by Liz Carlyle
Yes, Her Grace normally took breakfast in the parlor, one of the footmen confirmed. Yes, agreed another, Her Grace was a punctual and early riser. And so Gareth kept picking at his food and sipping at his coffee, waiting. He waited, in fact, until one of the passing housemaids actually poked her head inside the door of the breakfast parlor to scowl at the still-laden sideboard.
Coggins followed on her heels. “Mr. Watson has returned, Your Grace,” he said with a stiff bow. “He has sent the threshing machine down to the granary and awaits you at your convenience.”
There was no putting off the day and the work which lay before him. She wasn’t coming anyway. And what did he care? They could have no meaningful conversation with the damned footmen hovering over them like languid bumblebees. He supposed he had just wished to see her. To reassure himself that she was well.
But that was nonsense. The woman had a maid and an army of servants to fret over her. Gareth pushed back his chair with a scrape and tossed down his napkin. But as he strode through the house and out onto the long, rose-covered pergola which connected the main house to the estate offices and shops, he seethed with frustration.
He was being avoided. He sensed it.
Perhaps, he thought, as he hastened down the last flight of steps, she was just embarrassed? That he could understand. He felt fairly shamefaced himself. The mere thought of how desperately they had touched one another—the hunger, the raw, driving passion—could still make his hands shake. What they had done together in the rain last night could not now be undone. They would have to live with the memory of it, both of them, throughout the whole of their lives together.
Fleetingly, he considered refusing her permission to renovate Knollwood Manor. Then, surely, she would leave Selsdon and take up residence in Town? Perhaps they would need never see one another again.
But what if she did not leave? He had told her she might remain at Selsdon as long as she wished. And even if she went to Town, he might well have to see her. Both he and Xanthia would now be required to move in circles they might otherwise have managed to avoid. On the other hand, forcing Antonia to Town might be sending her into the gnashing teeth of the ton—where it was entirely possible she would be shunned, or worse.
Damn it. He jerked to a halt and felt his jaw begin to twitch. This was a fine mess he’d landed himself in. It was untenable, in fact. They would have to discuss this, the two of them, and come to some sort of resolution. He would call upon her as soon as this estate business was done. So resolved, Gareth jerked open the door to the estate office.
A rangy, rough-faced man in a wool surtout stepped forward, his hand extended. “Your Grace,” he said promptly. “I’m Benjamin Watson, your agent.”
Antonia was on her knees in the family chapel when Nellie found her there near midmorning. The chapel was in an unheated part of the old castle, and musty with the scents of melted wax, moldering velvet, and dank stone. There was little light save that which came through the narrow mullioned windows flanking the chancel and from the three candles which Antonia had lit near the altar.
“Your Grace?” Nellie peeked into the gloom. “Ma’am, are you in there?”
Slowly, Antonia rose, the heavy folds of her cloak unfurling from the cold stone floor. “Yes, Nellie. I’m here.”
“Lud, I wondered where you’d got to!” Nellie made her way through the chancel. “How long have you been on your knees like that, ma’am?”
“I am not perfect sure,” Antonia hedged.
“Ooh, this is a damp, gloomy place.” Nellie rubbed her arms and looked about. “You’ll get the rheumatism if you stay in here, my lady. And you have missed your breakfast.”
Antonia smiled a little weakly. “I had no appetite,” she murmured. “I wished to spend some time alone. I should have told you.”
Nellie looked down at the flickering candles. “Three candles today, ma’am?”
“Yes, one for Eric,” she quietly acknowledged. “I suppose…I suppose I was feeling charitable this morning.” Or guilty, she silently added.
Nellie shifted her weight uneasily. “I wanted to say something, ma’am,” she said. “About last night.”
Antonia turned and started down the aisle. “Must we speak of it, Nellie?”
Nellie followed her. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, touching her lightly on the arm. “But it was dangerous for you to be up there alone. And in the rain, too. You might yet take ill from it. And you scared the life out of me.”
