“Arrogance,” she muttered, too softly for him to hear.
“Prestige!” He raised one finger. “Yes, that’s the word I was looking for. The first Duke of Belmore was . . . ”
Same thing, she thought and watched him purge his mind some more. She shook her head and wondered what would happen if his friends could see him saying exactly what was on his mind. She watched the animated way he moved. He spoke with fervent zeal instead of cool anger or disdain. She had known there was deep passion within this cold man. She had seen it whenever he loved her and then in his anger. It was in his eyes somewhere, just a wee flicker. But one had to look past all that pride and arrogance. She also knew that his supreme arrogance was one of the things that made him the man he was. No one she’d ever met had so much pride, and that was what gave him such confidence and strength, what made him Alec, her Alec. Even if sometimes he was hardheaded and a bit of a prig.
He said something about the third duke, who, according to Alec’s diatribe, went on a quest to the Holy Land in search of the Grail. Silly, silly mortal men. That third duke couldn’t have been successful, she thought. Every witch and warlock knew the Lord wouldn’t have let the Holy Grail be hidden in the Holy Land. That would have been much too obvious. She shook her head and listened and listened, until her mind drifted a wee smidgen.
He paced; she watched. He paced and spun; she watched and got dizzy, so she focused on his face. There was more emotion on it than she’d ever seen, than she had even imagined in her most fanciful dreams. Of course, it wasn’t exactly the emotion she most wished to see, that being love, but at least it was an emotion. And a strong emotion at that. She listened to him lecturing. One might even have called it ranting, although she doubted he would have used that word. Surely the Duke of Belmore would never rant. At that thought she chewed back a smile.
“And the fifth Duke of Belmore . . . ”
Now, what number had he said he was? Joy tapped her chin thoughtfully, trying to remember. Twelfth? No, that didn’t sound right. Thirteenth? No, that was an unlucky number, and being married to Alec was the luckiest occurrence of her life, so that couldn’t be right, either. He must be the fourteenth duke. She watched him pace, noting that he took a breath with each turn.
She sniffed and waited.
He turned.
“What number Belmore Duke are you?” She spit out the question so rapidly she almost became tongue-tied.
“Fifteenth,” he answered distractedly, then went back to the family history.
For ten more minutes Joy did her wifely—duchessly— duty and listened to every word of her husband’s monologue, but his pacing was making her tired. She almost wished she could sneeze and hush him up. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her throat was still dry and scratchy. She sniffed, searching for a sneeze.
Nothing. She rubbed her eyes and blinked twice in an effort to listen.
“. . . All because of me, my pride, my foolish pride.” He ran a hand over his forehead and continued. “I had to rush into marriage with some strange Scot. And why?” His hands shot into the air. “Why?
Because she was beautiful!”
Beautiful? Her head popped up, her eyes suddenly clear and awake.
“I’ve never done anything so hot-brained before. And what happens? What?” He spun and raised one hand in the air. “She turns out to be a witch. A bloody witch!”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
Joy grinned. “Truly?”
“But that is not the issue here. ‘Tis not important.”
“It is to me,” she murmured around her smile.
“Every clock within a mile of you breaks. You levitate me. I’m your husband, not some hot air balloon.”
“No one ever told me I was beautiful before.” She sighed.
“You almost get us frozen to death.”
“Wonderful,” she murmured.
He didn’t hear her and ranted on. “Turnips fly around the room, and roses appear out of nowhere.” He spun around. “God Almighty, woman”—he struggled with his words— “you sneeze and produce whatever is on your bloody mind!” He ran a hand through his gray hair and paced again.
“Yes, I do.”
“And you dance with statues—statues, mind you—on my roof, where anyone, including the royal messenger, could see you!”
“Don’t forget the rose petals,” she added absently, her mind still chanting, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful . . .
He stopped, his face less tense, his expression thoughtfully reminiscent. “I rather like the rose petals.”
“You do?”
He grumbled a yes, then added, “But at this moment I don’t know whether to wring your foolish neck or make love to you until you’re too tired to cast any more spells.”
“Oh, Alec!”
“Bloody hell!”
“You can make love to me,” she suggested quietly.
“No. I cannot.” His voice was firm.
“But you just said you wanted to.”
“I cannot. I will not let myself fall into that trap again.”
“What trap?”
“Making love to you. It muddies up my mind. From now on, I intend for life to resume some semblance of order. I need control. Now.”
“I see,” she said quietly, wondering how she could live with him and not have him make love to her.
Those were the times when she felt closest to his heart. She’d have to work on that.
He looked back into the fire, his expression utterly baffled. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Nothing is the way it should be. Damn, I’m confused. I’ve never felt like this.”
“You haven’t?”
“My life will never be the same.” He sat back in the chair.
“Do you love me?” she asked in a small voice, hope in her eyes, feeling as if her heart was in her throat.
He stared at the fire. “I don’t know what love is.”
“I could teach you,” she whispered and rubbed her itchy nose.
“Don’t try.”
“Do you think you could . . . ?” She wiggled her nose. Not now! She commanded herself. Don’t sneeze now, just when he’s baring his heart.
“Could what?”
