The door was closing on an important period in his life. But she was right. It was time. It had been time since the moment he’d met Victoria, although he hadn’t realized it at the start. “Will you be all right?”
She laughed softly. “Oh, make no mistake about it. I may be your friend, but you’ll still be settling a healthy sum on your mistress. Enough to set me up in a little cottage on the shore of the Mediterranean.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“I think so. I’m rather looking forward to it.” She stood up and shook out her skirts. “Now, I’ve got arrangements to make before I go.” She handed Victoria’s letter back to him. “I think you do, too.”
* * *
Andrew’s shock began the moment the hired hack rolled through the gates of Briarwood Manor and steadily increased as he drew closer to the house. As they passed through the fields making up the Waring lands, farmhands labored everywhere. The last time he’d been here, over a year ago on his wedding day, it had been April and now it was June, and well into the growing season, but that still didn’t account for the dramatic increase in activity. Fields were being worked as far as the eye could see. Crops swayed gently under the warm summer sun, some just beginning to green and others waist-high already. On a distant hill, a large flock of sheep grazed in a meadow. Off to the right, the apple orchards, once famed in the region, were bursting into life, tiny new apples dotting the branches.
Not everything was pristine. As the road wound through the scenic park and they drew nearer to the house, the grass was neatly trimmed, but the gazebo at the edge of the lake was still in a state of disrepair. The ride to the house had been a bumpy, tortuous trial the last time he was here. Now the gravel was smoothly raked, with the potholes and ruts filled in. It made sense, focusing on the things people used every day, like the roads and the fields, and leaving the ornamental repairs until later. He’d have done the same if it had been his place. But it wasn’t his place. He’d given up that role at the start.
As they rounded the last curve in the road, he found himself holding his breath to catch a glimpse of the house. The park had been designed to elicit that sort of response from visitors. On the approach, the house stayed hidden behind copses of trees and well-placed hills until the last turning had been cleared, then it exploded into view in all its magisterial glory. Except recently the reaction elicited had veered more toward disappointment and dismay rather than delight and awe.
But finally, Briarwood Manor lay before him. The newly cleaned, mullioned windows flashed with the golden light of the late afternoon sun, almost a solid wall of dazzling glass. The vines had been cut away, leaving the clean lines of pale gold stone clearly visible. The boards were gone from the upper windows. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the curved drive in front of the house. On either side of the main door, which had been polished until the ancient carved oak gleamed, two tremendous stone urns overflowed with a riot of red flowers. The moment the carriage wheels crunched on the gravel, the massive front door swung open and a footman in crisp black livery stepped outside. At the sight of the carriage, he ducked back inside, and in moments, he was back with two more footmen at his side, standing at rigid attention. Just behind them, another man stepped out, older and severe in his black tailcoat, radiating authority.
The carriage rolled to a stop and two footmen sprang forward, releasing the steps and opening his door. Andrew stepped down as the older man moved forward and bowed at the waist.
“May I help you, sir?”
It was painfully awkward to have to introduce oneself at one’s own home. “I apologize for not sending word of my arrival. I’m the Duke of Waring.”
If the stern-faced butler was at all alarmed by that piece of news, he didn’t show it. There was a slight tightening of the muscles of his jowls, which might have been meant to be a smile. It was impossible to tell. He bowed again, this time slower and more deeply.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I am Mr. Borne, head butler. Welcome home.”
This arrival experience bore little resemblance to his last arrival at Briarwood. It hardly seemed the same place. And those words, “Welcome home.” It was foolish to feel so affected by them. This was Victoria’s home. She’d made it herself and he’d stayed clear of it. She’d made a home for his sisters, too. He wasn’t sure there would ever be a home here for him, but it was ridiculous to let it remain enemy territory.
“It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Borne. Is Her Grace at home?”
Borne’s face was like a stone wall, unmoving and showing no hint of what he might be thinking. He merely motioned to the left of the house. “I believe Her Grace is still in the east garden with Lady Louisa and Lady Emma. This way, Your Grace.”
He hadn’t written to tell her he was coming. He’d told himself he’d wanted to surprise Louisa and Emma, but that was only part of the truth. He’d worried that Victoria might have told him not to come.
Borne led him around the side of the house and through a wrought-iron gate set into a high, stone wall. The small informal garden on the other side was a lush paradise. Plants grew in wild abandon on either side of the winding stone paths. Flowers bloomed in profusion, scenting the air, which hummed with the sound of a thousand tiny insects. Late afternoon light cut through the branches of a massive old oak, dappling the ground with gold. Hushed female voices drifted to him from around the corner ahead.
“I can find them from here. Thank you, Borne.”
Borne inclined his head and discreetly withdrew. Andrew moved deeper into the garden, staying silent. It would be fun to surprise his sisters. And he had to admit, he was curious to see Victoria’s reaction when she wasn’t expecting him.
