The Demon Duchess: An Aristocrat Falls for a Cowboy Second Chance Romance (The Demon Duchess Series Book 2)

by Tessa Bowen

  “It was only a bloody hug—you’re my brother-in-law!”

  An engine revved in the distance and then the sound of a truck’s engine roared in her ears as it pulled down the drive. The Baroness sprang into action, adrenaline setting fire to her heels. She ran as fast as she could, seeming to melt the snow in her wake as a fiery panic gripped her.

  “John—come back!”

  She shouted his name as loud as she could, her lungs burned with the strain. She continued to run until Margaret materialized, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her. Apparently, she’d seen the entire scene from the kitchen window.

  “Let him go, honey—it’s better that he goes. He knows he has to leave. Otherwise he’ll kill Jeb this time.”

  The Baroness burst into frustrated tears. “He gave me a toy and we embraced—that was all!”

  “Of course, honey—I know,” the woman soothed as the Baroness collapsed in her arms.

  “How long will he be gone, Margaret?”

  “For as long as it takes him to cool off and see thing straight.”

  IT TOOK JOHN JACKSON A GOOD DEAL LONGER TO COOL OFF than most men it seemed. For one day turned into three days and three days turned into eight days. By day nine, Abigail was out of her wits. Margaret sat at the table watching a very fraught Baroness tug at her clothing in agitation.

  “Where do you suppose he’s gone? And now Jeb’s wandered off as well—it’s all too terrible.”

  “Poor boy was just devastated. He’d finally made a little headway with Johnny and then…”

  “How could he mistake a simple show of affection for a betrayal?”

  “The experience with Sophie changed him—it was a real trauma for him. He has yet to recover from it. He thinks if he would have stayed put and not wandered off, he could have saved the child. If he would have done right by his woman, things would be different now.”

  “Well, what about doing right by this woman?” the Baroness flared.

  “I’m sure he wants to, honey, but it’s not that simple. He’s not that simple. He is running away from his own emotions. When they are too much for him to control, he just flees. It is like a poison in him, this jealousy. It drives him from the things that are most important to him—a home—and a family.”

  “Perhaps he needs to see a psychiatrist to work things through. All these things are just caught up in his head, he has no outlet.”

  “Men of his ilk don’t go to psychiatrists, honey.”

  “No, I suppose they don’t.”

  Abigail sunk into a chair across from Margaret and took a sip of the tea she offered her. “I only wish I knew where he’s run off to this time.”

  “There is no way of telling with him. All that time he was gone, I only heard from him a few times and he never told me where he was.”

  Another week passed and Abigail found herself in the very same spot, gulping down tea even though it tasted bitter.

  “I wonder which name he’s using this time,” she huffed. “Jim bloody Jameson probably.”

  “Who knows? When he disappears, he does just that.”

  Abigail shot out of her seat, nearly toppling her tea cup. “It’s not right that a father of a two month old should just disappear!”

  “He’ll be back, honey—just sit tight.”

  Abigail went to the window, wiping a place clear in the condensation. Forlornly, she scanned the long road leading up to the ranch. “I have to believe that, Margaret—or I’ll go mad. He will return, if not for me, then for Ducky.”

  “That’s right, honey. He wouldn’t desert his daughter.”

  “She’s angry with me again, now that he’s gone. She won’t take my milk and she scowls at me when I kiss her, in an almost accusing fashion. So much like her father…”

  “She’s an angel, I’m sure.”

  The Baroness snorted. “She has the looks of an angel, but don’t be fooled. Ducky doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  Margaret chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I’ll just stay put, like you said—right here by this window and wait for him to come back. I don’t really have any other choice, do I?”

  True to her word, Abigail perched at that lonely window for hours at a time each day. She watched the snow fall, waiting and barely breathing. She was stuck inside anyway. She couldn’t even take her usual walks to occupy herself. She might as well set up her pathetic lookout camp and get comfortable sitting on the chilly ledge. She helped Margaret with chores and spent time with Ducky (when she’d have her), but there wasn’t much else to do during the winter at Jackson Ranch. The horses had been driven out of the highlands and gathered together to brave the winter. She’d have to brave the winter too it seemed.

