. Let’s have something to eat and sleep on the covers. If you leave your door open, the heat will travel up. Knowing Harry, his staff will have everything set up for sudden visitors.”

  She set the tray on a deal table in the less formal receiving room. Grieves deposited the satchels on a couch and pulled off his gloves. The pack provided bread, cheeses and crockery bottles of ale.

  Setting out the parcels of paper-wrapped items, she asked, “Would you bring some water from the kitchen pump? There’s a kettle on the fireplace hod.”

  “And I know where the tea is kept. Harry and I have spent a great deal of time here. We plotted our trip to the Caribbean by that fireplace. Had maps spread across the floor. I’ll get the water.”

  She stopped him from leaving by asking, “Would you tell me about that? I’ve always dreamed of boarding a ship and sailing to foreign places. Ollie and I used to make up stories about adventures.”

  He smiled and studied her for a moment before replying. “I did the same sort of daydreaming at school. Happy to tell you about it, but perhaps not tonight. We’re both burnt to the socket. There’s another long ride to Rolands tomorrow.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  They left the tea for morning, drank ale, and carried the warmed water upstairs for washing. By the time Evangeline stretched out on the bed in her shift and pulled a blanket up to her chin, she sank into sleep without a thought for tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  Grieves inhaled a final drag on the cigarillo and tossed the remainder in the fireplace. He eased his elbow off its prop on the mantelpiece and rubbed his shoulder joint. Holding Evangeline in one position for so long made him sore. There wasn’t much to her, but the lack of movement had stiffened the muscles down one side of his back.

  He stared down at the sinking coals, reminding himself to check the fireplaces to make sure they were cold before leaving. Perhaps he needn’t bother. Evangeline possessed a perfectionist’s habits and would go over the rooms.

  He reached for the poker and stirred the sinking coals. She was a woman of so many contradictions, stately and yet knowledgeable about the ways of the servant class. He’d watched her pour after dinner tea and serve with grace. Yet, she could walk into an unattended house and have all in order with the ease of the finest of housekeepers.

  Who was Evangeline Merrick? Certainly not a servant. As the daughter of impoverished immigrants, aristocratic or not, she’d had to become familiar with deprivation. He would lay a bet that the women of his class had no idea where the kitchens were located, had never dressed themselves, and couldn’t conceive the notion of making up a bed. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he sat down to remove his boots.

  His steps made no sounds on the carpeted hallway. She’d left the door to her room open, as he’d suggested, to allow the heat from below to rise. She’d blown out the taper she’d carried up. It sat on the bedside table, the wax drippings fixed, telling him she’d been sleeping a while.

  Drawn drapes muffled the clicking noises of sleet. The fire’s glow lit the room with flickering orange light. Evangeline had curled herself around a pillow, her face to the fire.

  He wrapped an arm around the stout bedpost at the foot of the bed to watch the wavering movement of firelight on her perfect complexion. Exhaustion erased the healthy tinge of pink. Her eyelashes, long and light brown, made fan-shaped shadows on her cheeks. She looked sad as she slept.

  The yearning ache rolled through him, the wanting he couldn’t stop. He’d tried to tamp-down the compulsion, until he gave up and chased her like a pathetic roué. He’d gotten tired with trying not to watch her from the other side of a room, or hurrying away down a hall, through the nearest door.

  How long had she haunted his life? Years. She’d intrigued him ever since the first time he noticed her flitting from view, refusing to be seen by anyone who visited the Asterlys. When Lady Asterly made Evangeline her companion, he’d seized every opportunity to throw himself into her path. She hadn’t been blind to his interest, and had done her best to avoid and ignore him. Easy to do as a servant, but not as a companion. She took to hiding behind fans, avoiding his eye, staying out of sight line. Doing that had fired his will to make her acknowledge him and whatever it was that caused the magnetic draw.

  What if he walked to the other side of the bed, carefully crawled over the coverlet to lie down and wrap himself around her? He dreamt about it so many times, wondered how she’d feel snuggled against him. He’d had a glimpse after cuddling her close while they rode. For a long time, she’d slept so soundly that she never felt his mouth pressed to her temple. He’d nudged back the edge of her cap to inhale the sweetness of her scent. She never heard the words he’d whispered.

  Would she feel him now if he pressed his mouth to hers? He’d almost done that yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? He’d been on the verge of taking what he’d fantasized about, to know the feel of her, to stroke the delicious pout of her upper lip—but bittersweet understanding pierced through desire, stopping him. In that moment of hesitating to kiss her, he acknowledged and accepted the depth of his love. What he felt for her was no longer mere lust or the fun of the chase. This mysterious and stubborn woman was the one he wanted to marry, to have children with, to be together with until they died and sojourned through heaven. He couldn’t dishonor that or her.

