Tristen smiled, his hand resting on his dog’s head. “They’re good to me as well, Your Grace.”
“Does Rose still work in the kitchen?”
“Aye, she does. But she always finds time in her day for Uncle and me. We’re the luckiest of men.”
“Yes, that’s just the way I remember her. Always taking fine care of me and any other urchin she could corral. Tell me, did they ever have any children of their own? I know they wanted a family.”
He shook his head.
The coach came out of the forest, passed by the castle, and continued on around back, down a winding road for a quarter mile. The home, larger than a cottage, sat back in the trees and held a magical kind of charm—like wood elves or gnomes resided there. The small garden, still well kept, looked to be producing quite nicely. Hanging from the tall sycamore beside the front porch was the wide-seated rope swing. He’d spent many an hour here contemplating his place in the family that seemed to wish him gone. Back then, the front door had been painted red, but it was now a shiny blue. Window boxes at the upper bedroom windows brimmed with color. Along with everything else, Rose’s talent with plants was even more impressive than the gardener’s at Ashbury. Emma would fall in love the moment he brought her here, where, he realized, he felt most at home. The Henderley household had provided much of the familial love Ashbury didn’t.
He eagerly drank in the sight as the coach rolled to a halt, deeply wishing he’d thought to bring out some sort of gift. A thank-you for all the love and memories he’d held close to his heart on the open sea and for his time in America. He could hardly wait to get inside.
“Beranger!” Arson Henderley belted when the group came through the front door. “You’re a sight, my boy. When I heard the news of your return, I could hardly believe my ears. Come over here so I can greet you properly. You too, Lord Harry. Good to see you, man.”
Arson Henderley sat in a chair by the window, a lightweight blanket resting over his legs. His face was thin, and he’d lost at least fifty pounds, if Beranger’s assessment was correct. But his smile, his eyes, were all the same, just older and rather tired. Beranger rushed forward, engulfing his old friend in his arms.
“What’s wrong, Arson?” he asked after he stepped away. “Why can’t you greet me on your own two feet? Your nephew didn’t say.”
“Doctors don’t know. My legs are gradually losing their strength. I used to be able to get around slowly inside, but whatever is wrong with me keeps advancing. There’ll come a time when I won’t be able to get out of bed.”
Beranger just gazed at him, trying to determine the seriousness of his condition. It sounded grave, but perhaps in London—or in America—the doctors knew more about this sort of affliction. Later, Rose would give him the full truth. Just like old times, Arson was not a man to talk about himself or his troubles.
Arson reached out an arm to Tristen, beckoning him closer. “But I have this fella—and thank God for him. He’s doing a good job with your woodlands. Keeps track of the game that’s taken out and is swifter on his feet when after poachers. The accounting book never looked better. His arithmetic is near to perfect. You couldn’t have a better man looking out for you, Your Grace.”
“Beranger,” he corrected. “I’m not Your Grace to you. I owe you my sanity, my life.”
“Poppycock.” Arson laughed. “You’re the duke, and we will address you accordingly. Did Tristen tell you he’s from Wales? Only son of my dear sister, God rest her soul. He’s a better shot than I am, I can brag on that.” Arson’s smile was filled with pride. Here was the son he’d never had.
“I’m happy to have him aboard.” He needed to say more, put Arson at ease. “This house will always belong to you and Rose, Arson. Even when—”
“I can’t get out of bed?”
“That’s right.”
For the first time in Beranger’s life, a look of disquiet crossed his old friend’s face.
“We don’t take charity, Your Grace. We’re keeping up due to Tristen. We won’t fall short.”
Beranger hadn’t meant to sting Arson’s pride, but it appeared he had. Later, in private, they’d revisit the conversation, and Beranger would remind him of all he and Rose had done for him. Meanwhile, he wanted to discuss all this talk of poaching. He remembered the local boys and servants’ children he’d run with as a youth. Their families had been poor. Even one deer from Ashbury lands would feed many mouths. During hard times, the risk of being caught poaching was worth it.