She sniffed again, then felt the traitorous sneeze coming. She pinched her nose and tried to talk.
“What?” He frowned.
She tried again.
“I cannot understand you.”
She released her nose and sneezed, hard.
Alec shook his head, and she heard him softly mumble, “Ninety-three, ninety-four . . . ”
A few seconds later he looked up at her. The cold duke was back. “I thought I told you to sit down.”
Joy stood there for a confused second. Then, she realized he didn’t remember anything. He’d told her everything he’d been thinking; he’d spoken his mind, but he didn’t remember doing so. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Can you not obey me in anything?” He scowled up at her. “I can see that the past week has changed our situation, but you are still my wife and you must obey me. You must understand how serious this London trip is. It is not some game. You cannot be a witch in London.”
“But I am a witch.”
“You are also the Duchess of Belmore and my wife. I order you to behave as such.” His face and his tone brooked no argument. But it wasn’t his tone or his command that was on her mind. She’d realized he was fighting very hard not to change. Which meant he was changing. Which meant there was hope—more hope than she’d thought. She thrived on hope. She felt a wonderful sense of victory begin to flutter inside her. She could live with his rules. Yes, she could. She would try very hard to be the duchess he wanted. She would, truly, because perhaps she was only a hope away from a gift more precious to her than the ability to cast a perfect spell—her husband’s love.
She smiled then, unable to squelch it, and caught his stunned look. Still clutching the book to her chest, s
he patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, dear.” Then she started to climb the stairs, pausing halfway up to look back at him. His face held surprise and something akin to suspicion.
“I’ll leave you alone,” she said, ascending the rest of the stairs. Her mouth curved into a knowing smile. “I’m certain you have a lot on your mind.”
Whatever thoughts, dire or dreamy, occupied the minds of the Duke and Duchess of Belmore, they were interrupted the next morning when a familiar shout heralded the arrival of the ducal coach and the lumbering fourgon. In a sloshing splatter of melting snow, old Jem reined in the carriage team just ahead of the baggage wagon, and in a wink Henson, Polly, and the others were gathered inside the great room.
Alec had just extracted another promise from his wayward wife, the witch, that she would behave herself while they were in London. Despite her wide-eyed seriousness, something told him he still needed to worry. He looked at his staff with mixed feelings. Their arrival meant the routine would return to normal. But it also meant the roads were clear. It was time to go on to London, to Prinny, to the nosy ton. Not an enjoyable prospect.
It was time to face whatever cruel destiny fate had conjured—Alec mentally groaned, bad choice of words—in store for him. He rubbed a hand over his pounding forehead. God Almighty, he was beginning to sound like Seymour.
Old Jem tramped in, stomping the ice and wet snow off his heavy boots. Alec gazed at Roberts and Henson and said, “We were to meet in Reading. How the devil did you find us?”
Henson and Roberts exchanged worried looks, but Jem, who was never intimidated by the duke, spoke up. “Five of us rode through the bloomin’ storm. Took us near four hours to find the carriage, Yer Grace. Buried in the snow it were, deep as the King’s pockets.” The old driver paused, then looked Alec in the eye. “We thought Yer Graces were under the hatches fer sure.”
The room was quiet for a moment, then Henson said, “A giant of a man with an odd little mute dwarf came into the inn at Swindon, Your Grace. Said you were well and had taken refuge here. He gave us the direction of this place.”
Alec nodded, half-relieved because he’d been beginning to wonder if the man and the dwarf had ever existed. “We need to leave as soon as possible.”
A moment later Jem closed the door behind him, Henson straightened, the perfect ducal servant, and Polly stood near his wife, fretting and talking excitedly to her mistress. The outrider, Willie, brought in a large trunk and another footman, at Roberts’ direction, had set up a makeshift ducal dressing room in the kitchen.
Alec took a deep breath. Things appeared to be returning to normal. Then Henson turned, that snoring weasel hanging off his stiff collar like a long white queue.
“Beezle!” His wife plucked the rodent off his footman’s back and then tried to tug something out of the animal’s mouth. Alec could have sworn the thing was sound asleep.
Still tugging on whatever, she glanced up at Henson. Her wide eyes and her concerned face gave him fair warning that something was amiss.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Alec’s narrowed gaze followed hers. Henson’s queue, tied with a shredded riband, was little more than a nub the size of a walnut, and there were two bald spots behind the man’s ears. Joy jerked the rest of the gold ribbon from the weasel’s mouth and gave the animal a look of reprimand. The fat vermin had eaten his footman’s hair.
Commendably, Henson remained composed, his face holding nothing but respect for the duchess even though the remnant of the ribbon dangling from his head held little hair. Joy scowled at the weasel— whatever its name was. Alec seemed to recall that it appropriately had something to do with hell. He watched her take the thing upstairs with her, Polly clucking and following her wake, a stack of fresh clothing in her hands.
“A half an hour,” Alec reminded them, watching his wife pause at the top of the stairs. She gave him a silent nod then disappeared in the bedroom. He turned, another order on his lips, but Henson had already anticipated his command. Dignity unflagging, Henson turned and went outside, leaving Alec to stare at the pink-skinned twin bald spots on the head of his master footman.