Antonia stopped by the chapel door. “Forgive me, Nellie,” she answered. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”
“You did not take your sleeping draught, did you?” the maid pressed.
Antonia shook her head. “I…I thought I would not need it,” she answered. “So I poured it out.”
“You scared me, ma’am,” Nellie said again more firmly. “I have not seen you quite like that in an age.”
“You needn’t worry.” Antonia pushed open the door and went out into the fresher air of the passageway. She paused and drew the air deep into her lungs. “I just think the apprehension yesterday ran deeper than I grasped, Nellie. I will be more careful in the future.”
“You mean the new master’s arrival?” asked the maid. “Aye, everyone was on tenterhooks. But you have more at stake than any of us.”
Antonia said nothing and drew the folds of her cloak tighter.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Nellie. “But was there something else you wished to tell me?”
“Such as?”
“Something about…about last night, perhaps?”
Swiftly, Antonia shook her head. “No, nothing,” she answered. “Nothing at all.”
“Very well then,” said Nellie as they started up the stairs. “Shall you walk this morning, Your Grace? I didn’t know which things to lay out.”
It would be good, Antonia realized, to get out of the house. She needed to get away, and Nellie was right. She could not stay on her knees in the damp chapel all day.
“I’m going down to the village,” Nellie suggested. “I’m going to replace all your black ribbons and pick up that gray velvet bonnet.”
“No, not the village,” murmured Antonia. “But thank you, Nellie.”
Antonia wished for solitude. A walk in the woods, perhaps? Or perhaps she would make the long trek up to the dower house and have a look around. It mightn’t be in such bad shape after all. Besides, she could scarcely afford to be choosy now. Perhaps she could make do with something which was a little shabby and get out of Selsdon even sooner than was planned? Perhaps God was already answering her prayers.
“Not the village,” she said again. “No, I think, Nellie, that I shall walk up to Knollwood. Or perhaps down to the deer park, and have a poke about the pavilion.”
Coggins was in his narrow office by the great hall sorting through the morning’s post when Gareth returned from his meeting with Mr. Watson. The butler seemed surprised when Gareth appeared at his elbow.
“Has the duchess come down this morning?” Gareth cut a glance down at the tidy piles of letters the butler had laid out across the green baize of his secretary.
“No, Your Grace,” said Coggins. “Not as I’ve seen. But her maid went out perhaps a quarter hour past.”
Gareth tapped his finger thoughtfully atop one of the letters. It was from London, and addressed to Antonia. “Does the duchess have a great many acquaintances in Town, Coggins?” he asked musingly.
“I believe she once did, Your Grace.”
“People whom she met through my late cousin?”
Coggins hesitated. “His Grace’s companions were mostly country gentlemen,” said the butler. “He and the duchess had few friends in common.”
“Ah,” said Gareth.
The butler took pity on him. “I believe the duchess’s brother resides in Town, Your Grace,” he explained. “He is a very sporting sort of fellow, I collect, and popular in certain circles.”
“Gaming and horse racing, eh
?” said Gareth a little cynically.
Coggins smiled faintly. “I believe he has a fondness for both, yes,” he answered. “And the duchess knew many of his friends prior to her marriage to the late duke. Some of those gentlemen, I believe, have taken it upon themselves to console Her Grace in her widowhood.”
And sniff around for a fortune in the process, too, Gareth did not doubt. “How altruistic they sound.”
Coggins lifted his brows a telling fraction. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
But Gareth could see that Coggins shared his own opinion. With the black cloud of Warneham’s death hanging over her good name, scoundrels were likely the only suitors she would attract.
On impulse, Gareth snatched Antonia’s pile of letters. “I was just on my way up to speak with the duchess,” he said. “I’ll drop these by, shall I?”
