My Forbidden Duchess

by Minger, Miriam

  “Is…is she here?”

  His father’s voice a low rasp that further alarmed him, Walker was momentarily confused. “Who, Father?”

  A weak smile lit his father’s face and he reached up to grasp Walker’s hand in his gaunt one. “Your bride, Alexander. The parson’s daughter. For you to defy me and wed in Gretna Green, she must be…truly extraordinary.”

  Moisture clouded Walker’s eyes and he nodded. “She is extraordinary, Father. Marguerite.”

  “Beautiful name…Marguerite. I would like to meet her before…well, I don’t know how much longer I’ve got…”

  His father sighed shakily as if their exchange had exhausted him, which made Walker swallow hard.

  “I’ll bring her to you, Father…as soon as I can, I swear it.”

  “Good, my son. Let me rest now. The journey was so tiring…”

  Charles released Walker’s hand and closed his eyes, while Walker wondered why he’d said nothing about Russell…but perhaps his father had seen all he needed to and required no explanation. Walker turned to the valet, the older man standing silently behind him.

  “Stay with him, Hodges. I’ll go see about the physician.”

  As the valet nodded and took Walker’s place beside the bed, Walker strode from the room only to stop in the hallway to see Wilbur, his own valet, peering out of a closet.

  “The shooting’s done, man.” Walker gestured impatiently to the bedchamber he’d just left. “See if there’s anything my father’s valet needs—now go!”

  At any other time he might have smiled at the ridiculous sight of Wilbur scurrying to oblige him, his coattails flapping, but the situation was far too grim for humor. He went to the top of the stairs, stunned when he looked down to find Jared, his pistol still trained upon Jack, talking to a woman.

  And not just any woman…but an elegantly dressed Lady Belinda Cavendish, her jasmine and rose perfume wafting up to him. What the devil…?

  Walker ignored the dull ache that still plagued him and the painful lump on the side of his head, and descended the stairs. At once Belinda came rushing toward him, though she took care to lift the hem of her mauve satin gown as she skirted Russell’s body lying in the middle of the foyer.

  “Oh, Alexander, how terrible! Lord Dovercourt just told me you were upstairs with your father. Is he well?”

  “Resting,” Walker said tightly. He glanced from Jared, who looked as perplexed as he felt at that moment, back to Belinda. “What are you doing here, my lady, if I might ask?”

  She appeared momentarily startled by his brusque tone, but she recovered herself and laid her gloved hand upon his forearm.

  “Why, I was invited by your cousin. He sent a message that he was expecting your father tonight and for me to come and greet him. Of course, I was thrilled at the thought of seeing His Grace again. I’ve always been so fond of him…so I stopped on my way home from a dinner party. My carriage is just outside…but oh, dear.” She glanced over her shoulder at Russell’s bloodied body. “This is such a shock…”

  Walker cursed under his breath at the two bright spots of color on Belinda’s cheeks; the last thing he needed right now was for her to faint dead away in the foyer. He took her arm to lead her back toward the front door.

  “My father can’t see you right now. As soon as the physician arrives to tend to him, I’ll be leaving to fetch my wife—”

  “Oh, yes, I must offer you my congratulations. When Sir Russell passed along your regrets last week, he mentioned you might have gone to Gretna Green to wed. How wonderful for you!”

  Walker wasn’t surprised that her good wishes didn’t seem to reach her crystalline blue eyes. He wondered, too, why Russell would have shared such news with her—but the rumpled-looking physician coming through the door with one of the footmen distracted him.

  “Upstairs to the left,” he directed, torn between wanting to remain with his father while the physician attended to him and his desire to go after Marguerite before it might be too late. Then the foyer only grew more crowded as the other footman arrived with a portly constable followed by several soldiers carrying rifles.

  Suddenly the place resounded with raised voices: Jared explaining to the constable what had happened, Russell’s henchman Jack spewing curses as he was yanked to his feet and led off by the soldiers, the physician pronouncing Russell truly dead after a quick examination, while Walker wanted nothing more than to escort Belinda out the door. Yet once again she grasped his arm to gaze with alarm into his eyes.