But why should it be that way? As steward of these lands, the Duke of Brightshire owed to them a decent standard of living. Maybe the previous dukes hadn’t felt that way, but Beranger did.
Ashbury was about to change the way business was carried out—he’d see to that, even if the other lords around the countryside didn’t approve.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emma sat straight as an arrow, trying to remember every instruction Mrs. Darling had given her last night concerning today’s tea with the local dignitaries. She should have paid more attention to Gertrude Bucket’s instructions, she admitted, but somehow the urgency of preparing for today had finally made the lessons sink in.
It was a good thing too that Emma had Mrs. Darling to rely upon. Gertrude’s illness—combined, Emma suspected, with a bit of a miffed feeling that Emma had turned elsewhere for direction—had prompted the woman to announce that she missed Boston and would be returning as soon as possible.
Hyacinth had helped Emma dress for today’s gathering in a blushing-pink gown made of fine, delicate linen, delivered by the dowager’s dressmakers only this morning. She adored the gorgeous garment. The narrow skirt had just the barest of back padding and hugged her waist like a glove. The feminine capuchin collar made her neck look like a swan’s. She’d never felt more beautiful. The rest of her trousseau, so to speak, would be finished by the end of the week.
She smiled at the ladies in the group: the dowager duchess; Lady Audrey; Harriet Ninham, the ninety-five-year-old Dowager Countess of Sarre; and Lady Eugenia Coldred.
Lady Sarre, who was almost completely deaf, gazed at the small, untouched slice of cake on her plate. The group had already consumed the savory items and scones and were on the desserts. “This looks delicious, Duchess.”
She’d said the exact phrase at least thirty times since Emma had poured the tea. Her thick black wig of curls, adorned with a small tiara, looked rather strange in contrast to her naked eyelids. As eccentric as she appeared, she was a lamb, and kind to a fault.
Seventy-five-year-old Lady Eugenia Coldred, a local baroness with bluish-gray hair and a shrill voice that could wake the dead, nodded emphatically. Both women had been exceptionally kind, and Emma found no fault with either. Through the last two hours, three cups of tea, and two sweets, they’d explained in detail their titles, who was related to whom, which title came from where, and their families’ connections to the dukedom, if they existed.
Most of the connections went over Emma’s head like a kite in the wind. Thankfully, Beranger’s uncle Charles and his family had sent a cable this morning explaining they’d been delayed. As uncharitable as it sounded, Emma hoped they’d stall their arrival for a year. She already had enough on her plate contending with more highbrow relations. But it did make her wonder about his absence. Lord Charles was next in line for the dukedom after Lady Audrey—for as long as she didn’t have any children. Did he resent Beranger’s good fortune?
Keeping her posture painfully erect, Emma—in complete opposition to what Miss Bucket had advised about raising her cup and saucer chest high while extending her baby finger (such a position, declared Mrs. Darling, was rude and implied elitism)—delicately gripped the top of the handle with thumb and index fingers and brought the teacup to her lips. Tipping the china toward her, she took the tiniest of sips, thereby executing the movement perfectly. She looked at the liquid, for to do otherwise was also rude. She caught Lady Coldred’s smile of approval.
“Duchess,”
Lady Coldred said wistfully, “you move and speak as if you were born and raised here in our good country. Such beauty and poise. Lady Sarre and I are delighted to be counted among your first guests.” She clinked her cup back into its saucer.
Truly touched, Emma felt warmth rise to her cheeks. The endearment wrapped around her heart after the hollow flattery from Beranger’s stepmother.
“Thank you so much, Lady Coldred. I find your country so charming. I’m doing my best not to humiliate my good husband, the duke. Alas, each day is a school day, as my eldest sister, Mavis, is fond of saying. I find that so true here.”
Emma didn’t miss the dowager’s sour nod of agreement—because she’d been the recipient of the like all afternoon. The woman could barely stand being in the same company as a backward hick from America. The ice queen rarely said a word, and instead tried to undermine Emma’s confidence with glacially cold, hawklike stares with her lips curled just the tiniest bit at their edges.