  Somehow, he had to get out of the farcical marriage contract. Evangeline would have nothing to do with him otherwise, a decision he couldn’t dispute. Long ago, he’d succumbed to the urgings of his father, who had taken advantage of his son’s devastation. His father had known how to manipulate the illusions of a lad emotionally devastated by rejection. Despondent and distracted, he’d allowed h
imself to get entangled. He’d been at the lowest point of his life—a time when he’d even considered sticking a pistol into his mouth to end the misery.

  Thank heaven he’d lived long enough to grow out of childish drama and mourning the loss of a love that only existed in his own mind.

  But it wasn’t like that with Evangeline. This twisting, haunting, incessant need had no taint of youthful despairing. What he felt for her was hope-filled and a certainty that together they would be whole. Loving her felt right.

  The squeak of a protesting floorboard alerted him to the fact he’d started to move toward her. She slept through the annoying noise. A smile twisted his lips. Would a cannon blast wake her? She might not notice when he lifted her skirts, unfastened her gown. Would she sleepily smile back when he entered her—twine her arms around his neck and lift up to receive?

  A strange quiver sped through his body. He controlled the urge to test the idea. He’d almost moved to her side to try it. Almost. He gripped the bedpost then pushed away.

  Overtired and conflicted, he paced his bedchamber. He used the fireplace tongs to set more lumps of coal on the fire, wishing he’d taken the time to do the same in Evangeline’s room. Hers was only one door away. If he left his door open, some of the heat would find its way there. He didn’t like to rely on that. By morning, the house would be frigid.

  A cedar chest at the foot of the bed held blankets. He lifted out two, tossed one on his bed and carried the other to Evangeline’s room. After covering her with a feather quilt, he went to the fireplace to add coal. He paused. The metal tongs would clang against the bin. He used his hand and went downstairs to the kitchen pump to wash away the coal smears, having insisted Evangeline take the warmed water.

  Weariness hit as he climbed back up the stairs, causing the lit taper he held to tremble. Standing vigil at his cousin’s bedside the night before, followed by the harrowing meeting with the duchess, finding out about Evangeline, the trip to Kent, lack of sleep—too much, too fast. He made it to his bed, blew out the candle, laid down, and hauled the blanket around his shoulders. The blackness of sleep smothered his thoughts in an instant.

  Chapter 13

  Evangeline woke to bitter cold, her breath making white puffs in the air. She’d taken off her dress and used her cloak and a blanket for covers. Her chilled cheeks warmed when she saw the extra quilt that had been laid over the blanket.

  Dreading it, she slid her toes into frozen flats. There had been no time yesterday to put on practical boots for traveling. The fire had completely died and she didn’t want to face the chore of restarting a fire here and another in the kitchen. Braving the cold, she shucked the cloak and blanket, stepped into the dress, and quickly pulled the cloak over her shoulders.

  In the kitchen, she found water frozen in the pail and doubted the pump would work without a strong hand at the handle and warm water poured over it. A fire was the first order of business. By the time the sun glowed on the window panes, she’d thawed enough water to bathe her face and hands and start a kettle for tea. Fortified, she went up to see if Grieves had wakened.

  His door stood open. She paused under the lintel for a moment. His stocking feet and chest were uncovered. He sprawled across the bed, arms out-flung, his head turned to rest on the pillow. The slow rise and fall of his breathing mesmerized. He didn’t snore. Edward had. They’d laughed over it and refused to have separate bedchambers. She used to nudge him in the night to roll to his side, then snuggle against his back. She missed that so much.

  Careful and cautious, she inched toward the bed. Fascination drew her to stare at his face relaxed in sleep. The rigors of the last days created shadows under his eyes. An aggressive beard darkened his olive complexion, jaw, and the cleft in his chin. She adjusted the blankets and lifted his coat from the wing-backed chair, startled by its weight. He never woke when she draped it over him, but did turn onto his side to face her.

  She froze when he reached out, took her hand. and kissed her knuckles. Never opening his eyes, he snuggled his cheek against the pillow, and sank into a deeper sleep.

  Evangeline looked down at her hand and the tingle where his lips had been. The bristles had to have caused that. She flexed her fingers and crept from the room, hurrying to the end of the passage. Last evening, she discovered that Sir Harry had modernized his lodge and had a water closet installed, a luxury beyond price.

  Grieves didn’t wake until late in the morning, coming into the receiving room where they’d eaten the night before. Bright sunlight, helped by the fire in the small room, had melted the frost from the windowpanes. She pinched her lips together to stop a smile as he stood in the doorway, hand still on the latch, bleary-eyed and slow to orient.