  Thanksgiving came and went—the Baroness’s first. She was heartsick at John’s absence but brightened a little when Jeb returned. They didn’t speak of that day, but she wept when she saw him. He’d lost his twinkle. His eyes were as sad as hers. December was bleaker than November and while Abigail admired the white-capped mountains in the distance, the number of consecutive days spent indoors was wearing on her. Hank and Jenny invited her for a night out in Billings but she declined, not wanting to be a fifth wheel.

  She played cards with Jeb at night in front of the fire. They both listened for the sound of the front door crashing open. Each night they were met only with silence. Jeb sat a good distance from her at all times and never let his hand touch hers when he dealt the cards. This annoyed the Baroness—that husband of hers really needed straightening out if he thought showing affection to her brother-in-law was wrong. Who was she kidding? At this moment, she’d forfeit a lifetime of brotherly love for one more day with John Hale Jackson. Oh, how she missed him—her body missed him too. She yearned for him in her very core.

  Her period had come and gone—she wasn’t pregnant. A life growing inside her (that they’d made in happier times) would have comforted her in her long interval, but it was not to be. She tried to stay positive as she helped the family hang Christmas stockings over the fireplace. Margaret quietly added John’s stocking and Abigail traced the gold stitched letters.

  “We hang his stocking every year,” Margaret told her. “Whether he is here or not.”

  The Baroness swallowed hard. That meant this sock had hung here every Christmas for nearly ten years. He hadn’t been home once to receive the gifts stuffed into it. That didn’t bode well for her cause. She bit back tears as she helped Margaret with a fresh batch of Christmas spritz cookies, shaking green and red sprinkles on a bell shaped shortbread. She had to believe he would come back for Christmas. He wouldn’t want to miss Daphne’s first yuletide holiday.

  But he had.

  She’d dressed her up in a little elf suit, complete with striped socks and pointed felt booties. Ducky had been an angry elf—and had screeched and hollered until Abigail had removed her candy cane stocking cap. Tiny angry elf and forlorn fairy mother stared out the window the day after Christmas. She’d made it through the dinner, but just barely. The empty chair at the head of the table had been like a knife in her heart. The Baroness sighed against the frosty windowpane.

  “Is there any day more depressing than the day after Christmas, Ducky darling?”

  The baby gave her the silent treatment.

  “I guess I should put you to bed.”

  It took all of her physical strength to trudge up the long staircase to the nursery. These last two months had sapped her very soul. She’d struggled to maintain her new healthy weight, choking down food when she could. She wanted to stay healthy for her duckling, but all of Margaret’s delicious food tasted bitter in her mouth. She missed junk food pig-outs with her husband—she missed him dishing her out extra ice cream. Lord, how she missed him. All she could do was stay put. That was her mantra—stay put and show him she’d pass any loyalty test by outlasting his punishment.

  Jenny met her on the landing. “I saved an article for you, Baroness.”

  Abigail glanced a
t the Glamour magazine in the girl’s hand and stifled a groan. “Oh?”

  Jenny chewed gum as she flipped through the pages. “Crap, I can’t find it now—I thought I dog-eared it.”

  “Should you be chewing gum before bed, dearest?”

  Jenny spit the gum out and ground it into the underside of the bannister. “Don’t tell my ma, ok?”

  Abigail feigned joviality with a wink. “I won’t. And now I know just where to hide my chewing gum and other incidentals.”

  Jenny giggled and gave up looking for the article. “Well, I’ll just tell you what it said. It was all about relationships. It said that women under assume or I mean under anticipate. No…that’s not it…under…under something.”

  “Underestimate?” Abigail finished for her.

  The girl snapped her fingers. “Uh huh—that’s it! The article said that women underestimate how much a man needs to hear the words ‘I love you’.”

  “Is that so,” Abigail said very seriously.

  “I mean I know you and Johnny J. are in love, but have you actually told him you love him.”