Coggins had little choice. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Gareth made his way back upstairs to the sitting room which connected the ducal bedchambers. If her maid was indeed out, Antonia would not be able to avoid him. She would have to answer the door.
He knocked and was relieved when Antonia appeared. But her face drained instantly of all color. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Good morning.”
He did not ask if he might come in, for he had the distinct impression she might refuse him. Instead he strode into the room and laid Coggins’s tidy stack of letters on the rosewood secretary just inside the door. “I’ve brought the morning’s post.”
“Thank you.” She still stood by the open door, her hand upon the knob. “Was…was there something else, Your Grace?”
He clasped his hands behind his back as if restraining himself from something he did not understand. Damn it, he wished she’d not been so beautiful. So fine-boned and fragile. A porcelain princess, truly. He paced to the bank of windows opposite, then back to the door again.
“It’s like this, Antonia,” he finally said. “There’s no sense avoiding it. I think that we must talk about what happened last night.”
She did not move from the door. “About…last night?”
Since she seemed incapable of doing so, Gareth pushed the door shut. Her hand fell to her side. “Antonia, are you all right?” he demanded. “I have been worried sick. When you did not come down to breakfast, I feared you might be ill.”
“But as you see, I am fine,” she answered, stepping back from him.
Gareth was not perfectly sure he agreed, given her lack of color. And he did not like the distance which lay between them this morning; distance which the duchess was taking pains to maintain, both literally and figuratively. She had circled behind a giltwood settee now, as if doing so might somehow protect her.
“Antonia,” he finally went on, “we made a dreadful mistake last night. It was…imprudent. And I will admit, I am mostly to blame. You were not yourself. You were obviously distraught and—”
Something like horror flashed across her face. She whirled about and went at once to the bank of windows. He followed on her heels, lightly touching her shoulder. “Antonia?”
He felt her tremble beneath his touch.
“Antonia, I am sorry. I think we must put this behind us, my dear.”
She leaned forward and set her fingertips to the glass, as if longing to meld into it and vanish. “I do not know what you are referring to,” she rasped. “Will you kindly go now?”
“I beg your pardon?” His grip tightened.
Another deep shudder ran through her. “I thank you, Your Grace, for your concern,” she said. “I…I did not sleep well. I often do not. Whatever—that is to say, if something happened—then I cannot—”
At that, he forced her around. “If something happened?” he demanded. “If? By God, woman, you know as well as I what we did last night.”
She shook her head, her eyes wild. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t—I don’t—really remember. Please, let us just forget it.”
“Antonia.” He set both hands firmly on her shoulders now. “Antonia, why are you lying?”
Her eyes shied away. He gave her a gentle shake. “Antonia, there was something between us last night.” His voice was oddly hoarse; not his own. “How can you say this? How can you just pretend it didn’t happen?”
She shook her head and said nothing.
“Antonia, we made love,” he went on. “It was wild and it was passionate—and yes, it was madness, too—but it was not remotely forgettable. Don’t lie to me about this. It is too important.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out throaty and a little tremulous. “I cannot talk about this.”
Without realizing it, he had backed her up against the wall by the window. “Why? Does it scare you that much? Well, by God it scared me. No one can deny that sort of passion.”
“You just said it was a dreadful mistake,” she choked. “How…How can it be if I do not remember? How can it be? Please, Your Grace, just leave me alone. I don’t want passion. Can’t you understand?”
“No, by God, I cannot.” And then, somehow, he was kissing her, his hands still braced on her shoulders. He took her mouth roughly, only half-aware of what he meant to do. Antonia set her hands flat against his chest and pushed, but he ignored her, deepening the kiss. She made a strange sound; a sob or a sigh of surrender, then opened her mouth to his. On a rush of triumph, he let himself surge into her mouth, ravenous and desperate. Like molten silk, their tongues entwined in a heated dance of passion. Her hands curled into the soft wool of his coat at last, her face lifted to his in submission.
