by Kate Pearce
Alistair glared at her, picked up his quill pen, and found a sheet of paper. It seemed that the peace and harmony they had achieved together over the past few months was about to be tested.
“I’ll write and say we will be there as soon as possible.”
Chapter 11
The closer they came to his ancestral home, the more distant Alistair became. Margaret attempted to discuss what might await her at the hall, but his reluctance to share more than the most basic of information was somewhat frustrating. He always responded to her questions with great politeness, but she knew that things were far from settled between him and his stepmother.
Such a deliberate rift surprised her, as he had shown a dislike for conflict, always preferring to make light of something, or let it go entirely. She glanced over and found him staring into space, all the mobile humor and lightness in his usual expression absent.
“Your father left most of his estate in Frederica’s care, yes?”
“You are correct.”
“Why do you think he did that?”
He turned toward her. “Would you like the real reason or the more palatable one?”
“As your wife, I would prefer it if you told me the truth.”
“But which is the truth?” he replied. “Many would say I got what I deserved, and that my father, God bless his soul, made the correct decision.”
Margaret scowled at him. “Will you stop being so unhelpful?”
“I am merely—”
She held up one finger. “Alistair. Tell me both and let me decide which I believe.”
He sighed. “As you wish. In his infinite wisdom, my father decided because I was stationed in India and might never return, that my stepmother was a far more suitable person to learn how to run the estate and take control of his finances.”
“And what is the other story?”
“My father was dying. I was unaware of this, because, on my last leave, my stepmother had carefully engineered a series of arguments between us, which resulted in an estrangement. If I had known how ill he was, I would’ve immediately resigned my commission and come home to take over the estate.”
Margaret studied him for a long moment until he raised an arrogant eyebrow.
“Well?”
“You would’ve come home. I do not doubt that for a second.”
He slowly smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“You are an honorable man.” She sat forward, her hands clasped together on her lap. “Why would your father think otherwise and not trust you to run the estate properly?”
“That’s a very good question. It’s not as if I was running around London gambling and whoring my way through his fortune. I was in the bloody army.”
“I thought that peers of the realm who only had one son didn’t like their heirs going into the army,” Margaret said.
“I had an older brother, Malcolm. He died in a hunting accident.” Margaret brought her hand to her mouth, and he glared at her. “I didn’t mention him because he was as awful as my cousin Farrell. He made my life hell when I was small. Part of the reason I went into the army was to escape him.”
“So you weren’t expected to inherit the title?”
“No. Just as I wasn’t ever supposed to be a duke.” He turned back to the window and peered out. “We’re almost there.”
Margaret pressed her lips together and suppressed the many questions that his answers had raised. She would see what awaited them at Healdstone Hall and form her own opinions of Lady Hellion and Alistair’s sister.
The carriage turned into a beech-tree-lined drive and progressed toward a house settled low against the surrounding hills.
“It’s lovely,” Margaret said involuntarily. “All that honey-colored stone.”
“It’s a common building material around here, but yes, it is a beautiful house.” His words were delivered in his usual lighthearted manner, but his expression gave away his quiet yearning.
They came to a stop in front of wide front door with roses growing around it. Alistair got out and came around to open the door for Margaret. After two days of traveling, she was aware that her clothing was crumpled and that she probably did not look her best.
The front door opened, and a man dressed in blue livery came out.
“Welcome home, your lordship!”
Alistair smiled at the man. “It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. Mortimer. Are you the butler now? Should I be terrified?”
Mr. Mortimer chuckled. “Not of me, your lordship. I knew you when you were a little skinny lad stealing cake out of the kitchen.”
“And happily clipped me on the ear when you caught me up to mischief.” Alistair’s smile was warm. He took Margaret’s hand. “My dear, may I make you known to Mr. Albert Mortimer? An old friend of mine.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, your grace.” Mr. Mortimer bowed low. “Please come in. The ladies are awaiting you in the back parlor.”
The second carriage carrying Clarkson, Eileen, and the rest of their luggage appeared on the drive, and was directed around the side of the building to the stables.
Margaret placed her hand on Alistair’s sleeve and entered the house, breathing in the pleasing smells of beeswax polish and dried flower petals. It wasn’t as grand as the ducal mansion, but it was charming and beautifully maintained. Whatever else Frederica Hellion was doing, she certainly didn’t stint on her household or her housework.
Alistair let out a slow breath, his gaze slowly encompassing the entire hall as if he expected to see his father coming down the stairs to berate him. Had he been back since his father’s funeral, or had he missed even that?
She pinched his sleeve, and he looked down at her as if he’d forgotten she existed.
“Come along, then, duchess,” he murmured. “We mustn’t keep the dragon waiting.”
Mr. Mortimer paused, loudly cleared his throat, and announced them at the door.
“His grace, the Duke of Thorsway, and the Duchess of Thorsway.”
Margaret kept a smile on her face as they entered the room, her gaze fixing on the petite woman who rose to greet them in something of a flutter.