If the dowager thought Emma would crumple in fright from her asinine tactics, she was wrong. She wouldn’t flee back to Colorado at the first hint of discomfort to lick her wounds and cry on her sisters’ shoulders. The highbrow, too-good-for-anyone-else dowager duchess would soon learn just how tough she could be.
And at this point, Lady Audrey was no better. She was a replica of her mother, only younger. Every once in a while she’d mumble a word or two through her sugar-sweet smile but avoided any topic of interest or intellectual exchange. She never voiced her opinion on anything. Beranger’s sister appeared friendly to her whenever Beranger was near, but that evaporated the minute they were alone, or around her mother. Surely, she was nursing her anger over being bumped out of inheriting the title. Emma had come to England intending to win over both stepmother and half sister for Beranger’s sake. So they could all be friends, because now they were family. But the more time they spent together, the more apparent it became that the dowager duchess and Lady Audrey didn’t want to be friends, let alone family.
“Yes, yes.” Lady Sarre nodded as if she had actually heard the compliment her friend had just voiced to Emma. “Fairly and always. Whenever and now.” She glanced at her teacup and then around the room, confusion clouding her eyes. “This looks delicious, Duchess.”
Moved by compassion, Emma reached out and placed her palm over the old countess’s unsteady hand. The loving gesture seemed to startle everyone in the room. Not caring what the others thought, Emma let her hand linger. “Thank you, my dear lady,” she said.
Lady Sarre’s bare eyelids fluttered, and then a smile crept across her face.
“Oh, the duke,” Lady Coldred said on a breath. “He was such a handsome child. I daresay, I look forward to his return so I can see what kind of a man he’s grown into. He had the most peculiar eyes.”
Emma cut her gaze to the dowager duchess and lifted a brow. “Yes, quite beautiful. I’ve heard some small-minded people believe they’re bad luck—maybe even hold a curse—but he’s brought me nothing but love and happiness. I think such superstition laughable. I didn’t know such silly delusions even existed.”
The dowager lifted her fork to her lips but held Emma’s gaze, her eyes cold and hard.
Was the woman capable of bodily harm? At that moment, Emma would have had to say yes.
“Bah, you’re right,” Lady Sarre agreed, oblivious to the dowager’s fury. “Only peasants believe in curses. One blue, one green. His gaze drew everyone’s attention, and I’ve never seen the like since. But what a fine, fine-looking boy. Of course, because of the conditions of his birth, none of us ever dreamed he’d someday be the duke.” Using the edge of her trembling fork, she carefully cut her cake and put the small bite into her mouth. The skin of her neck rippled as she chewed. After swallowing, she dabbed her lips using the corner of her napkin. “I still don’t quite understand those circumstances. They’ve changed, haven’t they? What was it I was told?” Her gaze touched each face. “How could His Grace William first be married to His Grace Beranger’s moth—”
Thankfully, before the woman could say any more, voices sounded from somewhere in the castle. The deep laugh could belong to none other than her husband. Emma’s heart took wing. All she’d endured until his return melted away. She looked to the doorway, praying he’d come looking. Oh, how she wanted to fly into his arms! But as much as she loved this gorgeous dress, she wasn’t even sure she could trust herself to walk fast in all her finery. She had yet to master such tiny shoes.
“I believe Beranger has returned,” she said, making her first slip of the day by calling her husband by his Christian name at a formal function. But she hardly cared.
And then, there he stood in the doorway, looking impossibly handsome. Their gazes locked. He strode into the room, and all the women’s faces—excluding his stepmother and sister’s—shined like the sun.
Looking rakish and windblown, he held out a palm. “Dowager Countess and Lady Coldred, so good to see you. You’re both more beautiful today than sixteen years ago.” He glanced at the dowager duchess and his sister and nodded politely. “I found my stepmother the same. There must be something magic in the springs that feed Brightshire.”
Emma didn’t know how he could treat his stepmother so kindly, but it impressed her every time.
He graciously took the hand of each guest and kissed their fingers. “Thank you for welcoming my wife so warmly into the fold. Because of your tutelage she can do nothing less than shine.”