“There, Antonia,” he rasped when their lips finally parted. “That is what runs so hot and fierce between us. Passion. Madness. You don’t for one moment deceive me.”
Still trying to catch her breath, she tore her gaze from his and set her hands flat against the wall behind her. He sensed her drawing back inside herself, shutting him out. It was as if she’d ripped his heart from his chest again.
“Is it me, Antonia?” he demanded. “Is that it? You want me—but I’m not good enough? Then by God, just say it!”
“You won’t believe anything I say,” she answered, refusing to look at him. “Why should I say anything? You have had your way with me, Your Grace. You have made me…respond to your caresses. May we not end this charade?”
Her words were like a thinly veiled slap. She desired him. But she would not stoop to have him. “Yes, I suppose we may,” he retorted. “And I hope you enjoyed it—because it will be a cold day in hell before I warm your bed again.”
It was only as he strode toward the door that he recalled that there had been no bed involved, and precious little warmth. No, he had backed Antonia up against a cold, damp wall and taken her like some Covent Garden tart. And now she did not want to remember. Rather than ponder the meaning of that, however, it was easier to just throw open the door and storm out. To his chagrin, a pair of housemaids went skittering off into the shadows, and he caught the tail end of what looked like a footman vanishing round one corner.
Perfect. Now the servants would have something to gossip about besides his mongrel bloodlines and whether or not their mistress was a murderess. Gareth held up his head despite his anger, and set off in the direction of his study. He needed a place of solitude in which to lick his wounds.
But his solitude was not long-lived. After wearing a tread into the carpet, he had just decided on a tentative course of action when an ill wind burst into the room in the form of the duchess’s ruddy-faced maid. He pushed away the paper he’d been scratching on, then stood, though why the devil he should have done that was beyond him.
“Now you see here, sir,” said the maid, marching up to the desk. “I want to know what you’ve done to her ladyship, and I want to know now.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Gareth. “You wish what?”
The maid had two beefy hands set high on her hips. “You got no cause wheresoever to go about bullying and sharp-talking her ladyship, sir,” she went on. “You’re neither her husba
nd—”
“Thank God for that small mercy.”
“—nor her father, and you have no right, do you hear?”
“Madam, what, pray, is your name?”
That caught her up short for an instant. “Nellie Waters.”
“Miss Waters, do you value your employment?” he snapped. “I will have you dismissed for your insolence.”
“It’s Mrs. Waters, Your Grace, and I do not work for you,” said the woman. “I work for Her Grace, as I did for her mother before her, and her aunt before that—and I will thank you to leave that poor, sad woman alone. Hasn’t she suffered enough but what you must come in here talking ugly to her and making her cry?”
“She hadn’t shed so much as a tear when last I saw her,” he snarled across his desk.
“Why, she’s beside herself!” charged the maid, who had begun to wring her hands most affectedly. “Can’t get a straight word out o’ her—”
“Nor could I,” he said.
“—and her just lying there across the bed sobbing like her heart be broken all over again. And for what? So you can let off a little temper? I hope it was worth it to you, sir, I truly do.”
“You know nothing of it,” he snapped. “Furthermore, it is none of your business. Your mistress seems a stranger to the truth, Mrs. Waters.”
“The truth?” demanded the maid. “What’s that to do with anything? Do you think this is easy for her, sir? To have people whispering that she’s mad, per’aps even a murderess? To have to live here in what was once her home, under your thumb—a man she does not even know?” And does not wish to know, Gareth mentally added.
“She’s buried two husbands, Your Grace, and it goes hard on a woman, I’ll tell you it does. A man just picks up and marries him another, and what’s the difference? Not much. But a woman—it’s not like that.”
But Gareth was so enraged that he was barely listening. “You don’t know a damned thing about it,” he retorted. “Ask your mistress what the trouble is when her tantrum is done. And don’t be so quick to paint every man with your broad brush. She’s enough to drive a good man mad.”
