“Desirable? My desire, you ungrateful witch, is to blame for your continual breeding. Now let me go before our sons fall out of that boat. Ruggedly handsome indeed! Bah! I’ll have my reward tonight—win or no win.”
“As to that, if rewards are measured thus, then you are amply rewarded every night. And you dare to call me ungrateful!” Deborah blew him a kiss and skipped away, a last wave to her sons before striding off towards the bridge where a crowd had gathered to watch the start of the race.
It took her a good ten minutes to walk the distance between the jetty and the stone bridge, skirting the lake then out across open lawn scattered with wild daisies yielding in the breeze before meeting up with the long drive of raked crushed stone that went up to the house left and right crossed the blue stone bridge that spanned the lake in three arcs, the highest of which allowed sailing craft to pass from one side of the lake to the other. It was from this vantage point on the highest arch that the Duchess was greeted by Tommy Cavendish and a clutch of noble guests surrounded by tenant farmers, servants and children all come to hang over the barrier to shout encouragement to the oarsmen as the skiffs passed under the bridge.
Deborah had the weight tied up in a red silk handkerchief, saw the skiffs were in formation at the allocated starting line and was ready to let drop the handkerchief when Tommy Cavendish stayed her fingers with a word in her ear and a gentle hand on her upper arm. Something was not right with one of the skiffs. She saw it too.
The skiff being rowed by Jonathon Strang and containing her eldest son had moved out of formation and was returning the short distance to the jetty. Frederick was waving vigorously towards the jetty. The other competitors remained bobbing where they were. That the Duke did not move his boat but was also waving, as were the twins, allowed Deborah to breath easy that there was nothing urgently wrong with her son, his oarsman or the boat itself. Following their gaze, and the gaze of every man, woman and child on the bridge, she saw at once the reason for the commotion and her eldest son’s unbridled enthusiasm.
“She’s here! She’s here! Mema’s here!”
It was Frederick. Such were his shouts of excitement that the occupants of the other skiffs turned as one to see what had caused the Duke’s son and heir to stand up in his boat and point excitedly toward land. He looked at Jonathon expectantly. There was no need for him to utter a word. Jonathon smiled and immediately set to rowing the short distance back to the jetty, Frederick quick to resume his seat at the helm.
The Dowager Duchess of Roxton was making her way across the lawn to the lake with, what seemed to those on the bridge and out in the lake in skiffs, half the crowd come to Treat for the Regatta following at her back.
Several children were skipping in front of her, leading the way, the local village parson was at her left shoulder, talking in her ear, while on her right, the wife of a tenant farmer was showing off her seventh and latest offspring, a ruddy-cheeked boy not quite two years of age. Spencer and Willis were close behind, trying but failing miserably to keep the villagers at a distance. An old villager with a stoop, but as nibble as any man ten years his junior, came out of the crowd as if from nowhere and with a tug of his imaginary forelock offered Antonia a handful of spring daisies that, from the dirt attached to their roots, had, just moments before, been secure in the ground.
At his impromptu offering, Antonia stopped to talk, gladly accepting the bedraggled bouquet, which she dutifully sniffed, and offered her hand in thanks. The crowd surged forward, jostling aside the besieged ladies-in-waiting, eager to hear what the Dowager Duchess had to say to Old Ernest in her heavily accented English. And when Old Ernest gave his best bow over her hand and straightened with a toothy grin, the crowd applauded his efforts, their approval turning into cheers when Antonia playfully bobbed a curtsey in reply. Their cheers muted into murmurings of satisfaction and delight when little Lord Alston scrambled out of the skiff and ran along the jetty to be gathered up in a loving embrace.
