by Gaelen Foley
At least she’d be safer there than at Edward’s—and she certainly couldn’t stay all night at Amberley House. Not until they were married.
Which, it seemed, was going to happen whether she liked it or not.
In any case, along with Major Carvel, Azrael and Serena could not have been better about the whole debacle. And now that Connor had mentioned it, Maggie could see what he meant about the silver-eyed duke.
Cool and quiet, Azrael was a mysterious man with the deadly elegance of a fine sword forged by a master smith. While he and Carvel gave low-toned instructions to the men, the unflappable Serena had taken charge of Maggie, who was still bewildered by it all, gaily welcoming her into the house, and adopting a blithe attitude to cheer her up, as if it were all a lark.
“Come!” Serena had said. Carrying Azrael’s ridiculous little white dog under her arm, she had beckoned Maggie into the library on the first floor and shown her that, in fact, Rivenwood House was full of secret passageways.
“This way, if danger should come,” Serena had said in a reasonable tone, as though attacks on one’s life were de rigeur, “there are always escape routes.”
All of which made Azrael himself even more intriguing as a neighbor, Maggie thought, but one did not dare ask questions about all this, or the master of the house. She had heard the occult rumors about his ancestors, after all, the ones that had apparently bothered Aunt Lucinda. Who hadn’t?
While Serena had entertained Maggie, and various men discreetly guarded the house, Edward had been ordered to take Delia home from the soirée.
By Connor, of course.
Once the crisis had struck, he had not shown the slightest hesitation about giving orders to everyone in sight, just like he’d done to Maggie. Indeed, it was fortunate that the Duke of Wellington had not stayed, or Amberley probably would’ve been giving him orders, too.
At least the mighty major seemed to know what he was doing.
Still, Maggie’s head was spinning from all that had happened last night.
“Do you think all this fuss is really necessary?” she asked her maid out of the blue as Penelope finished packing Maggie’s smaller bag of toiletries and hair ornaments. “I don’t see the point.”
Penelope gave her a bolstering look and shrugged. “I’m just doing as I’m told.”
“Hmm,” Maggie said archly. “I think you’re looking forward to getting to know Sergeant McFeatheridge better on the way to Dorset. I’m on to you, miss.”
“Pshaw!” Penelope said coyly. “I’ve never been that far west, is all.”
“Neither have I.”
Connor had told Maggie last night that today’s journey of nearly a hundred miles would entail ten to fifteen hours of nonstop travel, depending on the weather. It sounded utterly grueling.
Frankly, she couldn’t believe he was making them do the trip in one day—especially the two old ladies—but apparently, he was unimpressed by the distance, being used to forced marches this way and that across the Continent.
For the rest of them, it was going to be a long, arduous day until their convoy rolled into the gates of Dartfield Manor around sunset, but he considered time of the essence, so they’d have to make the best of it.
And change carriage horses often along the way.
Maggie checked her wardrobe one last time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. She felt ready, more or less, yet she couldn’t help but sigh.
After all her disappointments on the marriage mart, it irked her immensely that just when the world found out she had snared herself a duke—which would have been a moment of triumph for any young lady—now that it was safe to bask in the ton’s amazement at her brilliant match, here she was, being whisked away to the dull, dreary countryside.
So much for gloating, she thought with amusement.
To say nothing of the fact that, at the moment, she still wanted to wring her duke’s neck. The autocrat.
“I’m sure it’ll be very pretty in Dorset. The moors in that country are said to be very dramatic, and the sky,” Penelope said, breaking into Maggie’s thoughts. “It’s not far from the sea, I understand. I wonder if the house is on the coast?”
Maggie shrugged. For her part, she was absolutely dreading the long, dragging journey closed up in the coach with the dragon lady.
Especially after her outburst at the woman last night.
Ah well. She had no intention of apologizing, as much as it went against the grain with her to let the matter lie. As Connor had said, Grandaunt Lucinda would lose all respect for Maggie if she yielded ground now.
And besides, the truth was, she wasn’t really sorry. Nobody talked to her sister that way. The dragon lady ought to be the one apologizing.
No doubt, however, Her Grace would be unpleasant to her the whole way there.
Thank God that Aunt Florence would also be in the carriage. And Penelope. Both of them were pleasant-tempered enough to smooth away at least some of the tension that was sure to make the drive all the more nerve-racking—even without the threat of a murderer after them.
“Well, I believe that’s everything, my lady. Are you ready to go?” Penelope turned to her.
Maggie glanced around her bedchamber. “I think so… Did you bring my velvet bonnet?”
Penelope nodded and pointed at the hatbox. “It’s in there.”
“Good. And you have all your own things?”
She nodded. “My bag is packed. I just need to fetch it from my room.”
“You may go, then.”
Penelope bobbed a curtsy, then bustled to the door. “I’ll send a footman to carry these out for you on my way.”
Maggie smiled with gratitude. Penelope was more loyal to her than she had to be, and she truly appreciated that.
She had given her trusty maid the chance to decline making the trip, but Penelope had refused to send her off alone.
