“Oh. I see.” Joy paused, then asked, “Is that bad?”
“Oh, no! Some people say they’re drivel, but I think they’ve never read one and don’t know what they’re talking about, ma’am. The stories are more delicious than . . . than”—the maid looked thoughtful, and then her eyes lit up—“than clotted cream and fresh strawberries.”
“I’d love to read that book. Does the cook still have it?”
“I suppose so, ma’am. I’ll try to get it for you. But if I can’t, then I have three more. And Cook is now reading one about a duke.”
“I think I’d like that one.” Joy grinned, and so did Polly; then they both started laughing.
After a minute, Polly picked up the clothing she’d brought in and held it out. “The dressmaker will be here tomorrow, but Mrs. Watley had me bring these up for you.” She held out a dressing gown and nightdress. “She’s looking for something for you to wear to dinner.”
Joy knew she could probably conjure up something with a semblance of competence—zapping up clothing was one of her strong points. But how would she explain its miraculous appearance? She glanced at the dress she wore. “If you could clean this dress, I could wear it to dinner.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Dinner is always formal. There’s enough stuff in the storage rooms to clothe the whole of Wiltshire. Besides, this being your wedding night, and all . . . ” Polly blushed and gave her a shy look, then disappeared into the dressing room.
Joy followed into the dressing room, slipping her clothing off as she walked, her mind on the maid’s words. She hadn’t thought of tonight. She’d been too worried about being a duchess and too excited about seeing her new home.
Tonight was her wedding night with Alec. The thought brought her skin to gooseflesh, and she was suddenly chilled. Slipping into the dressing gown, she thought about what a wedding night entailed. It only took about a minute before she realized that Alec would most likely kiss her again. She grinned, then giggled, then hugged her arms and closed her dreamy eyes.
If there was one thing that her mind’s eye pictured as clear as Belmore’s leaded-glass windows, it was the image of kissing her husband again, being held in his arms, tasting him and feeling his mouth trail over her skin, his voice in her ear, saying, “Marry me, Scottish . . . Marry me . . . ”
And now they were married. Husband and wife. Duke and Duchess. Laird and Lady. Her dreamy eyes flew open. Kissing wasn’t the only thing that married couples did, if what her aunt had told her when she was twelve was true. Joy’s cheeks grew hot. He would make love to her.
Make love. Such a strange term. Did the act mean that the emotion was there, too? She hoped so, hoped it would grow if she lovingly tended it. She wanted to be loved, to have Alec feel about her the way she felt every time she was near him. She wanted him to need to kiss her as badly as she wanted him to. She wanted to mean something to him, to fill him with magic and love and smiles so he didn’t have to hide.
Polly walked back into the room. “I’ve started your bath, ma’am.”
“Oh, fine.”
“I’ll go clean these things and fetch the gown for dinner.” Polly picked up Joy’s clothing. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”
“No. Thank you.”
The maid shut the door behind her, and Joy started to let her robe fall away, but her eyes caught the reflection of that other door in the mirror.
What was a Bramah? She tightened the belt on the robe and walked over to the door. The handle, like all the door handles she’d noticed so far, was stamped with the ducal crest. She opened the door and stared into the little room.
There was a low seat, the purpose of which was obvious, but it sat atop a porcelain bowl painted with purple irises and pink roses and a menagerie of birds. Joy peered down it, expecting to see the usual dark hole like that of the old garderobe at Duart Castle. But this bowl contained a small amount of water.
Imagine that! Somewhat puzzled, she looked upward, following a brass pipe to another painted container above her head. It had a brass handle, the only one she’d seen without a crest, extending down, just waiting to be pulled.
So she did.
She stared.
Water rushed into the bowl with the whirling sound of crashing waves. It swirled and rushed and then disappeared down the hole with a banshee wail. A moment later the room was silent.
Joy stared at the thing, then covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. She pulled the handle again, watching in pure amazement at the workings of the Bramah.
