The Hazards of Hunting a Duke

by Julia London

  Ava laughed, and glanced up at her husband. He was smiling, but it barely turned the corners of his mouth, and it certainly did not reach his eyes.

  A few more toasts were made to their mutual happiness, and then Harrison stepped forward again, looked around the room, and said, “Now I think the time has come to leave the happy couple to one another’s good company.” And with that, he walked forward, threw his arms around Middleton and slapped his back heartily. He let go, grabbed Ava up and kissed her soundly on the cheek.

  He looked at Middleton and winked. “Be a good husband, lad,” he said sternly.

  “I shall endeavor to do my best,” Middleton said.

  The duke was next. He looked at his son and said, “Best wishes for you both.”

  Middleton nodded. “Thank you, sir,” Ava said quickly. Middleton extended his hand to his father. The duke looked at his hand a moment, and took it, but shook it and dropped it quickly before walking out of the room, obviously eager to be on his way.

  Lady Purnam wished Middleton well, but as she embraced Ava, she whispered ominously in her ear, “Have a care in everything you do, girl, for all of England will be watching.”

  “Ah…” Ava stammered, uncertain what to say to that. “Thank you.”

  Lucy hugged her, too, but looked at her sternly and said, “Your stepfather will not be happy in the least when he learns that you wouldn’t wait for his arrival.”

  Ava smiled and shrugged. There was certainly nothing she could do for it now, thank the saints.

  She said good-bye to Phoebe last. She took her sister’s hands in hers and smiled.

  Phoebe frowned. “I’m alone now. First Mother, then Greer, and now you,” she said petulantly.

  Ava squeezed her hand. “Aren’t you the least bit happy for me?”

  “Of course I am!” Phoebe exclaimed, and smiled through the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. “But I am very sorry for me.”

  Ava laughed and hugged her, and whispered in her ear, “Keep sewing. I don’t know how long it shall be before I am given an allowance of any sort. And I won’t be gone from you for very long, Phoebe, I promise you that.”

  “That’s precisely what Greer said,” Phoebe muttered, and when Ava pulled away from her, she saw the tears glistening in her sister’s eyes. “I shall miss you dreadfully.”

  “Not nearly as much as I shall miss you,” Ava promised, tears welling in her eyes, too.

  “Oh there now, such maidenly tears!” Lady Purnam scoffed, and put her hand on Phoebe’s forearm. “Come along, Lady Phoebe, I should like to arrive in London before nightfall, when murderers and thieves roam the streets.”

  Phoebe looked so forlorn that Ava grabbed her and hugged her fiercely once more. “I shan’t stay away long,” she said again, and let her sister go.

  She and Middleton followed the guests out, and watched them being loaded into their coaches and carriages. Ava waved to her sister, waiting until Lady Purnam’s coach—the last to depart—had pulled out of the drive, leaving her and Middleton the last two standing.

  Neither of them spoke until Lady Purnam’s coach had disappeared around a bend. Only then did Ava glance up at Middleton.

  He was still squinting down the drive. “It’s just the two of us now,” he said.

  Yes, it was just the two of them. Completely and irrevocably. She was struck with the cold reality of what would come next, especially when she looked at Middleton, who smiled thinly.

  “It has been quite a morning, madam. I should think you’d like to rest before this evening’s supper.”

  “But…I am not tired,” she said, her belly tightening with trepidation.

  He did not smile, just looked at her stoically. “I think you should rest,” he said again, only more firmly. “I will see you at supper.” And with that, he turned away from her, told Dawson to have the mare saddled, and walked into the house, yanking at his neckcloth as he went, leaving her to stand on the drive, utterly alone.

  Her face burned with embarrassment, and she hesitantly started after him, making her way to her rooms, her head swimming around his abrupt dismissal of her, and the fear of what would come. She sat in her chaise, staring at the floor for what seemed hours, but when she finally stood to change from her wedding gown, she walked to the windows and looked out at the lovely landscape.