“I told Maman you would come. I told her you’d be wearing green! Are those real emeralds? I like your hair! Look! I have the same green ribbons on my waistcoat and on my hat. But it’s in the boat. Do your shoes have emerald buckles? M’sieur Strang is wearing green too. His waistcoat is the greenest green I have ever seen! You look like a fairy princess, Mema!” Frederick prattled on, little hand tucked in hers and skipping beside her as they walked to the end of the jetty where Jonathon was waiting for them. “See! M’sieur Strang has a green waistcoat too! His is by far the best waistcoat. It is even better than Papa’s, which is red, and it shines in the sun! Mema, Maman has bet M’sieur Strang to win against Papa! And we’re sure to win now that you are dressed in green, too. Won’t we, M’sieur Strang?” he added eagerly, his free hand taking hold of Jonathon’s hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world and drawing him closer. “We will win, won’t we, now that Mema is here?”
“I do not think M’sieur Strang he believes it is my dress that will see you win, Frederick,” Antonia replied with a laugh. “He expects he will have to exert himself on your behalf if he is to have any chance at crossing the line before your Papa.”
She extended her hand to Jonathon only realizing then that she still held the handful of daisies given to her by Old Ernest, and turned a bare shoulder, looking for Willis and Spencer. Finding them not at her back, she was unsure of what to do with the flowers until a girl nervously stepped forward from the crowd that had stopped at the lawn and not trespassed onto the jetty, and silently offered to take them from her by extending her hand and bobbing a clumsy curtsey.
“Merci, cherie,” Antonia said kindly. “Put these to good use and make a daisy crown for your pretty hair.” She smiled when the girl’s gaze shot from the boards to her face, her smile widening when the girl dared to smile back at the compliment, all nervousness forgotten. So much so that she turned without being dismissed and ran back into the crowd to show her sister the daisies given to her by the Duchess. Antonia turned back to Jonathon, offering him her hand and saying teasing, “Will you need to exert yourself, M’sieur?”
“For you, Mme la Duchesse, Frederick and I would row the Thames for Doggett’s coat and badge!” Jonathon declared with a bow and gently pulled her closer. “For you, I’d exert myself in all manner of physical pursuits. But those fetching petticoats have made me go weak at the knees and I can barely remain upright without aid,” he teased, smiling down at her, at the fact she was dressed as befitted her rank when Monseigneur was alive, in a many layered, intricately embroidered silk robe à la française, honey curls threaded with green ribbons, the weight held in place with innumerable pins and a handful of diamond clasps, a dazzling emerald and diamond choker encircling her slender throat, and half a dozen diamond and gold bracelets tinkling about both wrists. She had even darkened her lashes and colored her full mouth. A great deal of thought and effort had gone into her toilette and yet he was conscious that it was a sparkling veneer masking what she must be truly feeling on this of all days—the third anniversary of the death of her Monseigneur.
“It’s as well my arms are still in perfect working order, aye, Frederick?” he added with a laugh and tussled the boy’s black curls. “We’d best get back to our skiff or the race will start without us, and that would give your Papa an unfair advantage.”
“You will watch us win, Mema, won’t you?” Frederick asked, a note of anxiousness creeping into his voice. But when she smiled and nodded and kissed his pale cheek, he threw his arms about her neck before running off to the skiff, calling for Jonathon to come on!
But Jonathon still held firm to Antonia’s hand. He looked down into her eyes, pleased she had not pulled free of his hold. “I know why you’re late. It’s a decent walk up that hill. He understood of course why you put off your black on this of all days, that you did it for Frederick.”
Antonia’s eyes widened with surprise that he would instinctively know she had spent the morning talking with her loved ones in the mausoleum. She
nodded and lowered her lashes and fixed on his sleeveless waistcoat. It was like the others he had worn, very finely embroidered in the most luminous silk threads, this one woven in the deepest greens and blues she had ever seen, the stitching so close and fine that it formed a perfectly smooth, glass-like surface. She had a sudden urge to run her open palm over the silk, to enjoy the silky softness of such beautiful workmanship caressing her skin, and under the silk, feel the hardness of his chest and torso.