Ten minutes and twelve gurgling flushes later she let the robe fall to the marble floor of the bath and stepped into the deep tub. The water was warm and toasty and like sitting in heaven. Two huge brass handles shaped like dolphins and a matching faucet were mounted in the wall above the tub. She turned one, and cold water spilled from the dolphin’s mouth. She turned the second, and hot water gushed out. Adjusting both handles so the water was perfectly warm, she took the pins out of her hair and let the water pour over her head.
Never in her wildest and most fanciful dreams had she imagined anything as divine as this. After a few minutes of decadent splashing, she lay back, completely relaxed, and closed her eyes, letting the warm water lap at her temples, jaw, and chin, imagining it was Alec’s lips. Two relaxing, peaceful, and romantic minutes later her green eyes shot open and she sat up in the tub, suddenly remembering something else about tonight. Something she had to do.
Tonight was her Armageddon, and it had nothing to do with kisses or loving or intimate things. She had to tell him she was a witch. The prospect was more frightening than a malediction. This was her wedding night—the most exciting and wonderful time of any girl’s life—but for Joy it was also a time for revelation. As much as she dreaded it, she knew she must tell Alec exactly what she was, before they were intimate. She had to give him an out, and she hoped with all the optimism in her heart that he would not take that out.
She’d married him because she wanted to be his wife, to be loved by him, to fill the hollows she’d seen in him. He needed her so badly even if he didn’t realize it. But she had to be honest with him now. She couldn’t start this marriage out with a lie.
Her hand sank into the steamy water and grabbed a piece of perfumed soap stamped with the Belmore crest. She vigorously soaped up her arms and neck, scrubbing and scouring as if she could wash away what she was, so that she wouldn’t have to face the task ahead of her and take the chance of failing again.
The Havoc
Thou art wedded to calamity.
—Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
Chapter Eight
Joy was late. She ran down yet another never-ending hallway and heard a clock chime a quarter past the hour. Everywhere she went, she found door after gilded door and hallway after long, elegant hallway. According to Polly, the dining room was on the main floor, so Joy had left her room in what she guessed was plenty of time. Polly had said to make three rights and then a left and a right and she’d see the staircase. But Joy must have taken a wrong turn, because she’d been rambling and wandering through hallways and galleries, and although she’d tried to retrace her steps, she was now hopelessly lost.
“At least a hundred servants in this place and I haven’t run into a single one,” she told a huge portrait of some sour-faced Castlemaine. “Where is everyone?” The portrait was about as talkative as her husband. She rounded the corner and stared at yet another long, empty corridor.
Another cruel clock chimed. Now she was a half hour late. Beginning to panic, she lifted up the heavy silk skirts on the outdated but exquisite rose and gold silk gown Polly had brought her and ran like a heather hellion toward the next hallway. She looked in both directions. She could turn left or right, and both were equally long corridors.
“His Grace likes dinner on time,”Mrs. Watley had said. “Precisely at nine o’clock. A Belmore tradition.”
Joy clenched her gown and looked around her…lost. Why would anyone want t
o live in a house this big? She could just see Alec’s face, then the image changed to that of Mrs. Watley, her arms crossed over her black bombazine-covered crow’s chest, her foot tapping with impatience and her eyes glaring down at Joy. She was late, late, late, and Joy was sure that was tantamount to stealing the Belmore silver.
But, more important, being late was not a good way to start her marriage, especially when she needed to prepare her husband for her confession. Butter him up, so to speak. She stared at the clock. Its hands did not lie. The time for buttering up was past, way past. She chewed on her lower lip.
The hands of a clock? An idea began to glimmer in Joy’s eyes. She closed them for a full minute of concentration, took a deep breath, pointed at the clock, and chanted, “Oh, please listen to my rhyme. Turn back the time on every clock in this home of mine!”
She slowly moved her pointed finger and the hands on the clock followed suit until it was two minutes to nine. She smiled. It had worked! Feeling incredibly proud of herself, she looked down both hallways and decided it was time for a bit more magic.