  In a morning voice full of gravel, he said, “I thought I’d have to wake you.”

  “No, sir. I wake with the sun.”

  He blinked and looked down. “Forgot my blasted boots. This blasted floor’s perishing cold.”

  “Yes. The blasted air in the house was quite chilly this morning.” Since he wasn’t awake enough to absorb the joke, she returned to the practical. “There is hot water in the kitchen. I located essentials in the housekeeper’s storage closet and set out a shaving kit.”

  “I’d better have a dish of that tea before trying that. Haven’t shaved myself in some time. Lud, it’s a wonder that you’re so efficient.”

  He smiled his appreciation after he took the cup and swallowed. “You remembered that I like it with extra sugar.”

  She saluted him with her own cup. “More like a little tea with sugar lumps. There is bread left from last night’s repast. I can toast it before we leave. Something to keep us hardy for the final leg of the journey.”

  He leaned over the tea tray and lifted the jam pot’s cover. “Some of that left also. Excellent. ” Finishing off the sugared tea, he set down the cup and bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make myself as presentable as possible without my valet. Don’t expect too much.”

  She stared at the empty doorway after he’d gone, rather disappointed that he was off to smooth out his rumpled appearance. The scruffy look was rather romantic—piratical with all that black hair and partially opened shirt. Should she offer to press his neckwear?

  She gave herself a physical shake to bring her thoughts back to reality. She wasn’t his manservant or nurse. There were other tasks to be done while he prepared himself for the day. She’d already written a list for the housekeeper at Rolands to make the woman aware of what she’d disturbed. She could hand deliver it when they arrived at Sir Harry’s estate or have it mailed. Since she was ready to leave, she sat by the fire and toasted bread until Grieves joined her.

  When he discovered that she preferred her toast plain, he smeared what was left in the jam pot on his toast slices. He didn’t sit while he ate, which appeared strange. She’d never seen anyone eat standing up. He devoured the toast with apparent pleasure, while staring out the window.

  “The ice is melting from the tree limbs. Are you ready to leave?” he asked. “Anything I should do before we go? The fires are out upstairs.”

  “Everything is assembled on the couch. I should take this tray to the kitchen.”

  “No. Leave it for the staff at Rolands. ” He narrowed his gaze at something outside. “Someone’s coming up the road. It may be nothing, but perhaps I should load the pistols. No one knows we’re here, and there’s no reason for anyone to come here other than mischief.”

  Evangeline suspected that he downplayed his concern, and knew it when he crossed to the couch and opened the pistol case.

  She rose and went to his side. “Hand me the mate.”

  Grieves hesitated. He studied her expression, turned the pistol to hold the barrel and offered the handgrip. She took it and felt him register her confident grasp. She checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded.

  Extending the pistol and peering down its barrel, she said, “From the balance, I would suggest that it pulls to the right.”

 
With a half-smile, Grieves murmured, “So Asterly said when he offered them.”

  The doorknocker clanked, echoing throughout the house. Grieves gave her a meaningful look and went to the foyer. Evangeline stood by the receiving room entry, keeping the pistol hidden in the drape of her skirt. It was too heavy to hold up behind her back.

  She flinched when Grieves said in an unrecognizable voice, “Who is it?”

  “Tim, sir. I come from Marshfield and Rolands.”

  Evangeline swiftly moved to the door. “I think I know him. He’s a groom from Marshfield.”

  Grieves accepted the pistol from her hand before she opened the door. Tim, a smiling, burly lad, came through. She immediately recognized the young man Asterly had hired from Ravenswold’s staff—who were all immensely tall, like his former master. Elizabeth had once shared the fact that her husband held on to fears that one of his former enemies might retaliate by threatening his wife. It annoyed Elizabeth, but she’d learned to tolerate the large number of grooms or footmen trailing her whenever she left the house.

  After the door thumped shut, Tim loomed large in the foyer, cap in hand. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Merrick, but her ladyship is that worried. She sends this note.”

  Grieves asked, “Does anyone know that we’re here?”

  “Can’t say, your lordship. The letter inside that packet came down from London. Her ladyship insisted I take it to Rolands, and if you weren’t there, to bring it here. She’s that clever.”

  When Grieves raised a black eyebrow at that comment, Tim mumbled, “Beg pardon. Not my place to say.”

  Evangeline broke the wax impressed with Asterly’s seal as she returned to the receiving room, heading for the better light at the window. Behind her, she heard Grieves say to Tim, “Wait here.”

  Before he joined her at the window, she heard the clunks of the pistols being set down. “May I ask what that contains?”