by Jenn LeBlanc
She groaned and clasped her throat. She struggled to speak, both of her hands massaging, trying to coax the words out as she sought to explain. “I was only feeling the breeze, I—I just, felt the breeze, I felt—” She shook her head. “I saw him on the horse and—” She clenched her eyes against the pain and tried to continue. “They were running toward the forest and it looked so—” Her breath caught in her throat; her voice was done.
“All right, miss, calm yourself. There, there, calm yourself.” Mrs. Weston moved Francine to a chair by the fireplace and rang for a maid.
“Meggie, put the kettle on and have tea sent up,” she said when the girl entered.
When Meggie returned, Mrs. Weston poured some hot water into the teapot and the rest into a dish on the tray, soaking a soft cloth. She wrung it out and brought it over to Francine, wrapping it around her throat.
“There’ll be no more words from you for a time, I’d say.” Mrs. Weston considered Francine with a stern face as she stood directly in front of her. “I just have one question. I expect the truth from you, and if I don’t get it, I will know it. Do you understand me, miss?” Francine nodded. “Did you intend to fall from the window, miss? Did you intend to die today?” she whispered.
Francine shook her head until her hair tangled around her fingers as they held the cloth at her neck. Mrs. Weston shook her head, too. “Oh, there now, miss, you’re making yourself a fright. I believe you, just— I had to know. You see? I’m in charge of you, and I need to know if something is not as it should be. Do you understand?”
Francine nodded. “Please,” she croaked, barely audible, her eyes stinging with tears.
Mrs. Weston pushed her long unruly hair out of her face. She loosed the knot, since it was halfway to being undone anyway, and smoothed the mane down her back.
“Settle there, miss. We’ll talk again when you’re ready. Don’t try yourself further. I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. I will send for the doctor to come look at you, to see to your…” Mrs. Weston patted her own throat and Francine nodded, relaxing.
She looked up at Mrs. Weston, wondering why everyone seemed to have a deep spark of terror shielded in their eyes, as though she were completely naked, or bleeding profusely, or wielding a knife. No one seemed to have a peaceful moment around her; they were strained and overwrought, but she believed them when they said she wouldn’t be sent away as long as she behaved, just like in the foster homes. She would stay here; Mrs. Weston would see to it.
Mrs. Weston poured a cup of steaming tea with honey to help relax Francine’s strained throat and nerves. She glanced at Francine as she stirred the tea and set it on the table next to her. She believed Francine. She believed that the girl hadn’t intended to throw herself from the window. The problem, however, was that she hadn’t believed the Duchess of Roxleigh had intended to, either.
Roxleigh vaulted Samson into a clearing bordered by forest and river, then leaned back in the saddle, slowing him to a trot. This particular stretch of the Teviot Water was slow and peaceful, with very little slope to hurry it along. It widened, creating a welcoming pool, before it turned back into the forest where it began the descent to the River Tweed. He had visited this place all his life, swimming in the clear waters to find his own peace.
He dismounted, falling to the grass of the meadow, his thoughts still racing as Samson meandered close by, grazing and drinking from the pool. Although he couldn’t stand the thought of the girl in his home, neither could he tolerate having her hauled off to Bedlam.
Roxleigh didn’t have time for this preoccupation. He needed to be done with the entire situation.
He stood and checked Samson’s hooves, then walked to the water’s edge, his steed following faithfully. He was damp with sweat, his clothes stained from the leaves of trees—he was most thoroughly disheveled from the ride. He should never have left in such a hurry. At the least he should have finished dressing, retrieved his gloves and jacket, but he needed to be away. To ride the way he did through the forest was madness, and he knew it. He felt a mess: unfinished, improper, uncomfortable and, in general, confused.
He didn’t need any more distractions right now. The architect was on his way to begin measuring and plotting the reconstruction of some of the unused and impossible areas of the manor. The work needed to be closely overseen if he was to host an extended house party at the end of the summer, something he was looking forward to with rampant trepidation.
He rolled his open cuffs to his elbows, examining the cuts on his forearms and hands from the whip-like tree branches that had assaulted him in the forest. He put his hands to his face and with a great roar crouched at the edge of the pond on his boulder. The rock was large and flat-topped, tilting into the water’s edge. He threw water at his face, letting the rivulets course down his shoulders and chest.
He closed his eyes, allowing the serenity of the meadow to wash over him like the sound of the lapping pool. He rolled back on the rock and rested his head on his hands as his mind drifted to Francine and the day she came to Eildon Hill.
In his head he heard the crash of the tray against the wall and entered the room. She was completely alone and dressed only in a chemise so thin he could see through it. Her long, chestnut hair draped around her shoulders like a velvet cape as she stood quietly at the window, gazing out at his land.
The sun rose over the forest and golden light filtered through the silk, outlining her soft figure against the glass. The length of her hair gently brushed the curve of her backside as she shifted, forcing the muscles in his stomach to tense.