She dared to lift her gaze. He wore no cravat, and the white shirt gaped at the throat revealing bare bronzed skin. She saw him hard swallow and wondered if his pulse was beating as rapidly as her own. She knew if she placed her hand over his heart she would feel the thumping against her palm, strong and even and so full of life. So very different from the last time she had placed her hand over the heart of a man, the man she had loved above all others. She, too, swallowed, breathed deeply and mentally forced herself back into the present. This was not the place or time to fall apart, whatever the day, despite the fact he knew how much this day meant to her. She must be strong, strong for Frederick.
“Your—Your waistcoat it is also very fetching. Frederick he is very taken with it. Another embroidery from India?”
“Yes, from India. I have a trunk full of ’em. This one is particularly rich and fine and littered with peacocks.” He laughed. “And I feel like one in it!”
“There is nothing sadder than a peacock with his plumage displayed but with no reason to do so. So you must win to do justice to your finery and then you too can strut about like one!”
They both laughed and then fell silent.
“You must go,” she said quietly. “Frederick he is calling you and the others—the others are waiting to start the race.”
“Don’t go home after the regatta without saying good-bye. Promise.”
This did bring Antonia’s green eyes up to meet his.
“Good-bye? You are leaving? Pour quoi?”
“I must. To London.”
“London? When?”
“Immediately after the race.”
“Why? Excuse me! I should not have—”
“No. I don’t mind you asking. Business. I have secured the lease on a new house and must—”
“But surely you have a major-domo to take care of such things from afar and you have just arrived and your daughter—your daughter she will be disappointed to leave so soon.”
He smiled to himself at her genuine disappointment. He shrugged, a hand through his hair. “If it was only the house... But there is another, more pressing matter that requires my physical presence. I should have already left but I could not disappoint Frederick... Or miss the opportunity of seeing you in all your sweet green splendor.”
Antonia blushed at the compliment and said softly, “Your daughter she is to go with you?”
“No. She is staying with Kitty and Tommy Cavendish.”
“They will take her to London to join you at this new house at the end of their stay?”
“No! Ah! No! No! I am not going away for good,” he assured her with a grin. “No. I mean to return as soon as possible. Possibly sooner if it turns out to be another false alarm.”
“Oh!” She let out a small sigh of relief and quickly masked this by gently clearing her throat and placing her gaze anywhere but up at him because he was grinning.
“Two days and we are already missing each other.”
“You are being absurd again!”
“I must return,” he said gently. “You will owe me and Frederick a dinner once we win this race.” He touched her flushed cheek then lifted her chin with one finger. “I want so much to kiss you. Here. Now. I don’t give a fig who’s watching and I don’t care if you rightly slap my face,” and in an impetuous move he raised her hand, turned it over and stooped to press his mouth, first to the soft center of her palm and then to her bare wrist.
Instantly, a frisson of desire ignited her blood, raced up her arm in a thousand pins and needles, stained her throat and washed over her breasts, suffusing the porcelain skin dark pink. Her stays constricted against her ribs, making them unbearably tight, and she could not breathe without effort. She thought she might faint. Mon Dieu, what is wrong with me? She quickly tugged her hand free of his lingering kiss and whipped it behind her back. Where his mouth had touched her skin her flesh burned, as if seared by naked flame.
“How-how dare you do that to me!” she breathed, and for want of something to cover the awkward moment, with a snap unfurled her fan of gold paper leaf with its delicately painted scenes of Greek Gods and Goddesses. The cool air fanned across her bosom did little to calm her.
“You blush adorably,” he uttered thickly, gaze raking across the rapid rise and fall of her deep cleavage. “And you smell divine. I would ask for the scent by name but you’re not wearing any, are you?” He blinked. “Do what?” he asked, staring hard at her. “What do I do to you?”
“Stop it! You know perfectly well what it is you do to me! And I do not want to hear talk of blushes and scent when me I do not blush. I am hot from standing out here in the sun without a parasol, which is all very well for baked lunatics! And with everything else I had to remember to wear today, because me I was quite used to going without jewelry and wearing black, I forgot to wear scent. Not that I would have had I remembered because I have not worn it in such a long time that it is not worth the wearing. I need a new bottle. So now you must go away and row Frederick and win before I push you into the lake to make you go!”