Both elderly ladies appeared spellbound.
“Oh, yes, Duke,” Lady Coldred cooed. “Anything we can do, we are happy to. Just ask.”
Not caring what was proper, Emma stood and went to his side, and he took her hand in his own. Oh, how I love him.
“Ladies, I’m stealing the duchess for only a moment. I promise to bring her right back.”
The guests nodded, affection brimming their gazes.
His stepmother gave her famous blank face.
Lady Audrey appeared indifferent.
Excitement burned as Beranger led her down the hall into the library. Inside the room, which was blessedly empty, he wrapped her in his arms as he used his boot to close the door. His head lowered to hers. The kiss was deep and needy, and she thought she’d die from the pleasure. She’d walk a hundred miles barefoot for one minute in his arms. Pulling back, he scorched a trail of voracious kisses down her neck and across the tops of her breasts, revealed by the capuchin collar. The sweetness of his love almost brought her to tears.
“I missed you so much,” she breathed, barely getting the words out.
“And I you, my love,” he responded, his lips still branding her skin. “And I you. More than you could ever know. I should have taken you with me. My mistake was not insisting you come along. The moment we set away, I felt hollow without you by my side.”
Breathing rapidly, she whispered, “So your trip was good, meaningful?”
He took a healthy draft of air as if he’d just sprinted a steep hill and pulled far enough away that he could see into her eyes. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Although I don’t like what I found out. It’s true what Justin has alluded. My foolish brother has all but ruined the manor. There are barely funds to pay wages—let alone taxes. Something must be done quickly to turn the estate around. And I’m not even sure, at this point, that feat can be accomplished.”
“Beranger, I’m so sorry! I had hoped you’d have good news to report. That you’d discovered some secret account Gavin hadn’t known about.”
“No such luck. I’ll have to pay the taxes and operational costs myself this year. And possibly next year too. Ashbury has been the Duke of Brightshire’s responsibility for centuries, and I won’t be the duke to let the manor see ruin and the property split up until nothing is left. From what I was told, a number of the larger estates are going that way without enough cash to help.”
“I have money, Beranger.”
“Never. That won’t happen. Besides, my money invested in America
is more than enough. I’ll liquidate a few things quite easily,” he said. “I’ll not lose Ashbury under my watch.”
Emma stroked his cheek, bringing his attention back to her. His expression was almost painful.
“And because I went to America and made my own fortune,” he went on, “I’m now in a position to save our holdings—not just some, but all.” He searched her face. “Do you mind?”
“Mind? Of course not. I think it noble that you’re willing to invest. Who knows, perhaps the false narrative that sent you to America was predestined by God to save all this.” She waved her arm to indicate the gorgeous room where they stood. “Few could do the same.”
A smile grew across his face, and his eyes softened. “Thank you for always believing the best of me. I’m determined to turn the operation around. The estate will pay for itself, but the question is when.”
She placed her hand against his warm cheek, loving him all the more for his concern. “Don’t look so cast down, my love. Surely we’ll think of something. I’m an American, and by a lot of accounts, so are you. We’re resourceful. We’ve only just begun.”
He placed another quick kiss upon her lips. “That we are, and have! Now, tell me how you fared in that enormous bed all alone. Were you frightened? I hardly slept a wink for thoughts of you.”
“I did fine,” she said, deciding to keep her two o’clock visit to the kitchen to herself so he’d not think her silly. She stepped away and put out her arms so he could see her gown. She did a slow turn. “My new gown, my duke husband.”
Admiration shone in his eyes. “Beautiful, but not as beautiful as what’s inside.”
He took her in his arms again, but she frowned and stared at his folded silk necktie, not wanting to look into his face while she voiced her concerns. She drew in a breath. “Beranger, if something evil came to pass, Lady Audrey would become duchess, correct?”
She dared a quick glance at his face. A crooked smile pulled his lips, but that couldn’t dispel the feeling she’d developed when she’d challenged the dowager a few minutes ago. Was the woman capable of doing something awful?
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