He imagined dragging his fingers across her waist, letting her curls fall back to her body, sending shivers across her flesh. He stalked across the room, his eyes taking in the curve of her ankle, the dimples behind her knees, the crease that met the sumptuous curve of her buttocks.
He longed to drag his fingers nimbly across that sensitive fold and, in a breath, he was kneeling before her as she turned toward him. His hands smoothed up her thighs, gathering the chemise on his forearms and leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. Embracing her hips, his thumbs rested on the pulse points, which hastened with his touch at the seam between hip and belly.
His breath stirred the delicate fabric of her chemise as it rested on his arms, and he felt the muscles of her abdomen tense. He nudged it aside with his nose and placed his mouth on her skin, dragging his lips from one indented hip to the other, breathing heavy sighs of warmth into the triangle of curls at his chin. She wavered slightly and he moved one hand to her backside to steady her as he drew the other hand down her leg, gently lifting it over his shoulder.
She placed a hand on his head, tangling her fingers in his hair as he turned and kissed the inside of her raised thigh, stroking it with his fingers from one bend to the next. His cheek brushed against her and her hand fell to his nape, urging him on.
Taking her hips, he pressed her back against the window’s edge, caressing her heated skin. The chill at her back from the window and the heat of his hands on her skin must have called forth the whimper that escaped her lips, and she dropped her head back against the fogged glass, streaking the dew.
He brushed his cheek across her thigh as her hair fell away from her shoulders. From this angle he could see the slow curve of her belly rising gently to the soft, round push of her breasts, the rosy pink buds straining against the translucent chemise.
The curve of her neck swept up to the defined triangle of her jaw, and he could see a swallow move her pulse, quickening in the twin veins that framed her throat as he stroked her. Her lips parted to sigh and he came undone. Standing, he felt a rush of cold flood his boots and he looked down. The room filled with icy water and she vanished with a jolt, his booted feet soaked by the water’s edge when he stood.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake!” He pulled at his boots, tossing them at the sun-heated stone, then watched the patterns of water dissipate in the heat.
He’d sent his mistress away in early December, not
wanting to begin another year with someone who was easy to bed and slow to leave. He was determined to find a wife by the end of this year and there was no way he could do so with such trivial physical distractions. Here, at the onset of spring with this mysterious woman underfoot, he could see that the diversion of a mistress might have done him a favor in dealing with her. Had his need not been so deep, his want might be controlled.
“Come,” Roxleigh grunted as he pulled his boots back on with great difficulty. Mounting the horse once more, he gave him his head to careen through the forest. He watched the trees and path closely, gently nudging the stallion with his knees to avoid any brambles that might trip him up. He did it mostly out of habit, knowing Samson would find the safest, fastest way home with no help from him.
He closed his eyes, gripping the reins in his calloused hands, feeling the sheathed muscles that moved beneath him, the rise and fall of the horse’s gait, the smell of the trees, the dust and sweat rolling from his face with the wind they created. He breathed deeply and opened his eyes as they soared into the park at the base of Eildon Hill and continued at a great speed toward the manor. Roxleigh felt an electricity in the air and quickly sat back, pulling on the reins and bringing the massive beast to a halt.
He perused the outwardly graceful manor atop the hill. It was majestic, built of large light-grey stones quarried not far away. The strength of the stone and the flying buttresses at the sides and back gave them the ability to open the facing walls to the interior with spectacular windows. The architecture also provided for a sheltered pathway around the exterior that was used to create the sunrooms, including the breakfast room, and several greenhouses.
Roxleigh had never seen a manor in England that rivaled it. If it weren’t for the passion he felt for this place, the land, and his people, he would have left and never looked back. He held several estates where he could reside, all of them closer to London, and thus more convenient. But along with the nightmarish visions of his youth came the wonderful ones, and every single memory involved Eildon because his family had never been attached to London society like the majority of the peerage.
While the exterior appeared powerful and protective, the interior was chaotic and beautiful. The complexity of it astounded him. He could never leave this place—at least not for long. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and a scent caught him. He shifted his gaze, searching the gardens. He glanced toward the parlor balcony and saw the figure peering out.
The wind rushed up to her from the valley in greeting, sweeping her hair over her shoulders as she threw her head back. She leaned against the balustrade, putting her arms out to steady herself. She probably didn’t think anyone would see her, but he did. She pressed herself toward him, her nightdress pulling tight against her chest, accentuating the gentle curves of her body beneath.
He groaned, and as if the wind carried the sound of his sigh to her ears, she became aware of him. She looked down as her mouth dropped open. Obviously flustered, she turned and tripped on the long borrowed nightgown, falling back into the depths of the parlor in a flurry of white fabric.
