The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  She’d quickly assured him the Duke was busy at this moment and her only desire was for fresh air and to get closer to the sea. A tour of the estate was not a requirement for today, she told him with the most dazzling smile she could summon. He’d then respectfully requested to accompany them as neither she nor Carter knew the lanes to follow.

  Carter looked relieved at the suggestion so Sheri had graciously complied. After all, getting lost was not really on her agenda, she reminded that small part of herself that argued it would be quite a welcome outcome for the day. The two men were holding an animated discussion of the breeding of Zeus, the magnificent palomino stallion Mr. Leach was riding. She’d not really been listening until Mr. Leach commented the Duke had recently acquired the animal from his cousin, Lord Baxendene.

  ‘The Great Bax only had him a couple of weeks. Paid a mint for him at Newmarket. Can’t imagine why he’d give him up—unless he lost him on a wager.’

  This last was muttered as if the man had only just figured it out. Sheri couldn’t prevent her head from whipping round to take in the beautiful lines of the majestic animal; the same Dom had told her was now hers to use as a stud at Springwoods whenever she was ready. It clearly illustrated the extent of her distraction that she’d not even noted the man’s mount when he’d joined them for their ride.

  It took all her will to turn and ride on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about the animal, and not to turn and demand more information from the man. There was certainly a bet. She knew that—and she’d lay a wager of her own it was as a result of that bet Dom now owned Bax’s horse. As her heart began to pound with the fury of her thoughts the sound of a galloping horse reached them and they pulled aside to ride in single file along the narrow lane.

  The horseman slowed as he approached and quickly doffed his hat in deference to Sheri.

  ‘This is Mr. Vincent, the Duke’s steward, my Lady. Mr. Vincent, this is Lady Sherida Dearing as is soon to become our Duchess.’

  Surprise flashed in the man’s roguish blue eyes but was quickly masked as he bowed his head to Sheri.

  ‘Honored to meet you, my Lady. We look forward to having a new mistress here at the Castle.’

  The man hesitated for a moment, as if weighing up the correctness of what he wanted to say next.

  ‘Are you headed anywhere in particular, my Lady?’

  ‘I have a hankering to see the sea. It’s so peaceful out here.’

  ‘It is that,’ he readily agreed, nodded again before replacing his hat and spurring off towards the Castle.

  It was peaceful, Sheri thought happily as they moved off again, the men now discussing the layout of the farms and the main roadways of the estate. She let her mind drift, concentrating on nothing at all. Content to amble, relax and breathe the incredible salty tang of the air, Sheri set the pace and the grooms fell in behind.

  Cresting a small hill they stopped to look back to where the Castle sprawled, an impressive but chaotic crown on a long ridge scarcely half a mile back. They’d not ridden far. Sheri didn’t care. She felt free. Ahead stretched fields, copses, isolated farm buildings and beyond it all the ever closer sparkle of the sea.

  About to ride on, she was arrested by Mr. Leach observing with a deep note of satisfaction in his voice, ‘There be His Grace. He’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  Swinging round to look back the way they’d come, Sheri saw there was indeed a lone horseman riding with typical wolfish flare, as if there was a race to be won.

  Briefly she thought to spur Dream Lady across the fields in the hopes of losing her escort and her ever-nearing fiancé. Abandoning the notion as childish at best, she turned to watch Suliman cover the distance in a ground-eating canter that would have Dom at her side in minutes. Besides, he’d easily catch her. Dream Lady could move well but she wasn’t built like Suliman.

  The day was too beautiful to be started with a pointless argument. She’d accepted his hand in marriage; there was nothing in fact she wanted more than to be Dominic Beresford’s wife. The situation would really have to be much more dire before she threw them all into the scandal-broth of a broken engagement.

  With the merest nod of acknowledgement to Carter and Leach, he drew in at her side, Suliman still prancing a little as if the flying canter had only whetted his appetite.

  ‘Thanks, Leach. Carter.—I’ll escort Lady Sherida from here.’