A strange sense of beleaguered camaraderie hit Alec. It was the first time he could remember feeling that he had something in common with a servant. Taking a quick swipe at his still abundant gray hair, intact behind his own ears, he made a mental note to increase Henson’s yearly stipend substantially.
The Duke of Belmore’s traveling coach and wagon rumbled down the icy road. Inside the carriage hung the silence of two people who had been fighting—he fighting her hold on him and she fighting to hold on tighter. In a matter of minutes, the ducal vehicles disappeared over the rise, and the lonely, quaint little inn that served as their refuge slowly faded into nothingness. The magic had gone.
Seven hours later the Duchess of Belmore sat in the carriage, her pink cheek pressed against the cold window, her bright eyes as eager as those of a kitten with a dish of fresh cream. Her unflagging enthusiasm should have annoyed the hell out of Alec. Instead of asking himself why it didn’t, he gazed out the window and tried to quell the recurring visions of scaffolds and nooses and roses.
“I once read that London was ‘the flower of Cities all.’” She turned to him with rapt anticipation on her face.
“I do not smell the scent of flowers.” Alec stopped pulling at the nooselike tightness of his cravat. “Muck, yes. Stagnant water, yes, but not flowers. But I suppose Londoners can be a foolish and loyal lot.”
Her smile dimmed, and she turned back to the window. “‘Twas a Scot who called London so.”
Alec grunted a response, choosing not to metaphorically step on her tail and tell what he thought about Scots. She was wonderstruck by, of all things, the outskirts of London. London. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will away the thoughts of what could happen should the ton discover their secret. Seven hundred years of dignity and distinction—gone in a puff of magic smoke.
She turned her pert little face toward him, distracting him from his dire thoughts, and the brightness in her eyes changed to concern. She tilted her head and placed her small hand on his forearm. “Can you not see it, truly?”
“See what?”
“Out there.” She tapped the glass. “Look.”
“I’ve seen it all before.”
Her lips thinned into a stubborn line and she crossed her arms. “Then tell me what you see.”
“London.”
She sighed the exact long-suffering sigh he wished to heave himself. “No. I meant right at this moment.Look outside and tell me what you see.”
“Why?”
“What else have we to do?”
“Pray you don’t sneeze.”
“I have not sneezed for over three hours.”
“The coaching house at Pilldowne Crossing will never be the same.”
“No one noticed,” she said quietly. “‘Twas only a little smoke. Truly, you heard them. They thought something was stuck in the chimney.”
The clamor of horses’ hooves on the paving stones rang out in the tense silence. “Satisfy my curiosity and tell me something,” Alec said.
She nodded.
“What were you thinking about when you sneezed at the coaching house?”
Her face flushed with guilt, and she turned to the window and mumbled something.
“I cannot hear you.”
She sighed again, then turned back. “I was thinking that all those horrid plumes of choking chimney smoke were blowing on the poor wee post laddies and the horses outside the building. You saw it and heard them cough. One could hardly breathe. And I didn’t do it on purpose. It just happened.”
“Next time you feel a sneeze coming, do me a favor, don’t think.” Alec could almost feel the noose growing tighter and tighter around his neck.
The carriage made a sharp turn and rumbled onto a cobbled street. Daylight had just begun to fade into the distance, and she turned, her face cast in pink light for a brie
f instant. She watched him. He could see the urge to speak itching at her lips.
“Spit it out, Scottish.”
Her face broke into that smile, young and eager and bright enough to dull the sunset and make his chest tighten.
“Isn’t it the most wonderful thing?”
“What?”
“London. The sights, the sounds. Listen to that.”
He frowned, hearing only the annoying clang of bells, the sharp tinny trumpets of the gazetteers, and the gibberish of hawkers calling out their cheap wares. An irritatingly squeaky hackney rattled past, a child screamed, horses clattered by. There was nothing but the harsh city din.
“Did you hear? They sell gingerbread on street corners. Imagine that . . .gingerbread.” She gave him a wistful smile. “I love gingerbread, with currants.”
Alec grunted a response.
“Whenever I eat it I think of All Hallows Eve.” She leaned over and whispered to him, “Witches always eat gingerbread on All Hallows Eve, you know.”
He hadn’t the foggiest notion what gingerbread tasted like, but knowing it was connected with witchcraft did little to inspire him to sample the stuff. They’d probably serve it to him as his last meal, near the gallows.
She began to hum a bright lilting ditty.
The mournful strains of a funeral dirge played in his head.
Alec stared at her. The Duchess of Belmore was humming. Better than sneezing. She wiped the fog from her window and swayed her head to some tune only she knew.
She looked at him, smiling, her head still swaying. “Don’t you hear the bells? I love bells. They remind me of Christmas and sleighs and”—she froze, as if to cut off what she was about to spill—“and the things I love.”
It was there again, the look that made him feel as though he held the fate of her heart in his hands. He didn’t want to feel anything. It was safer.
He looked at her, hoping to see something to help steel his reserve. That face. That strange, odd little face. She derived glowing pleasure from the most minuscule and ordinary things. Joyous.
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