He laughed at that and made her a short bow. “And you say I run on at the mouth! I think a dip in cold water would do us both good! I should ask you to forgive me but as it is your fault I won’t. With you I have no manners. Au revoir!”
He turned on a heel and strode to the end of the jetty and climbed down into the skiff to shouts from his fellow competitors, who had all but decided to start the race without him, of “Huzzah!” and “About bloody time, Strang!”
Antonia watched the start of the race from the end of the jetty. The Duke and the twins waved enthusiastically, and she smiled and waved back, even blowing them a kiss when Gus stood up to show off his pirate bandage. He was still on his feet when the Duchess finally let drop the red silk handkerchief from the bridge. A huge cheer went up in recognition, but louder than usual because the delay had caused children and adults alike to become impatient and there was general relief to finally see some competitive action on the lake.
When the last of the skiffs had passed under the bridge and out of Antonia’s line of sight, to the continual roar of those on the bridge, the Duke and his twins were leading, Dair Fitzstuart was a close second, Jonathon with Frederick in the bow a credible third, and Charles Fitzstuart was closing in rapidly on all three. Antonia knew she would now not see the boats until they headed back from the causeway and had navigated Swan Nest Island, so she left the jetty and joined her daughter-in-law and a party of ladies with different colored ribbons in their hair proclaiming their allegiance for a particular oarsman now battling it out on the lake. The bridge afforded the best view and was the only place to watch the battle for the finish line, the winner declared as the first skiff to pass under the middle arch of the stone bridge.
Another roar went up when three skiffs finally came into view from around a bend and entered the last stretch of the race and so close to each other that it was impossible to distinguish which one was in the lead as they rowed stroke for stroke down the straight towards the bridge.
The spectators’ cheers became louder as the oarsmen rowed faster knowing the end was in sight. Children and a clutch of youths who had been paddling their bare feet in the icy water ran along the reedy bank waving and jumping, as if their efforts would in someway help the tired oarsmen find the strength to pick up speed. Family groups who had been seated on the sloping lawns enjoying the splendid vista of parkland and lake now made their way to the water’s edge to watch the last of the race. A crowd began gathering on the banks o
f the lake near the festooned pontoon moored on the south side of the bridge where the skiffs would dock at the end of the race.
What was most surprising to Antonia, as the oarsmen and their silk burgees came into clear view, was that Dair Fitzstuart was in the lead—which sent the Aubrey twins into an ecstasy of girlish squeals of delight. The Spanish skiff was just slightly ahead of the Florentine boat for second place, but it was evident that the Spanish and Italian oarsmen were all but spent. Within mere strokes of the bridge these skiffs slowed, and the Stuart boat shot under the middle arch and crossed the line first. Dair Fitzstuart let drop his oars and fell back in the skiff to sprawl out, arms and legs splayed, lungs heaving in air, body exhausted, mop of black hair falling across his wide brow and shirt wet through with perspiration. He was thoroughly exhausted.
More than one female swooned at the sight of such dark and powerful masculinity in repose while the twins swept down to the pontoon dragging Sarah-Jane with them in a rustle of silk petticoats and beaming smiles to congratulate him, never mind Dair’s win was a win for the Stuarts and the little Lady Juliana, and not Charles Fitzstuart for the American Colonies, Sarah-Jane’s champion; her disloyalty noted by a few of the sticklers for convention as a black mark against her otherwise good character. As to the whereabouts of her own champion and of her father, Sarah-Jane and the rest of the spectators were left to wonder at.
Where her father was concerned she was not overly worried. She had every confidence in his ability to take care of himself. After all, he had spent most of his life surviving the wilds of the subcontinent’s jungles, monsoon rains, flooding rivers and the blistering heat of its deserts, so a little race on a still lake in England, which held no fears for her after living in Hyderabad and crossing oceans to this wet island, was as nothing. No doubt Dair Fitzstuart would know his whereabouts once he had breath in his lungs and life into his splendid limbs.
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 15