  “Surely you can’t be thinking of leaving your father, Alexander! He may need you…oh, my, such a terrible occurrence. I’d be happy to fetch your wife for you. My carriage is here after all. Allow me to help you, please, it’s the very least I can do.”

  Walker sighed heavily, glancing behind him as one of the footmen escorted the physician up the stairs. If his father lay upon the brink of death, wouldn’t it be better if he at least remained here with him?

  “Very well. The address is Piccadilly Nineteen, but you cannot delay, Belinda. I don’t know how much longer my father…”

  Walker didn’t finish but left her standing there while he hastened upstairs, missing entirely Belinda’s brittle smile as she whirled around and swept out the door.

  ***

  Marguerite paced the foyer anxiously, her pale blue muslin gown swishing around her legs. Though she’d been awake for almost an hour now, she still felt so stunned that Walker would have left her without saying goodbye.

  Jared was gone, too, while Lindsay slept upstairs unaware of his absence. Marguerite had just gone to check on her, and on little Justin sleeping so peacefully in his crib, and she wished now desperately that she hadn’t awoken, either.

  Sweet oblivion would be so much better than this terrible worry gnawing at her! Had Walker and Jared decided to confront Russell tonight instead of in the morning?

  The footman Sims, his back to her as he sat facing the front door with a pistol upon his lap, would only say that Lord Dovercourt had told him no one could enter until he and Lord Summerlin returned. The footman guarding the back door had said the same thing. Those words were ominous enough!

  Oh, Lord, how was she to bear this misery of not knowing what might be happening? Perhaps she should go back upstairs and awaken Lindsay. Yet Marguerite doubted she would be sleeping so soundly if Jared had told her that he and Walker were on their way to challenge Russell to a duel—

  “Oh!” The sudden scraping of Sims’s chair made Marguerite whirl toward the door. The footman had jumped to his feet as if hearing something…and then she heard it, too. Footsteps rapidly approaching followed by an urgent knocking.

  “Who goes there?” Sims demanded, though his voice held a nervous tremor. The pistol he’d leveled shook in his hand, too, as the knocking abruptly stopped.

  “It’s Lady Belinda Cavendish! Please open the door. I must speak with Lady Summerlin! Her husband sent me!”

  Marguerite looked at Sims while Sims looked at her, clearly uncertain of what to do.

  “Lord Dovercourt…he said not to let anyone enter—”

  “Dear God, Sims, she said my husband sent her! Open the door!”

  Still Sims appeared uncertain, while Marguerite could stand it no longer. She rushed past him to pull back the bolt herself and fling open the door.

  Her heart hammering in her throat, she stared at Lady Belinda, whose flushed face and tear-filled eyes made Marguerite certain at once that something was terribly wrong.

  “You must come with me now!” Belinda said frantically, gesturing to the carriage with its four snorting horses waiting in front of the house. “Your husband’s father is dying. His Grace only arrived tonight and came upon a terrible scene. Sir Russell is dead, and Alexander—oh, dear, I meant Walker, agreed for me to come and fetch you so he could remain by his father’s side. We must hurry!”

  Marguerite didn’t hesitate but flew with Belinda down the walk, though she cried out over her shoulder, “Lock the
door, Sims! I’m going to my husband!”

  The poor footman had looked so stricken when she’d thrown open the door, but she planned to assure Jared and Walker later that Sims hadn’t disobeyed their command. She climbed into the carriage and Belinda followed her, and settled into the single seat very close to Marguerite as the vehicle jerked into motion.

  “Driver, make haste!” Belinda cried out to the coachman, while Marguerite felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath, everything was happening so fast.

  Already they seemed to be flying past the other town houses on Piccadilly, Aunt Winnie’s and others, the near-overpowering scent of Belinda’s perfume filling the lamplit interior. Marguerite turned from the window to find Belinda staring at her, half of her beautiful face cast in shadow.

  Strange how she didn’t appear frantic anymore, Marguerite thought with a sudden sense of unease as the carriage rounded a corner at such a breakneck pace that Belinda was thrown against her. Yet instead of righting herself, Belinda stretched across Marguerite and clawed at the handle until she managed to throw open the carriage door.