  With a quick doff of their hats the two turned and spurred their horses back towards the Castle—leaving her alone with a scowling Duke. Back ramrod straight and shoulders thrown back, he had a slightly menacing air, but he simply watched her and waited until the men were out of hearing.

  ‘Good morning, my Lady,’ he said in a more formal tone than he’d ever taken with her.

  She could no longer resist turning to look at him. The rakish curly beaver shaded his eyes but the tensing of the livid scar down his cheek said plainly he wasn’t pleased.

  She hadn’t thought he would be.

  ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’

  ‘I would’ve ridden with you had you informed me of your intention. Instead you put Leach to the embarrassment of sending word my wife-to-be intended making her first appearance on the estate without me at her side. Nor would I have known where to start looking had Mr. Vincent, my steward not been able to inform me you were desirous of seeing the sea. I had thought we’d discover the beauty of Wolverton together.’

  Was that hurt she heard in his voice? Confusion and contrition washing all through her, she realized she’d been guilty of thinking because he didn’t love her he’d simply be relieved if she took her entertainment into her own hands. Other guests would be arriving this morning, including Windermere and Jassie. She’d’ have thought him eager to be around to greet them rather than trailing after her.

  ‘I just needed air—and quiet. I thought you’d be wanting to stay and greet guests as they arrived.’

  ‘I’d prefer you by my side when we greet our guests, Sher. Besides, I’d rather be out here in the quiet and fresh air with you—than making small talk to anyone else.’

  His voice was low and firm, as if he was trying to convince her what he said was true.

  ‘Windermere and—Jassie should be here before luncheon.’

  Did the birds stop singing in that moment? Did the crickets stop chittering in the grass?

  …

  ‘Ah.’ Dom nudged Suliman a little closer then reached across to palm the softness of her cheek with his gloved hand. ‘I’m marrying you, Sher, not Jassie.’

  The stillness around them intensified, crystallized, as he looked down into the deep, misty brown of her eyes and wished he could feel the velvet of her skin against his bare fingers. Something passed between them; something as ephemeral as a dream yet with the substance of a vow.

  ‘Let’s just concentrate on that, on us.’ He waited until the hint of darkness faded from her eyes and the compressed mouth softened to its normal classic curve. ‘Shall we ride to the sea and enjoy the morning—and let our guests take care of themselves?’

  A smile finally lit the depths of her eyes then dimpled the cheek beneath his glove as it curved her lips. Sherida Dearing was the most classically beautiful woman he’d ever seen; her features as perfectly formed as a carving on a cameo.

  Those who’d named her ‘Ice Queen’ had never looked to where tamped fires lurked in eyes the color of aged cognac. He’d been guilty himself and now he was looking, he was disconcerted to discover he didn’t want to look away. He would marry this woman tomorrow and what did he know of her really? Who was she beneath that perfect armor?

  Beauty, breeding, bearing and brains were all he’d deemed important when choosing a wife—who wasn’t Jassie. As he drew his hand away from her face and took up his reins he was suddenly seething with questions. Other than her passion for horses and that she rode like a Valkyrie, he knew little of her interests.

  She was a talented portrait painter and she could sing. He’d enjoyed lis
tening to her alluringly husky alto voice, another clue that should have alerted those who’d dubbed her frozen.

  ‘It occurs to me,’ he said as they turned their horses towards the coast, ‘we should spend this time getting to know one another.’

  A small huff of surprise came from Sheri.

  ‘We’ve known one another all our lives!’

  He gave her a sideways glance and found her eyes alight with amusement.

  ‘What do you like to eat for breakfast? You didn’t come and join me this morning so I might’ve found out. Do you prefer tea? Coffee? Chocolate? Do you enjoy liver and kidneys or prefer bacon? Eggs? How do you like them? Do you have any idea what I like for breakfast? In fact, how will you know what to order Cook to lay out on the breakfast board if you’ve no idea of your husband’s likes—and more importantly, dislikes? For I’m telling you, my dear, should tripe and onions ever appear on our menu it’ll be cause for extreme ducal displeasure!’

  Her laughter, issuing almost reluctantly, was musical and very gratifying. This morning they’d learn to laugh together. They’d become easy together.