  And there she saw him, riding away, reckless and full-bore.

  A shiver shot through her—that man, who rode so fiercely, so utterly without discretion or even care for himself, would be in her bed tonight.

  Sixteen

  M iss Hillier appeared in Ava’s suite at seven o’clock to help her dress, but she was already dressed and waiting.

  After Middleton’s abrupt departure, she hadn’t known what to do with herself, and to steady her nerves, she’d spent the afternoon going through her things, trying on different gowns Phoebe had made. She chose soft green brocade for supper, a gown Phoebe had embroidered with tiny little rosebuds that matched the silk rosebuds on the hem of the underskirt. The bodice fit low and tight across her bosom, which Ava had insisted to Phoebe was too revealing. Phoebe—whose mouth had been full of pins at the time—had rolled her eyes and continued on, undaunted.

  Ava allowed Miss Hillier to help her put her hair up. When she’d finished, Miss Hillier stood back and smiled. “Ah, Lady Middleton, you’re very beautiful,” she said appreciatively as she looked at Ava. “It is plain to see why his lordship wanted you as his wife.”

  Ava could only hope that he wanted her—she wasn’t certain given his demeanor on the drive, but she smiled at Miss Hillier and donned the garnet earrings that had been her mother’s.

  She might have liked to stay holed up there until Middleton came to look for her, but Miss Hillier seemed rather determined that she should join her husband before dinner in the green salon.

  A footman was waiting at the door of the salon and opened it as Ava approached, bowing his head in deference to her. With a smile, she stepped across the threshold of the salon, but was brought to a halt just there, for the room was majestic.

  Huge six-foot paintings of Middleton’s ancestors lined the walls beneath a fifteen-foot ceiling. Gilded chairs upholstered in red silk were pushed up against the walls—it looked as if there were enough of them to seat four dozen people. On opposing walls, four mahogany commodes held enormous Oriental porcelain vases and amazing floral arrangements. The rug at her feet was thick and intricately embroidered, depicting an English forest complete with animals, wood nymphs, and someone on a horse.

  “I have been remiss in inquiring…but I trust you found your suite to your liking?”

  His voice startled her—she hadn’t seen Middleton standing to one side of the marble mantel at the opposite end of the room. “I…yes. Yes, the suite is beautiful. Thank you,” she said, and realized she was trembling again. Her husband—husband!—was wearing black knee breeches that fit him like a glove, a white silk shirt and waistcoat, and black coattails. His neckcloth was simply tied, the small gold pin holding it in place. His dark hair was brushed back and long over his collar, and his face clean-shaven.

  He seemed even more handsome now than he had this morning—and a bit dark.

  He casually gestured to a grouping of furniture near the hearth. “I thought we might have a drink before we dine.”

  Ava couldn’t possibly eat a thing, so she walked dutifully across the room. He met her at the grouping of furniture, took her hand, and paused to look at her gown. “How lovely you are,” he said, and slowly lifted a smoldering gaze to hers as he brought her hand to his lips. “Very lovely indeed.”

  The way he looked at her, the quiet, assured way he spoke and held her hand made her feel slightly intoxicated, and she sat heavily on the settee to which he ushered her.

  “What would you like?” he asked, motioning toward the sideboard. “A bit of wine, perhaps?”

  Ava glanced at the decanters. “I think I would prefer something stout.”

 
“Port, perhaps?”

  “Whiskey?”

  He smiled. “I don’t believe whiskey is a suitable spirit for a woman’s tender constitution, but by all means, if that is what you would like…”

  “Please.” At the moment, it seemed the only thing strong enough to buoy her. Everything felt different—he felt different somehow. She worried that he regretted their marriage.

  At the sideboard, Middleton poured a small tot of whiskey for her, then one for himself, and brought them back, along with the decanter, to the settee where she was sitting.