Admittedly, Maggie suspected that her maid’s enthusiasm for the journey might have a slight something to do with the brawny, roguish soldier sitting on the driver’s box of Connor’s traveling chariot. But Penelope was right. Rory McFeatheridge did have a warm, ready smile—and better still, he seemed equally admiring of her.
I guess it’s time to go. Maggie took one last glance at herself in the mirror. She had donned a dark blue traveling costume for their all-day trek. It was well-tailored, of sturdy, practical material, with a pelisse she could remove if the coach grew stuffy. Her comfy kid half-boots were warm and suitable for taking short walks to stretch her limbs when it was time to change horses along the road.
She’d heard Connor tell Delia and Edward to pass along the story to the ton that, out of respect, he was taking her to meet Grandaunt Caroline, the Second Duchess, in the country before the wedding.
Caroline was Duke Rupert’s widow, and the mother of dead Cousin Richard.
Now that the public knew about their heretofore secret betrothal, it was finally sinking into Maggie’s own mind as a reality that she, Maggie Winthrop, would become the Fourth Duchess of Amberley.
Such a grand title for such an unimposing person! She supposed she hadn’t quite let herself believe it till now. Gazing at her subdued reflection, she wondered if she looked the part of a future duchess. She didn’t feel any different.
Of course, now that their match was out in the open, Society had already begun to view her differently, to be sure. She shook her head, still embarrassed about how the other guests had discovered her outside alone with Connor last night, with only a crazed gunman for a chaperone.
That alone should have caused a scandal, but far worse was her outburst in the drawing room. She still cringed to think of how she’d called the First Duchess an ogress to her face.
Ah well, it was pointless to worry about strangers’ opinions of her, or other such tempests in teapots, when their lives were at stake.
Honestly, though, Maggie had no doubt that once they left London, they’d be quite safe at this country house.
> She really wasn’t too worried about this dragoon, despite his escape. Not after what she’d seen last night, the way Connor had thrashed him so handily.
This sneaky jackal did not stand a chance against her lion of a fiancé. No, what preoccupied her most right now was Connor himself.
He was a problem.
And she really did not know what she was going to do about it.
She was glad he was safe—that was the main thing, of course.
But their argument and his complete lack of remorse for either the savagery he’d unleashed or the hard way he’d spoken to her afterward left her at a loss. She was still a bit in shock at what she’d witnessed.
To be sure, it was better that Connor should be the one doling out the violence rather than receiving it, but she struggled to make peace with the knowledge of what the man she loved was capable of. On top of that, he could be so blasted domineering!
She never would’ve dreamed he’d bark orders at her like she was some new recruit in his regiment who needed whipping into shape. An uncomfortable thought went through her mind: I honestly did not know what I was getting into here.
True, it had been an emergency situation. She’d give him that. If he had to go into blue war-paint Celtic-berserker mode when it came to matters of life and death, then fine. She could accept that.
As a temporary state of things.
But could he ever truly turn it off? He’d been one of the lucky ones who’d come home alive with all his arms and legs, but what in God’s name had that war done to him…on the inside?
Uncertainty entwined with worry for him sent a chill down her spine.
Maggie knew she had to try to address it with him somehow, but she had no idea what to say—or if she even dared, especially now. Who would want to make him angry? She knew he’d never hurt her, but still.
Standing up to Delia was one thing, defying the dragon was another, but trying to rein in that wild warrior? Success seemed extremely unlikely.
Yet if she failed, then she faced a lifetime ahead of being ordered around, having her wishes trampled underfoot by a will far stronger than her sister’s.
A flash of anger sparked through her at the thought, and Maggie knitted her brow. Blast it, she was not backing down!
Not to him. Maybe not to anyone ever again.
And if the major didn’t like it, then he only had himself to blame, for he was the one who had encouraged her—how many times?—to start standing up for herself.
Well, by Jove, that was exactly what she meant to do now. She was a lady of gentle birth, and no one was entitled to speak to her that way.
Not even a war-hero duke.
With that, unsure but still determined, she squared her shoulders and marched out of her chamber, ready as she’d ever be for their duel of wills, if it came to that.
She passed a footman on his way to fetch her bags when she stepped out into the upstairs hallway. Already she could hear Connor’s deep voice floating up to her from the drawing room, where he was speaking with Edward.
Her heart beat faster, but she kept her chin high, her face impassive as she started marching down the stairs, sliding a gloved hand along the banister.
To her surprise, though, before she reached the bottom, her sister stepped out of the music room below and held up a hand to halt her.
Startled, Maggie paused halfway down the steps, gazing down at her sibling. Her haughty sister wore an almost chastened look on her face. Nevertheless, out of mere habit, Maggie braced herself as Delia lifted the hem of her skirts and climbed a few of the stairs to meet her halfway.
“Mags, I wanted to talk to you before you go,” Delia said in a low tone.
“Yes?” Maggie held her breath, desperately hoping that her sister was finally ready to make peace. Their fight had been going on for days now, and she did not want to leave Town still at war with her sister, when the truth was, there was a slim chance she might never come back alive.
Not if the murderer managed to follow them.
“I…” Delia began, instantly faltering.
Maggie waited, on her guard.