  “Well, he knows I love him, I’m sure.”

  The girl’s eyes widened with intense concern. “He might not know—that’s my whole point, Baroness. You’ve got to tell him you love him.”

  “All right, Jenny…”

  The Baroness stood there thinking as the girl scampered into her bedroom. She continued her long trek to the third floor and mulled over what the silly teen had just told her. Had she told John Jackson that she loved him? No, she supposed she hadn’t. She’d never told any man she’d loved him, as strange as that was. She and Trevor had cared for each other, of course, but their relationship wasn’t a passionate or particularly deep one. He’d certainly never required such words from her. If anything, she’d always thought he would cringe at hearing them, but perhaps a man like John required more. Perhaps Jenny’s rag did make a valid argument.

  She set Ducky down on her changing station and made quick work of her nappy. She was a real pro by now. She sanitized her hands with baby wipes and turned back to the table to find Ducky had rolled over. She had rolled over and was holding her head up, staring straight at her.

  “You rolled over!” Abigail cried out. “And you’re holding your head up!” She clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, you are indeed a superior baby!”

  She beamed with pride even as the baby eyeballed her with a sullen bunched brow. She knew some babies could pull off such a feat at three months, but it was unusual.

  “Your father should be here to see this—why you’re splendid!”

  The Baroness was answered with a loud quack .

  “I know, my darling, I wish I knew where he was too.”

  “Quack.”

  “I’m sorry, sweeting, I haven’t the foggiest notion where’s he’s gone.”

  “Quack, quack.”

  “Go get him and tell him I love him? Is that what you’re saying.”

  “Quack, quack, quack.”

  “But how? Who will help me find him? The FBI? Bloody Scotland Yard—I don’t even know which continent he’s on.”

  Abigail was only vaguely aware of how insane the situation was. She was conversing with her infant daughter and understanding her every quack as if they were spoken words. She knew Daphne was communicating with her, there was no question. Her blue eyes delved into her very soul. She was intent on relaying her message. The baby yacked at her, spluttering up spit as she

  quacked. She was in such a fuss that her head broke out in perspiration which set her hair standing up in aggressive spikes. She even broke wind (and loudly), just to threaten another soiled nappy.

  “Quack, quack, quaaaaaaack!”

  “Oh, dear—you think I’ve been a fool to wait this long?”

  The fiendish water fowl bobbed her head. “Quaaaaaaaaaaack!”

  “I’ve been passive and lazy, you say?”

  “Quaaaaaaaack, quaaaaaaaack, quaaaaaack!”

  “You’re quite beside yourself, old girl.”

  Ducky finally stilled, her sapphire eyes glinting. She folded her tiny duck lips into a firm line and stared hard. Abigail stared back.

  “Old girl…” she repeated. “Or course…you want me to ask Trevor for help.”

  Ducky fell back in exhaustion. At last she’d made her point. Thank goodness, because she didn’t have another quack left in her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Abigail gaped up at the large house she’d called home for most of her life, feeling not at all like a baroness. This wasn’t her home any longer. Montana was her home—she was only a titled English aristocrat in name, she was the wife of John Hale Jackson now. Yes, she was Mrs. John Hale Jackson. Or at least she hoped she still was.

  She shivered under the protection of the large umbrella, clutching Ducky tight to her breast. She’d forgotten how gloomy the rainy season in England could be—and how bone-chilling. She preferred the crisp clean air of winter on the ranch, not this mucky wet bore of a place. She’d told no one she was coming—hadn’t sent for a car. She’d taken a taxi all the way from the city. She didn’t need that sort of royal treatment—she wasn’t that woman anymore.

  Abigail had failed to follow Ducky’s direct orders. She hadn’t wanted to trouble Trevor and Isabel with her marriage drama. She was sure they were enjoying the bliss of their union and it seemed selfish to bother them. She’d been remiss in her correspondence too. That was very bad form indeed. The truth was she’d been whisked away into her own adventure—and into her own romance. She wondered if her old society “friends” were all abuzz with tales of the runaway Baroness. The Baroness has “gone Western” they’d say.