Rounding a hedge, he encountered his sisters and his wife, and the scene they made momentarily robbed him of breath. Louisa was reclining on a wicker chaise piled high with cushions, one hand curled under her chin, the other holding a novel, in which she was thoroughly engrossed. Several feet away, across a small patch of grass, Victoria and Emma stood at the edge of a flower bed, their backs to him. Emma held something out to Victoria, some sort of flower. Victoria reached for it and bent her head to look. Her heavy gold hair was twisted in a loose knot at her nape, with tendrils escaping everywhere. She wore a light cotton dress of muted gray-lavender. It nipped in at her tiny waist and flared out into full skirts, the hem tangling in the grass at her feet. Emma and Louisa also wore the lavender of half-mourning, both in softer, more youthful shades than Victoria’s. Emma’s mussed, red-gold hair was caught back with a bow. The two examined Emma’s offering, and Victoria’s words floated to him across the lawn.
“It’s columbine, one of my favorites.” She reached out and tucked the flower into Emma’s hair, behind her ear. “We have so much of it blooming right now. If you like, tomorrow we can try to paint them in watercolor. I’m not very talented, but Louisa could make a lovely picture of them.”
“I’m not very good either, but you’re right. Louisa’s watercolors are so lovely. Let’s try it tomorrow.”
Louisa looked up from her book, blinking herself back into the world. “What’s that?”
“We’re going to paint the columbine tomorrow, Louisa. Say you will,” Emma said. “You’re the best artist of the three of us.”
Louisa let her book drop to her lap as she stretched her arms over her head. “If you wish. But only if you play for us after dinner, Emma. Is dinner soon? I’m famished. Isn’t Mrs. Fiske making the beef I like tonight?”
Louisa glanced absently over her shoulder toward the house, and when her eyes fell on Andrew, she sat up straight, her book falling forgotten to the grass.
“Andrew! What on earth are you doing here?”
Emma let out a small gasp before racing across the lawn to him. He caught her in his arms, feeling her sun-warmed body and inhaling the clean, fresh smell of the outdoors in her hair. Louisa scrambled u
p from her chair and rushed to his side, hugging him around his neck.
“I came to see you.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” Emma pressed, hanging from his neck as he tried to straighten and hug Louisa.
“That would expressly eliminate the surprise, wouldn’t it?” he mumbled, still swallowed in girlish muslin and flounces.
“But you came to visit us!” Emma said, finally disentangling herself and looking up at him in pure adulation.
“I always visit you during your summer holiday.” He finally looked up at Victoria. She was standing several feet away, her hands clasped at her waist. “I wasn’t going to miss you this year just because you’re at Briarwood.”
“And thank heavens we are,” Louisa said with a laugh. “Imagine how dreary we’d have been spending the whole summer in London, making those sad little excursions to Brighton with Mrs. Fielding.”
“Welcome to Briarwood, Your Grace,” Victoria said quietly. There was nothing remotely welcoming in the tone of her voice. Her eyes were full of icy challenge, and her ramrod posture sent off a warning, forbidding him to come any closer.
Andrew broke the stare. “Thank you.”
“Louisa, I believe you were correct,” Victoria said after a moment. “It’s nearly time for dinner. Why don’t you and Emma go in and start dressing? I’ll be along in a moment. I’m sure His Grace has some things to discuss with me.”
“But you haven’t told us about the dig yet,” Emma protested, tugging on Andrew’s hand.
Louisa was old enough to sense the tension between himself and Victoria, so she gently steered Emma away toward the house. “Come, Emma. Andrew will tell us all about the dig at dinner.”
* * *
Victoria concentrated on her breathing as she watched the girls disappear into the garden. When she was sure they were out of earshot, she glanced back at her husband again. He smiled at her. Smiled! A warm, casual smile, as if his appearing at Briarwood out of the blue when she hadn’t seen or spoken to him in six months was nothing at all out of the ordinary.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He blinked and took a step back. “I...I came to visit my sisters. My wife.”
She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“We weren’t expecting you.”
“I didn’t realize I’d need to wait on an invitation to be allowed to visit my own home.”
Victoria’s fury, already bubbling under the surface, burst into flame. “Well, you’ve spent quite a bit of time making it clear in no uncertain terms that this is no home of yours. Eventually I got used to the idea.”
He looked almost abashed. His every reaction was so far from what she’d come to expect from him, she was left feeling caught out. But she wasn’t ready to relinquish her anger, even if he refused to meet it with his own.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been so uninvolved with the house.”
“Uninvolved? You’ve been entirely absent! I’m sure the neighbors all think I’ve made you up.”
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
She stopped and blinked at him. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He raised his hands and let them drop. “I should have been here. I should have helped you.”
“Oh.” He’d taken the heat right out of her fury, damn him. She floundered helplessly for a biting comeback but came up empty-handed. Where was the cold, heartless man she’d come to expect? Surely any second he’d snap at her and mock her for slaving away in the countryside to rebuild this house. Or he’d attempt to lure her back into bed just so he could unravel her and abandon her again. She’d been such a naive little fool where he was concerned. Well, she was no fool now. She finally had the measure of him and she’d be damned if he’d make a fool of her one more time.