“Oh, my goodness!” Lady Hellion said. She had brown curling hair, a petite form, and the face of an angel. “Alistair! You have finally come home!”
She rushed over and placed a hand on Alistair’s chest, she was so short that she barely came up to his shoulder. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! Have you still not forgiven me?”
Alistair stepped back so that her hand fell away and bowed. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Margaret, may I introduce you to my father’s second wife, Lady Hellion?” He paused. “Although now that you exist, my dear, and the titles all belong to you, I believe that should be the dowager Marchioness of Hellion, do I have that correctly?”
Lady Hellion laughed and turned to Margaret. “I certainly feel like a dowager these days, what with Phoebe ready to make her come out in society.”
“Where is Phoebe?” Alistair looked over at the couch where an older woman sat staring apprehensively at him. He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Miss Whipple.”
He received an agitated squeak in return.
“Phoebe is upstairs in bed.” Lady Hellion sighed. “She felt too weak to attempt to come down.”
“Then I will go and see her,” Alistair stated. “Who is caring for her?”
“Dr. McNeil is due to arrive in an hour.” Lady Hellion hesitated. “Would you object to waiting until he has seen Phoebe and can make his report directly to you?”
“Not at all.” Alistair bowed. “It will give me time to show my wife around the house.”
“And have something to eat.” Lady Hellion looked inquiringly at Margaret. “You must be exhausted after traveling all this way.”
“Something to eat and a chance to refresh my clothing would be most welcome,” Margaret allowed.
“Then we can easily manage all three. I’ll take you up to your bedchamber, and when you are ready, come
down and partake of some victuals, and then Alistair can take you for a tour of my house.”
“My house,” Alistair said.
Lady Hellion’s smile faltered, and she drew Margaret’s arm through hers. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She sighed as they proceeded back into the entrance hall and up the main staircase. “He still hates me, doesn’t he?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, my lady,” Margaret tried to speak, but Lady Hellion kept talking over her.
“Oh, please, call me Frederica. We are almost related now, aren’t we? And I am so glad that Alistair has finally found another woman to settle down with. He didn’t tell me much about you, but I can already see how he cares for you.”
Lady Hellion opened the door into a sun-filled room that faced the formal gardens at the back of the house and walked over to the window to twitch the curtains. Margaret could hear Eileen and Clarkson talking to each other in the dressing room and was glad that she would soon be able to change her gown and restyle her hair.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Lady Hellion smiled at her. “I will await you in the dining room.”
“Thank you,” Margaret responded as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Despite Alistair’s hostility, I do hope we can become friends,” Lady Hellion said hesitantly, her hand on the latch as if she was reluctant to leave.
“I’m sure we will learn to deal excellently with each other,” Margaret replied, drawing a relieved smile from her husband’s stepmother.
“Thank you.”
Margaret remained staring at the door Lady Hellion had just closed behind her. She was nothing like Margaret had imagined. She’d been expecting a cold, disdainful aristocrat, and this enchanting fairy-like creature was nothing like that. It was hard to understand how Alistair could not like her when she’d seemed so genuinely delighted to welcome him back home.
At the moment, the only ungracious and cold person in the house appeared to be her husband…
As if she’d summoned him with her thoughts, Alistair came in and immediately took off his coat.
“Clarkson! Where’s that water?” Alistair shouted.
“Coming, your grace. Keep your wig on.”
Eileen came in, with Clarkson right behind her, bearing a jug of hot water she poured into the porcelain bowl beside the dressing table. Alistair ripped off his cravat, allowing his shirt to fall open at the neck and splashed water over his face.
“I’ll see if I can find you a fresh cravat, your grace, seeing as you’ve ruined that one.” Clarkson went back into the dressing room. “And I’ll brush out your coat.”
“Thank you,” Alistair called after him as Eileen helped Margaret unfasten her traveling gown and offered her soap and a towel.
He glanced over at his wife as Eileen took down and brushed out her hair. If it were up to him, he’d take Margaret to bed and never venture down the stairs again. But he had a duty toward his sister that could not be ignored. Just seeing Frederica had unsettled him far more than he’d anticipated. He’d forgotten how charming she could be. He was aware that he’d sounded remarkably ungracious and that Margaret would have noticed.
Eileen disappeared with the crumpled gown and the water, and brought back a new dress for Margaret she had somehow already managed to unpack and iron. After Clarkson delivered his new cravat and brushed coat, he retired to finish the unpacking, leaving Alistair alone with his wife.
“She was not what I expected,” Margaret said hesitantly.
Alistair tensed. “What did you expect?”
“She seems… really pleased to see you.”
“Of course she is.” Alistair retreated to the mirror and spent unnecessary seconds fussing with the folds of his cravat. “She is delighted that she has finally made me return.”
She didn’t reply, and eventually he had to set the pin in his cravat and turn back to her. She was staring thoughtfully at him.
“What?”
“You are being quite rude to her, which is not like you at all.”