“I heard you stood up for me last night,” Delia said, toying with the banister, “and I…I just wanted to say thank you. I sort of know I didn’t really deserve it.”
No, you didn’t.
“Look—I realize we haven’t been getting along for the past couple of weeks. But I don’t want to part on bad terms.”
“Neither do I,” Maggie said cautiously.
Delia studied her with a strange look in her emerald eyes, as though she were seeing her for the very first time. “I can’t believe you defended me against that dreadful old hag.”
“Don’t be silly. You are my sister. Papa told us to look out for each other, did he not? You’ve done your part, letting me live here.” Maggie shrugged. “I had to do mine.”
Moisture sprang into Delia’s eyes as she held Maggie’s gaze. “You’re very good.”
Usually, she said that sort of thing as an insult, but this time, she sounded sincere. Delia looked away with a quick sniffle. “I fear I haven’t been easy to live with of late.”
Maggie’s lips quirked. “Never were, as I recall.”
Delia shrugged haphazardly, still avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know why I get so moody. I…I haven’t been myself, quite, lately. But I acknowledge, selfishness is, um, a fault.”
Intrigued by this rare offer of the olive branch, Maggie opted to be gracious. “We all have our faults.” She paused. “At least I’ll be out from underfoot here, once I marry Amberley.”
Delia bit her lip. “I think I’ll actually miss you.” She quickly looked away, trying to wipe off a tear that had gathered on the outer edge of her eye. “The truth is, I’d be lost if anything happened to you, Mags, so you’d better stay safe.”
“Oh, don’t worry—with Amberley, I’m in no danger, I assure you.” She pursed her lips in an attempt at a smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Well, when you return, I’ll help plan your wedding.” Delia swallowed, taking a businesslike tone. “We’ll make it even finer than whatever that tedious Portia Tennesley is concocting.”
Maggie gave her a dubious half-smile, recalling how Portia had stood up to Delia in Hyde Park. “Only if you promise you won’t try to take over the whole thing.”
“I will try,” Delia said solemnly, and they both started laughing in spite of themselves.
To Maggie’s astonishment, Delia suddenly reached out and hugged her.
Balanced on the stairs, Maggie hugged her back, closing her eyes. A lump rose in her throat.
“Take good care of yourself, sis,” Delia whispered.
“I will. Try not to worry. You and Edward do the same—and take care of each other.” Maggie pulled back slightly, still holding on to Delia’s arms. “Go easy on him, would you? He’s such a good man and he truly loves you.”
“God knows why,” Delia said softly, lowering her gaze. “I can’t imagine what he sees in me. What’s wrong with him? Can’t he see I’m just some ‘haughty little marchioness that everybody hates’?”
“Now, now,” Maggie chided gently, taking her sister’s hand as she recognized the dragon lady’s words from last night. “That is not true. Your friends are very loyal to you, as am I. But our affection for you pales in comparison to Edward’s. He doesn’t just love you, he is in love with you, you know.”
Delia bit her lip and stared at Maggie.
“What?” Maggie murmured, hating to ask. “Is there someone else?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just—I hate all those drippy, tedious emotions! It’s embarrassing. It’s not the done thing!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Maggie said with a laugh. “All sorts of passions seem to be entirely in fashion around here. Haven’t you noticed our neighbors?”
“Easy for you to say,” Delia retorted. “You don’t seem to care in the slightest what anyone thinks. You called the Du
chess of Amberley an ogress in front of a packed drawing room.”
“Yes, I did,” Maggie declared. Then she stepped down with a grin and slung an arm around Delia’s shoulders. “And, oh, sister,” she added, “you should’ve seen the look on her face.”
They were still laughing—and trying to stifle the sound of it—when Edward appeared in the doorway of the drawing room below.
“Ah, Maggie, my dear, there you are.”
“Good morning,” she replied with a smile.
Edward’s curious glance darted from her to Delia and back again as the two of them walked the rest of the way down the steps. “The duke is here,” he informed her. “Amberley would like to speak to you. Alone.”
Delia sent Maggie a sidelong look and raised her eyebrows.
Edward stepped aside, gesturing Maggie into the drawing room with a taut smile. The puffiness around his eyes hinted that the marquess had not slept well last night after seeing danger strike so close to home.
As Maggie went toward him, she was a little surprised that her brother-in-law did not mind her going unchaperoned into the drawing room with Connor, but she supposed he must have his reasons. Then Edward withdrew and pulled the door shut quietly behind him.
Suddenly feeling uncertain, Maggie looked across the elegant, pale blue room at her fiancé. Connor gave her a tense bow.
My, that’s a formal greeting. If that was the tone he wished to set this morning, very well. She sketched a stilted curtsy in return.
He cleared his throat.
Once more, he had donned his uniform, though it was a less formal one. The ivory breeches and black boots were identical, but the scarlet coat looked more worn, less ornamented, for every day. Probably the clothes he usually wore when people were trying to kill him…
The thought sent a tingle of fear down her nerve endings, but she lifted her chin and waited, schooling her face into an expectant expression to hear what he had to say.
He started simply. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you.”
“Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes. I just need to fetch my reticule and a book for the journey. Why? Was there something you wanted, Your Grace?”