He seemed to sense he’d shaken her. “Look,” he said, taking a step toward her. Instinctively, she stiffened and took a step back. His eyes flashed with some emotion she couldn’t identify. He stopped and took a deep breath. “I know you’re angry. Can we put that aside for the moment? For the girls’ sake?”
That was a low blow. The girls were delighted he’d come. She knew it and he did, too. And he also seemed to sense she wouldn’t do anything that would upset them, including fighting with their beloved brother.
She looked down and pressed her hand to her forehead. “Fine. I don’t know why you’ve come or what you hope to accomplish, but you’re here now and that will make the girls happy, so you might as well stay.”
He gave her a small smile and thrust his hands into his pockets. It wasn’t fair. Why did he have to be so bloody handsome? With the sun dappling his hair and that gentle smile on his face, he seemed sweet, charming and harmless. Nothing about this man was harmless, not where she was concerned.
“Thank you, Victoria,” he said sincerely, placing one hand over his heart. She nearly rolled her eyes in frustration. Why couldn’t he be the haughty prig he always was?
Well, he might have thrust himself upon her without warning, but in every meaningful way, this was her house. She was safe and strong here. He would not get under her skin, not this time. She sniffed and raised her chin.
“I’ll have Borne see to your luggage. We dine early here in the country. Dinner is at seven.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great many things to see to. Running this house is quite a large responsibility.”
She picked up her skirts and swept past him, leaving him alone on the grass, his dark shape looking foreign and out of place in her little paradise of a garden.
* * *
Louisa and Emma chattered away like magpies all through dinner. Andrew had never seen them so lively and relaxed. They both seemed to glow from within. It might have been the sunshine and fresh air of the countryside, but it was something more than that. They were happy, maybe for the first time in their lives.
Victoria—seated not in her formal position at the foot of the table, but right next to Emma—was well-acquainted with their lives, conversing easily about their school and their friends. The girls had blossomed under her attention. They’d needed someone like her in their lives.
As Luciana had urged, he’d left Italy determined to leave his anger behind, and accept things as he found them, free of judgment. So far, Victoria seemed kind, loyal and hardworking, not deserving of an ounce of the anger he’d heaped on her. Instead, his anger turned inward.
He prided himself on having a close relationship with his sisters—certainly more so than his parents or Edmund, when he’d been alive. That might be true, but he didn’t know them nearly well enough. How could he? He lived in Italy. The girls were exiled to their Scottish boarding school. Even their school holidays were spent with a hired companion. They’d had no one to count on until Victoria came along. He loved them, but he’d failed them.
And they weren’t little girls anymore. Louisa was nearly grown. It was time to think of their futures, and now that was his responsibility. He didn’t resent it, as he loved them dearly, but he was beginning to see how untenable his life in Italy had become, in more ways than one. How could he launch them into London society when the time came if he was living in Corneto?
Louisa and Emma had been content to leave him to brood for most of dinner since they had plenty to discuss with Victoria, but as the plates were cleared and silver was laid for dessert, the girls seemed determined to draw him out.
“Wasn’t the beef wonderful, Andrew?” Louisa prompted him. “It’s my favorite. Victoria has such a good cook. We’re all in raptures over her. Wait until you taste her scones at tea tomorrow. I’ve never had any so good.”
“What a fortunate find,” he commented. He glanced up swiftly at Victoria. “The whole staff seem
s quite superb. You’ve done well with the hiring.”
She said nothing for a moment, tapping her wedding band against the stem of her wineglass. When she spoke, her tone was steady, and carefully controlled. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I feel a good deal of the credit goes to Mrs. Palmer and Mr. March. I had their excellent advice to guide me.”
“Mr. March—he’s the estate manager, yes?”
“I’m sure you’ll meet him tomorrow. He comes most days.”
Her voice was all coolness and starch and suddenly he remembered their conversation last fall at his father’s funeral. He’d been angry and drunk, almost his default condition when he was around his wife, when he’d accused her of taking a lover. She’d thrown it back in his face. “What if I have?” she’d taunted angrily. Yes, what if she had? What then? Suddenly the constant presence of this Mr. March in their lives took on a different cast.
But could he blame her? He’d left her alone all this time. It would be understandable if she’d turned to someone else. Maybe this Mr. March she was so dependent on, the man who was here constantly, who supported Victoria in her work, had stepped into the place he’d left glaringly vacant.
The question would have to wait until tomorrow. Meeting her eyes, he forced a smile he didn’t quite feel.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
* * *
After dinner, there seemed to be a prior plan in place to have Emma play the piano for them, so he settled himself in the parlor with them to endure a juvenile attempt at musicality. Louisa stationed herself at Emma’s shoulder and debated with her about which song to play first.
Victoria sat on the low sofa next to him, leaving a careful distance between them. She was back in her full mourning black, but all that seemed dour about the dress was its color. It was cut in a low sweep across her bosom, leaving her pale, perfect shoulders and arms completely bare. The full satin skirt spread out around her, its hem brushing against his feet. A cluster of black silk flowers sat behind her left ear, the contrast against her sun-gold hair dramatic.
A Duchess in Name Page 17