  For once she didn’t care what anyone thought. She didn’t care if they noted the size of her rump either. She only cared about one thing: finding her husband and bringing him back home. Sir Archibald would help her. He was the next best thing to Trevor. He’d always done all of the Duke’s legwork anyhow. He had been the one to find Isabel when she’d run off—strange that she and Trevor had suffered the same loss. It had all worked out for him in the end (with the help of Archie).

  The Baroness struggled with her luggage and her brolly as she climbed the steps to Sutton Place. A gust of wind nearly toppled her.

  “Blast,” she cursed when her umbrella blew away and Ducky’s upturned face was sprinkled with rain. She tossed her suitcase and shielded her baby from the weather as best she could. “I’m sorry, my hatchling,” she apologized. “We’ll be inside soon.”

  Daphne stuck her tiny pink tongue out, catching the raindrops, seeming quite content to have her beak speckled with water. She was a duck after all.

  Abigail felt odd knocking on her own door, but there it was. She was a stranger in her own home. Moments later a rustle from within sounded and then the door creaked opened. She had a hard time not bursting into tears when she saw the familiar and kind face of Sir Archibald.

  He looked properly appalled by her bedraggled appearance—no doubt she looked like an urchin.

  “My Lady!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t tell us you were coming.”

  Sir Archibald ushered her into the house quickly, peering down at Ducky with a smile.

  “I’m sorry Archie—I just jumped on a plane.”

  She’d packed her bags the evening of the quack session and disappeared into the night. She’d left a note for Margaret and hadn’t looked back.

  “Is everything all right, My Lady?”

  He helped her off with her coat as Gracie clipped-clopped down the steps toward them, breaking into a run when she saw who was at the door.

  “Oh, My Lady—you’re here!” she burst out.

  “Yes, Gracie—I’m here, barely in once piece.”

  The young maid collected herself and took Ducky into her arms. “I’ll get her changed at once, My Lady. And I’ll draw you a bath.”

  “I can draw my own bath, dearest—but do take Ducky. She will be happy with a change.”
/>   The girl blinked at Sir Archibald in confusion and whisked the baby upstairs.

  Archie turned worried eyes to the Baroness as he pressed a hankie into her hand. “What has happened, My Lady? You seem…altered.”

  Abigail dabbed at her rain-streaked face with the handkerchief then gave her nose a good blow. “Well, I’ve fallen horribly in love with John Jackson, but he’s run off you see.” She waved a hand in the air. “Haven’t a clue where he is.”

  “Oh, My Lady…”

  “I need one last favor from you, old friend. You must find him for me or my broken heart will never heal.”

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR THE DUKE OF DEVOY to ascertain his former lover and childhood friend had returned to her ancestral home. He’d made this discovery when he’d been out for a ride. The rain had cleared just enough, although the ground was saturated, making for a messy run. His horse’s hooves kicked up mud which splattered across his pristine riding coat. He’d always hated being soiled, shivered at the mere idea of dirt coming his way. Since Isabel, he rather liked getting a bit grimy however. It meant Isabel would scrub him down in the shower. A shower with her always led to other things. So it was a very good thing for him to get dirty.

  He’d paused at the top of the hill that separated the Baroness’s lands from his and raked his gaze over the neat stone structure of Sutton Place, wondering how the old girl was doing in Montana of all places, when he’d noticed smoke coming from the chimney in her bedroom. Always one to stand on ceremony, Trevor had thought it rude to just barge in so he’d turned his horse around and had rushed back to Devoy, putting in a prompt call to Archie. Archibald had skirted the subject as best he could, to protect the Baroness’s privacy, but he’d wheedled it out of the aged secretary.

  He’d been properly filled in by now. The truth was out and the missing husband had been found, cheeky bloke to have run off in a huff like that. It had taken over a week to locate him. Trevor had been forced to call in all his favors at Scotland Yard, but the American had been unearthed and now Isabel was after him to go and fetch him back.