  And those who watched, knowing his heart followed Windermere’s wife, would see a man with eyes only for his own.

  …

  They’d ridden at a leisurely pace along stone-fenced lanes, through shady coppices and at last for a mile or more just above the rocky shoreline, coming back to the Castle by way of a path Dom told her was rarely used except by foxes and badgers.

  She now knew not only did he detest tripe and onions but also brassicas in any form and, if she needed to cozen him out of a scowling mood, she should order Cook to serve apple and blackberry cobbler with lashings of fresh cream.

  Sheri looked across the immaculately groomed, castle-sized, English country garden to where Dom stood pointing out some distant feature to the Windermeres and Prince and Princess Esterhazy. His tall figure, shoulders broad yet elegant in deep green superfine and long muscular legs defined by snug buckskins, was in magnificent form for a man with such a serious sweet tooth. It was difficult to remember when she’d enjoyed a morning more. They’d returned in time to change for luncheon in a rare and harmonious accord.

  There’d been upwards of twenty guests sitting down to luncheon with them, more had arrived a little later and most were now enjoying a stroll in the warm July sunshine, the ladies carrying parasols to protect their skin. Only Aunt Olwynne, Windermere’s mother, had retired to her room for a nap.

  Sheri walked with her Mama, Lord Hadleigh who was often at her side these days, Bax’s mother, Lady Georgiana, an almost frighteningly majestic and beautiful woman looking somewhat pale from a recent illness, and Dom’s sister, Lady Arabella Briersley. The chatter was general but mostly about the rugged grandeur of the ancient Keep at their backs and Sheri’s good fortune in being able to live in such a magnificently beautiful part of Kent, in a place with a history almost as old as Time.

  None of it distracted her awareness from Dom and Jassie who’d fallen back from the group walking on the lower path. Though not touching, they were talking intently while standing quite close, looking out towards the man-made lake glistening in the distance. How could she gather her icy indifference when she wanted nothing so much as to scratch Jassie’s eyes out?

  Noting a small folly cascading in roses and honeysuckle at the end of some crazy-paving she hung back, then slipped down the path alone. Her heart squeezed tightly in her chest as her mind kept replaying the image of her fiancé deep in conversation with the woman he loved. Fully realizing all Dom meant when he said he still loved Jassie, she was struggling to function normally.

  Her head ached. Ripping off her bonnet she tried to recapture the blithe mood of singular accord she’d shared with her fiancé this morning.

  Damn him!

  ‘Still say you’re bamming me!’ Chumsley’s peculiar nasal tones intruded from quite close by, as if he leaned against the outer wall of the folly. Sheri scarcely dared breathe in case she was discovered. ‘In fact, I believe you’re just trying to distract me from the fact you lost the most prime piece of horseflesh ever to pass through Tatt’s to Wolf, as well as a woman. The Ice Queen no less! Not like you, Bax,’ Chumsley gloated, ‘to be so careless as to lose both rides! Though I suppose it has to be arguably better than losing your Somerset estate.’

  ‘Now you know I’m never careless, Chum,’ Bax drawled. ‘I’ve neatly eliminated my greatest competition for all choice bits of muslin on offer this Season. When Wolf marries tomorrow he’ll be out of the running for debutante or demi-rep. They’re all the same to me!’

  ‘Can’t see Wolf becoming a petticoat-clinger just because he takes a wife.’

  Sheri couldn’t hear Bax’s reply and sat trying to still her crazily beating heart and give thanks at the same time for the thick, fragrant screen of honeysuckle and roses as their voices and footsteps faded back towards the rest of the guests.

  Her ire rose with the steadying of her heart. She’d been right. There had been a bet and it had involved not only a horse and a Somerset estate, but also a woman—her! At least now she was angry instead of cowering in abject misery as if her stupid heart was broken!

  Ice Queen they called her. Ice Queen she was! Frozen. Heartless.

  Jamming her bonnet back on her head she peered through the foliage to ascertain she once again had the sunken garden to herself. Certain the way was clear, she stepped forth, gained the path skirting the wall of the newer part of the Castle and slipped through a side door, which took her into a small intimate parlor. Moving quickly through the room, she set out to find her way to a part of the vast building familiar to her. After several wrong turns and retracing of her steps, she finally found a staircase and once upstairs knew she should be able to find her rooms.