Raising her chin and hands high in the air, she closed her eyes, trying to picture a dining room. Unable to imagine what Belmore’s dining room would look like, she concentrated on the food—roasted chickens and ducklings, plump roasts of beef and fresh breads, fruits and jellies and platters of delicacies so delightful that her stomach rumbled with hunger. “Oh, magic come and take me away,” she chanted, “to the room where Belmore’s food lay!”
An instant later she opened her eyes. Haunches of meat and plucked birds wrapped in protective salted cloth hung on hooks above her head.
This was not the dining room.
A sharp pang of ice cold air hit her. Shivering, she leaned one hand against what she thought was a wall and jerked it back.
She was in the ice house. She blinked several times in confusion. The walls were blocks of ice beneath the sacking.
Slowly, she found her way to a wide plank door a few feet away. Something caught in her hair. She glanced up and then with a disgusted flick of her hand pushed a dangling chicken head out of the way before opening the door.
She stepped into another dark, dank room, and promptly tripped over a lumpy sack of onions, landing on an equally lumpy mound of potatoes. Attempting to scramble to her knees, she clutched some bound stalks of asparagus, which snapped off with a fresh pop. She dropped the stalks and managed to get to her knees, only to find herself staring at a stack of rugged-looking rutabagas. Behind them was a shelf filled to capacity with jars of orange kumquats, peaches, and marmalade, red berry jellies and deep dark jams. The jars and containers of food went on and on, stacked on labeled shelves that appeared to hold enough to feed the world. The room smelled of the sea, of raw fish, and of vegetables still coated in fresh earth.
Now she was in the pantry.
But, she thought, at least I’m on the right floor.
The door was slightly ajar and she could hear the bustle of the busy kitchen that lay beyond—the sizzle of food cooking, the clatter of bowls, the clink of crockery, and the voices of an army of servants hard at work. No wonder I couldn’t find anyone, she thought. Sounds like they’re all out there.
Joy struggled to her feet, brushing her hands together to rid them of asparagus tips and dirt. At least I can ask someone for directions, she thought, stepping over another bulky sack and sidestepping a barrel of salted fish so she could open the door the rest of the way. She stepped into the room and stopped.
The smells were heavenly. The rich mouth-watering scent of beef roasting on a spit mixed with that of garlic and lamb and mint. The sharp tang of cinnamon and nutmeg assailed her senses, and her stomach rumbled a protest against its empty state. Joy watched, completely unnoticed, while a dinner the likes of which she had never seen was created of the same stuff that hung so unappealingly in the pantry.
A woman stood about five feet away, kneading some dough at a large worktable.
“Excuse me,” Joy said.
The woman glanced over her shoulder, then froze, except for her eyes, which nearly popped out of her head. She spun around, dough in hands, and sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace!”
Within about three seconds the room was silent except for the random pop and sizzle of cooking meat.
Every eye in the room was stunned and on Joy.
“I seem to be a wee bit lost, and I—”
An oversized set of double doors swung open, hitting the kitchen walls with a bang. The usually reserved Henson blustered into the room. “All hell has broken loose out there!” he announced. “They’ve lost the new duchess!” He scanned the kitchen where every servant was looking at one solitary spot in the room. His eyes followed theirs.
Joy raised her fingers and gave him a tentative and sheepish little wave.
“Your Grace!”
Joy found herself staring at his bent head. “I’m afraid I’ve been lost. Would you show me to the dining room, please?”
He straightened, once again the epitome of the stiff English servant, his shoulders back, chin raised, voice controlled. “Of course. If Your Grace will follow me . . . ”
Joy followed him across the silent kitchen, feeling every eye on her as she did so. A minute or so later at the end of a long corridor, Henson opened another set of double doors and announced, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Belmore.”
She took a deep, fortifying breath, raised her chin Watley-high, and walked into the room, where a herd of liveried footmen, Townsend, and Mrs. Watley herself were speaking to the duke. They fell silent and turned toward her, their faces all wearing the same look of disapproval.