Roxleigh caught the scent of her again, lavender and rain. He let out another deep groan as she disappeared and he shifted his seat, trying to regain the comfort of his saddle. Watching the empty balcony, he leaned forward to drive Samson in an easy gait around the side of the manor to the stable, still without taking his mind from her supple figure. As he passed the paddock he called to Davis.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Davis said, running from the stable.
Roxleigh slid from the horse, stroking his withers and neck before handing over the reins.
“Did he work hard for you, Your Grace?” Davis asked with a broad grin.
Roxleigh looked up at the horse. “As he does.”
“Aye, he does, Your Grace. That he does.” Davis walked Samson to the paddock to cool his muscles and rub him down before putting him up for the night.
Roxleigh turned and strode to the manor, rubbing his palms gingerly, feeling the newly sore calluses. He eased his cramped muscles as he walked and thought about the woman who had managed to turn his life upside down without so much as a full conversation. He decided it was time to change that. She would join him for supper.
Determinedly he walked in the front entrance before the butler could even see to the door. “Your Grace?”
“Stapleton, call Mrs. Weston.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Stapleton bowed and disappeared.
Roxleigh looked down at his attire—his white shirt no longer crisp but hanging open at the neck and sleeves, his riding pants rumpled and untucked from his soggy, drooping boots. He still held the riding crop and grumbled. He should have left it in the stables. He swatted at the dust on his trousers with the crop and decided it was time for new boots. Disgruntled, he moaned at the thought of breaking a pair. He started to unroll his sleeves but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from behind the grand staircase, and he looked up to find the housekeeper walking toward him.
“Mrs. Weston, I wish to have our guest to supper. Please advise me as soon as she is able.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a confused manner as she came to a stop, eyeing him.
“What?”
“Well, Your Grace, you’re a sight,” she began, then cleared her throat as if aware of her familiarity. “As you know, Miss Francine is not yet in any position to be at supper with a gentleman.” She paused. Her left eyebrow rose nearly to her hairline. “Or anyone, for that matter,” she finished with a stout nod.
He growled. “Of course,” he said, unrolling his other sleeve.
“Shall I ring for Ferry?” she queried, the eyebrow still cocked in a curious gaze.
It bothered him the way Mrs. Weston sometimes took liberties, but occasionally overlooked it since she’d happened to be there when he was brought into the world and had cared for him thenceforth. “Has Dr. Walcott checked on our guest?” he asked, choosing to ignore the impertinence.
“No, Your Grace. He is expected within the hour.”
When he finished unrolling his sleeves he clasped his hands behind his back and stood wide, tensing his muscles. The position drew his figure straighter and sturdier, making full use of his height and his broad shoulders. He latched onto Mrs. Weston’s gaze and held it. “What has the girl said?”
Mrs. Weston became flustered. He knew she hated it when he used this tactic with her, mostly because it worked so well. There was nowhere for her to run and hide, and no way for her to lie or omit anything. “Well,” she said, “she agreed to the visit from the doctor and she appreciates the gowns, though as I told you she is a bit unhappy about your generosity.”
“What?” He released his hands and stepped forward.
Mrs. Weston held up a hand. “Sorry, Your Grace, I meant to say that she’s overwhelmed by it, she doesn’t want to be a bother. She doesn’t seem to feel that she’s worthy of the expense,” she corrected.
He stopped cold. “I see. I—misunderstood.” He paused. “You will send Dr. Walcott to me as soon as he is finished and you will let me know as soon as she is able to attend supper.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as he waved her off. She scurried for the servant’s passage, her hand on her chest. “Oh Lord, you do work me, Your Grace,” he heard her whisper as soon as she was out of sight. Odd how well sound carried in that particular room.
***
There was a soft knock at the door and Meggie entered with Francine’s supper tray, setting it before the fire.
Mrs. Weston entered just as she was sitting down to eat. “I sent for the dressmaker in town when I sent for the doctor. She’ll be up by week out, and Dr. Walcott should be here any time now.”
Francine nodded resignedly and smiled. She was already receiving too much from the duke. His hospitality was more than any reasonable person would expect. She thought about the terrace, when he had seen her, and her face heated in a blush as she looked at her su
pper tray. The look on his face when he’d looked up at her still had her flustered.
The food here was unrecognizable—strange cuts of unknown meats, fancy colored gel-like substances filled with vegetables, and grey colored sauces that seemed to drown everything—as though it was merely the texture of the food that mattered and not the flavor.
Cynically, she thought it the best diet she’d ever been on, and she placed her hand over her mouth and laughed a bit. If this is my dream, why can’t I have a big New York strip with a buttered baked potato and glazed asparagus with lemon pepper?
She clenched her eyes tight and envisioned it, willing the steak dinner to her plate. She sighed when she opened her eyes to the same colorless glop and then saw Mrs. Weston watching her quizzically. Francine realized she was only adding fuel to the fire of her own oddity. She shook her head and smiled at Mrs. Weston, then picked up the fork and tried to eat.