  An upstairs maid plying a large polishing mop on the gleaming maple floors, directed her and at last she flung herself through the door into her room, vowing not to exit again until she had worked out what she’d say to Mama—and Wolverton.

  …

  It had been a particularly satisfactory day, Dom ruminated, as he stood before the mirror tying his neck cloth before dinner. Patchett had gone off grumbling because Dom refused to be trussed up like a pink of the ton. He grinned amiably at himself. His pique at Sheri’s failure to join him at breakfast had quickly been replaced by a rare sense of well-being as he and Sheri had ridden unhurriedly along the seashore, talking of food, art, books and music and discovered a mutual love for the quieter pace of life, the more meaningful lifestyle offered by a country estate.

  They’d deal well together as husband and wife. There was no doubt in his mind they’d deal better than well together in the bedroom. She was most agreeably responsive to his kisses and he—well, he was still surprised at how desperately he wanted her; how just thinking about her aroused him: the long elegant neck that begged his caress, the gleaming silvery blonde hair he knew would flow like a veil down her back and over his hands. It would feel like silk.

  But she had barriers. Why had she demanded he promise they’d make love in the dark? Why did she become beyond agitated when he sought to look upon her charms? Why were her gowns always so prudish? The woman was beautiful! What could possibly worry her so?

  He’d thought Jassie might know, being her best friend, but Jassie had really only suggested Sheri was a private person with high ideals, for herself and the man she’d marry. She’d really been no help at all. Worse, she’d suggested his intense interest pointed to him caring more than just as a matter of necessity for the woman he was taking as his wife.

  When he’d suggested that would only make him fickle and shallow in the affections he’d professed for her, she’d put her head on one side and blasted him with her magnificent topaz eyes before saying gently, ‘It’s time, Dom. I was never meant for you though I was terribly flattered by your caring. It was balm to my soul when Windermere was being so—beastly! And I’m more than grateful your love enabled you to help Rogan and me. But do
n’t you see? If you’d loved me, really deeply loved me, I don’t believe you could’ve done what you did for us—allowed Windermere to take what you wanted for yourself.’

  ‘No!’ she said, laying her hand on his arm when he would have refuted her words. ‘We’ll not talk of it again. I just want you to know I’m very happy you and Sheri are marrying. She’ll make the perfect duchess. I might already have said that to you. What I want you to think about now is how you’d feel if you were as Rogan was and Sheri was me.—Could you have allowed Windermere—or anyone else—to share your marriage bed?’

  He could still see the triumphant smile lighting her face as she watched his reaction to her words and saw the moment he realized what she’d done.

  He knew he didn’t, couldn’t, love Sheri—for he still loved Jassie, whatever she might’ve said. Didn’t he? But he’d kill any bastard with his bare hands who tried to do anything more than breathe on the tips of Sheri’s gloved fingers.

  Smiling grimly at himself as he twitched the cloth at his neck once more, he considered how he’d proceed once he had Sheri alone as his wife. Honor his promise not to expose her to his view? Or take her to that place he knew the Master of Virgins could? That place where she’d beg and plead for his total possession, where she’d helplessly give all of herself into his keeping.

  Because he could. If honor would allow him.

  …

  His optimism and feeling of bonhomie lasted until Sheri entered the green salon where all the guests were gathering before dinner. She’d never appeared more beautiful, more regal or more frozen. Her gown, silk the color of the best French champagne, hung from a collar of diamonds at her throat. Although it left her shoulders bare it appeared demure and modest in the extreme until he caught a glimpse of the back. Like the gown she’d worn to the Regent’s Ball, it allowed the creamy expanse of her upper back to gleam in the brilliant light from the chandeliers, inciting a man to caress, to attempt a fracture of the frozen effect. Diamonds glittered in the silvery strands of her hair and at her wrists. Notwithstanding the dress and its invitation to touch, she’d never appeared more remote, more untouchable.