They parted like the Red Sea. Alec stood there, handsome and broad-shouldered, dressed all in black except for a stark white cravat. His presence was so commanding. He was water to her thirsty eyes. Then, she made the mistake of looking at his face—and nearly drowned. His expression was hard and disapproving.
Joy’s heart felt as if it were going down for the third time.
The clock chose that exact moment to chime the quarter hour—so much for her witchcraft—and Alec frowned, glancing at the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel. He gave it a brief look of annoyance.
“That clock is broken. Have it fixed.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mrs. Watley plucked the clock off the mantel, tucked it under one lanky arm, and moved toward the doors.
The duke turned back to Joy. “You’re late.”
“I was lost.”
Mrs. Watley passed by, still shaking her head in reproof, and Joy thought she heard her mutter something about desecrating Belmore tradition.
Alec walked toward her. He offered her his stiff arm, but she would have given the world for one wee smile of reassurance.
“In the future, I will send Henson to show you the way.”
She couldn’t even look him in the eye. She was afraid to, so she chewed her lip instead.
After a tense minute in which she could feel him staring down at her, he added softly, “I suppose, Scottish, that this seems a cavernous old place.”
He had made an excuse for her. She released the breath she’d held in her tight throat, and smiled up at him. She was forgiven.
Again, his features changed into that slightly confused look. It was as if no one had ever smiled at him before and so he didn’t know how to react. He turned away, his face once again stern and his eyes anywhere but on her. Look back, she thought, look back so I can chip away at that wall of ice. But he didn’t.
“You will learn your way around in time.” He led her toward the table. “A very short time, I hope.”
Another command, to which she could only nod sadly, feeling as if she had missed an opportunity. He pulled out a chair for her at the end of a monstrous rosewood dining table that looked as if it could comfortably seat every single servant at Belmore. She sat and scooted forward, expecting him to take the chair next to her. She could not hide her astonishment when he walked down the full length of the table an
d sat at the opposite end.
It was what the Scots called “bellowing distance” away.
With one wave of his hand—at least she thought it was a wave, although it was hard to tell from this great distance without a spyglass—an army of footmen moved to a long buffet and began to serve the first course. Served on the heaviest, most exquisitely molded silver platters she had ever seen, the dinner went on and on, each cover more elaborate than the last—roast duckling in a silver serving dish with handles shaped like mallards in flight, a leg of lamb in a dish shaped like a sheep’s head with silver curved-horn handles, asparagus in lemon sauce with sliced chestnuts on a silver plate with a raised edge of molded spring vegetables. Every exquisite serving piece matched the food that it held.
Of the seven forks, three knives, and four spoons at her place setting, only one—a small spoon placed in front of the creamy bone china plate with its gold Belmore crest design —did not have its own ducal crest stamped into its handle. It wasn’t stamped because the crest design—a pair of falcons—was the handle.
Joy stared at all the silverware, then looked at her plate. Now, which utensil was she supposed to use? After a few long and indecisive minutes, Henson’s gloved hand surreptitiously handed her the first fork on the left.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then began to eat. As each dish appeared, she managed with only a wee bit of prodding from Henson to move her way from left to right through the utensils.
An hour into the meal, Joy swallowed a piece of rare roast beef in a port wine sauce. The room was so unnervingly quiet that she was sure her swallow echoed like Gargantua’s gulp in the high-beamed rafters of the room. She looked around while she silently chewed another piece of something her nervousness would not allow her to taste. She was uncomfortable and suddenly aware of feeling so, so alone.
Fifteen footmen stood along the walls when they weren’t catering to her or Alec. Townsend, Henson, and the duke were there, too, and yet she felt isolated in this strange new place. Nothing was familiar. Everything was beautiful, but it seemed cold and stiff because there was no enjoyment of it, no laughter, no music, nothing but the occasional clink of a serving spoon against a priceless piece of silver or the thin tinkle of a knife or fork on fragile china.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 11