  “You common little bitch!” she screamed, grabbing Marguerite to shove her bodily toward the opening. “You dared to marry the man meant to be my husband? Get out! Get out!”

  Chapter 15

  Marguerite screamed, too. Her head and right shoulder already protruded out the door even as the carriage sped up, the clattering wheels and pounding hooves deafening.

  Terror-stricken, she saw the cobblestones below her and the carriage wheels spinning so fast they appeared a blur. With all her strength she held fast to the door frame, her knuckles white as Belinda bent over her to try and hurl her into the street, screeching now.

  “I will be the Duchess of Summerlin, not you! Somehow you escaped those men sent to kill you and now Russell is dead! Yet Alexander Scott lives and I will be his bride after your tragic accident—damn you, let go!”

  Marguerite screamed in horror as Belinda scratched at her fingers to pry them loose from the door frame—dear God, help her, no!

  She felt her one hand slipping and suddenly she lost her grasp, both shoulders out the door now. She felt Belinda wildly prying her other fingers loose one by one—

  “No!” Marguerite thrust her knees upward in a desperate attempt to defend herself. She heard a startled intake of breath, Belinda flying over her to tumble screaming into the street.

  Then a jarring bump as the back carriage wheel struck something—Belinda’s scream abruptly cut off.

  Oh, God, oh, God. Marguerite hung on with both hands gripping one side of the door frame now, while the carriage kept racing down the street.

  With all the swaying, she could not pull herself in! She was going to tumble into the street and be crushed to death just like Belinda—

  “Damnation, man, stop the coach!”

  Walker! In disbelief she spied him galloping hard atop a lathered mount just behind the carriage, while his pistol firing into the air made Marguerite gasp.

  And then another shot, exploding even closer. The carriage rolled to such an abrupt stop, the coachman roaring “Whoa!” as the horses whinnied in fright, that she slammed into the front wall and lost her grip entirely.

  Yet she didn’t spill out into the street, Walker jumping off his mount next to the open door to catch her by the shoulders.

  Wholly stunned, she stared up at him, not sure if she would laugh aloud from near-hysteria or burst into tears. Then he pulled her from the carriage and swept her into his arms, her feet never touching the cobblestones.

  He held her fiercely, murmuring her name as he cradled her against him, his heartbeat thundering against her ear. While her heart felt caught in her throat that he’d come charging after the carriage—but how?

  “She…she tried to kill me…”

  “Shhh, love, I know, I know. She offered to fetch you…and then I realized with Sims on guard he’d never open the door so I came after you myself only moments later.”

  “Oh, Walker, I opened the door.” Marguerite lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I was so worried about you, and Lady Belinda said that you sent her so I went with her—”

  “I know, forgive me. I came riding down the street just as you left in the carriage, but it was moving so fast. I saw the door swing open—dear God, the two of you struggling…”

  He grew silent, his expression tortured in the moonlight, which made Marguerite reach up to caress his face. Yet he glanced down the street to where Belinda lay dead, people coming out of their houses to gather around her as a shout went up to fetch the authorities. Walker shook his head, sighing heavily.

  “I should have guessed when she came to the house tonight that she and Russell…oh God, that she was desperate enough to conspire with him when he told her we’d gone to Gretna Green. Damn me for a fool, I didn’t see it and sent her right to you!”

  Now it was Marguerite who shushed him, tunneling her fingers into his hair to draw him closer so she could press her lips to his. He crushed her against him, though his kiss was tender but not for nearly long enough. He lifted his head to stare into her eyes.

  “My father, Marguerite. I doubt he’ll live to see the morning. He knows we were wed and he wants to meet you—”

  “Oh, Walker, is he angry?”

  “Not at all.” Walker gently kissed her forehead, his voice lowering to a fervent whisper. “He said you must be truly extraordinary”—he glanced at the open door of the carriage and back to Marguerite, pulling her closer—“and I agreed. Absolutely…unequivocally…extraordinary.”