“I can be rude if I have to be.” He shrugged with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “I can assure you that she deserves every ill intention I have toward her.”
She rose from her seat and settled her skirts around her. “It will certainly be interesting to further my acquaintance with your stepmother.”
He offered her an elaborate bow. “Be my guest. I will not be monopolizing her time. I came to see my sister, and that is all.”
She paused to study him. “Your behavior toward your stepmother makes her appear a far more sympathetic character than you.”
“I am well aware of that.” He strode to the door. Part of him foolishly wanted to beg her to believe in him, but he’d told her she was free to make up her own mind, and he had to allow her that choice. “Shall we go down? Perhaps my temper will improve after I have eaten and shown you the house I was brought up in.”
Frederica made no effort to actively engage his attention at the dining table, preferring, instead, to enchant his wife. Her lovely laugh rang out constantly as she chatted and sympathized and made friends with Margaret, who wasn’t usually the easiest of converts. He offered the odd comment and tried not to appear angry or resentful that the house he loved had been very well taken care of indeed while he was barred from it.
To his relief, Margaret didn’t linger for too long at the table, and was more than willing to accompany him on a walk around the house. To his surprise, nothing much had been changed. His father’s study, where he had often been called to account for his behavior, looked as if his father had just left the room to walk his dogs.
Alistair swallowed hard, his hand on the mahogany desk.
“I’m surprised there aren’t fingermarks embedded in the edge of this desk. This is where my father made me stand when he beat me.”
Margaret stroked her hand over the gleaming surface. “Were you often in trouble?”
“Yes. I was nothing like Malcolm, and that, apparently, was a sin. I was too sickly, too pretty, too—” He abruptly stopped speaking.
She came to a stop in front of him and lifted her gaze to his. “Why could he not accept you as you were?”
“Because he didn’t accept me at all.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I was born eight years after Malcolm. He believed my mother had been unfaithful and that I wasn’t his son.”
He waited for her to recoil, but her gaze remained steady. “Had she?”
“I don’t know, but I can tell you this, if she found happiness with another man while being married to my father, I can’t begrudge her that.” He shrugged. “Whatever happened, my father made sure she repented of her crimes. Eventually, Phoebe was born and my poor, browbeaten mother died in childbirth. As he always treated Phoebe well, I assume he considered her his natural child.”
“You don’t blame your mother even though her behavior might have made life hard for you?” Margaret asked.
“Even though. He might have suspected I wasn’t his child but, according to the law, unless he wanted to create a scandal, divorce my mother, and send us both away, then he was stuck with me.”
Her brow creased. “If he disliked you both so intensely, why didn’t he do just that?”
“Because, as we had the same mother, that would’ve made his precious Malcolm a bastard, too, and he wasn’t willing to lose his firstborn son, or his daughter.”
She cupped his chin, trapping his gaze to hers. “He was a fool. You deserved better, and so did your mother.”
Her matter-of-fact statement delivered in her most confident tone made something inside him unclench.
“He was a fool, but he was still my father.”
She went up on tiptoes and kissed him gently on the mouth.
“My father struck me once because I dared to criticize his behavior,” Margaret said. “He was making my mother so anxious that she became incapable of functioning. I had to take over all the housework, while he gambled an
d drank away his inheritance with his friends in town. When I confronted him, he said I didn’t know my place—that I was too loud and strident and that no man would ever want a wife like that.”
“I would,” Alistair offered and kissed her back. “In fact, you are exactly what I need.” He paused. “He was wrong about you, too.”
She made a face. “I am opinionated and loud.”
“So what?”
“After he hit me, I tried to stay quiet and not complain when we had no money left for food after he’d scraped together enough to pay his workers and pawned all my mother’s jewelry.” She drew a ragged breath. “I was glad when he died.”
“I can understand why, and I felt the same about my father.” He paused. “I only wish I’d had the chance to be there with him, so that I could forgive him, but it was not to be. Frederica made sure of that.”
“Which is why you can’t forgive her,” Margaret murmured and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Alistair didn’t say anything more as he held her close and buried his face into the crook of her neck. She might still be reserving judgment about his stepmother, but she was definitely on his side.
Eventually, she drew away from him. “If you wish to finish showing me the house, we should get on. Your family doctor will be here soon.”
“He’s not my doctor. He’s employed by Frederica.”
She paused to look up at him. “Does that mean you won’t trust his judgment?”
“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Alistair took her hand and walked back to the door. “I don’t think we have time to see the gardens, but I’ll show you my old room.”
Just as they reentered the hall, the butler opened the front door to reveal a young man who handed his hat over and smiled agreeably.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mortimer. Shall I go straight up to see our patient, or would Lady Hellion like to see me first?”
“She said to go straight up, sir, and she would meet you afterward in the drawing room.” Mr. Mortimer stepped back and noticed Margaret and Alistair.
“Your grace. This is Dr. McNeil. He is attending poor Miss Phoebe.”