  ***

  One month later

  Porthleven, Cornwall

  “You know, husband, we’ve you to thank for this happy day.”

  Donovan glanced at Corie, who stood beside him holding his hand in the flower-bedecked parish church. The Reverend Easton had just pronounced Walker and Marguerite to be husband and wife, and such a cheer went up from all the family and friends present.

  Next to Corie, Linette stared agog at Marguerite, perhaps visions of her own wedding one day dancing in her head. Estelle giggled as Luther, a purple bow adorning his collar, began to squirm in her arms and bark excitedly, which made everyone laugh.

  Donovan laughed, too, and clasped Corie’s hand more tightly. “I think you overestimate my contribution, wife. I didn’t scatter any sparkling fairy dust above their heads to make them fall in love—”

  “Of course not, silly. But you did work tirelessly to ensure that Jared and Walker were pardoned and allowed to return to England, otherwise Walker would never have seen Marguerite again.”

  “Again?” Donovan teased her, knowing full well when Walker and Marguerite had first cast eyes upon each other three years ago. “Ah, yes…Roscoff. How could I forget that night?”

  Indeed, he thought, pulling Corie close to kiss her smiling lips though like Donovan, she momentarily sobered, too.

  Upon that perilous night he had nearly lost her and she, him, which never ceased to make them both grateful for every moment together, every day, every passing year. Yet the cloud quickly passed from her lovely features, Corie smiling again as Marguerite and Walker passed by walking hand-in-hand toward the back of the church.

  Everyone spilled into the aisle behind them while other guests already waited outside with baskets filled with flower petals to shower upon the handsome couple. Truly, Corie had never seen Marguerite as radiantly happy as at that moment.

  Walker, too, couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from his beautiful bride, Her Grace, the Duchess of Summerlin. The only regretful note to this joyful day was that Walker’s father, Charles Scott, hadn’t lived to see it. Yet Corie took comfort that Marguerite and Walker had spent his last hours with him, the duke summoning a sense of humor in his final moments that he’d haunt them from his grave if they dared to go into mourning for him.

  He’d wanted no tears, no wearing black garments…but only that Walker would provide his wife a proper wedding in her home parish surrounded by a
ll those she loved.

  “So he has…” Corie said under her breath, lacing her fingers with Donovan’s as they joined in the noisy procession out of the church.

  The littlest ones had been left with nannies back at the house—her twins, Dahlia and Draydon, and Lindsay and Jared’s son, Justin—where the most sumptuous dinner awaited them and a quartet of renowned musicians come all the way from London to entertain them. Truly, Walker had spared no expense to give his bride the loveliest of weddings.

  “Oh, Corie, isn’t this marvelous?” Lindsay enthused, rushing toward her in a swirl of pink satin. “So romantic…so…so…”

  “I never thought I’d see the day you were at a loss for words,” Corie teased her as Jared came up behind his beaming wife. Corie gave her a warm hug, well, as best she could now that Lindsay was nearly eight months with child, knowing her dearest friend wouldn’t have missed this special day for the world. Meanwhile Jared shook Donovan’s hand, the two men who’d once held little love for each other grown into fast friends.

  “Lindsay and I have decided to accept your invitation and remain in Porthleven until after the babe comes,” Jared announced, Lindsay clapping her hands together with excitement as they moved outside into the brilliant June sunshine. “I’ll be traveling now and then to Sussex until our house is done, but I know she’ll be much happier here than in London.”

  “We’re so pleased, truly…” Corie said as Marguerite turned from the flower-festooned open carriage that would carry her and Walker to the house, and ran to them in a flurry of cream silk. One by one, she gave all of them a hug, Donovan and then Jared, Lindsay, and last Corie, while Walker strode toward them as if already missing his bride.

  “Thank you…all of you,” Marguerite began, only to have her throat tighten and her eyes mist with emotion.

  Such beloved faces…each of them playing a part in bringing her and Walker together. Marguerite didn’t know what else to say; there weren’t enough words to express the gratitude overwhelming her. She could but smile as Walker took her hand and squeezed her gloved fingers.