  He put the decanter on the table and handed her a tot, his fingers grazing hers with a certain familiarity. He sat, draped one arm over the back of the settee, and looked at her, watching her as she smelled the whiskey. Once, when she and Phoebe and Greer were all of sixteen or so, they had stolen a bottle of Lord Downey’s whiskey and drunk it. It had been years before she could stomach the smell of whiskey again, but today, she needed its calming effects.

  “Are you unwell?” Middleton asked.

  “Me?” she asked, startled by the question. “No…I am very well. I could not possibly be happier.” The words, which she’d said a thousand times in the last few days, flowed off her tongue so voluntarily that they were essentially meaningless.

  He, on the other hand, looked a bit tense. “Are you unwell?” she asked.

  “Perfectly fine.” With his finger, he stroked her arm, looked at her thoughtfully. “Here we are, then, Lady Middleton. Bonded together in connubial bliss until death us do part.”

  “My. When said that way, it sounds rather dire, doesn’t it?” she remarked. “Do you regret it?”

  “No,” he said immediately. “Do you?”

  Ava shook her head. “No,” she said quietly.

  “I think we both understand one another and what we’ve gained by this marriage, do we not?”

  She nodded.

  “But,” he said, reaching for the ribbon of her sash, his fingers possessively brushing her breast as he did, “I rather imagine that should not preclude us from enjoying it.” He lifted a darkly glittering gaze to hers. “Particularly the private privileges that come with being husband and wife,” he added quietly as he tugged lightly at the ribbon.

  Ava tried to smile, but she could scarcely even swallow. “Yes,” was all she could manage.

  He smiled then, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Drink,” he said, nodding to her whiskey.

  She looked at the tot, lifted it to her lips, closed her eyes and drank, and waited for the inevitable burn.

  Beside her, Middleton chuckled. “You might find it more to your liking if you sipped.”

  “I shall never find whiskey to my liking, sir,” she said hoarsely, and opened her eyes.

  He leaned forward, poured a little more into her glass. “Try to sip,” he advised, and held up his tot, clinking it against hers. “To many happy years.”

  “To many happy years,” she echoed, and sipped the whiskey. It burned her lips, her tongue, and her throat. No, she decided, it was most decidedly better to swallow it whole than sip.

  Middleton must have agreed, for he tossed his back.

  Ava drank the contents of her tot. When she finished gasping for breath, and felt the calming effects of it begin to seep warm and thick into her limbs, she smiled a little crookedly. “Very nice.”

  He casually took the tot from her hands and put it aside. “I’ve not had time to personally show you about. Shall I give you a tour of the abbey?”

  “I should like that very much.”

  Middleton took her firmly in hand, and Ava liked that—she liked the feeling of belonging with him.

  Perhaps the awkward moment on the drive had been an aberration, the result of fatigue. Perhaps everything would be very nice between them.

  Perhaps her nerves, now assuaged by the whiskey, would settle down.

  But if anything, they grew worse. Their tour took more than an hour. Middleton pointed out the historical facets and where the monks had once lived, their cells now converted to servants’ quarters. He showed her the west drawing room, which had once been a chapel, and the various wings and rooms and artwork that had been added through the centuries. Too nervous to focus on the art and architecture of the grand old abbey, Ava asked few questions about his revered family’s history, and he told her very little.

  In fact, Middleton became less talkative as the tour wore on. He just kept looking at her in a way that made her feel incredibly exposed. Her skin tingled with the intensity of his gaze, and Ava could scarcely think—her trepidation at what was to come growing more acute by the hour.

  By the time they had returned to the salon, Dawson was waiting to take them in to dinner.

  The smaller family dining room was a size that most would consider to be a formal dining room, large enough to seat two dozen. At the far end of the table, two place settings had been arranged. Middleton’s, at the head of the table, and Ava’s, to his right. Two footmen stood silently next to a large buffet, on top of which were six silver-domed platters.

  Dawson held the chair out for her; Ava slid into it self-consciously. As accustomed as she was to formal dining, this seemed far more formal, and bigger. But Middleton gave her a smile and a slight wink as he took his seat. “A lot of pomp and circumstance to eat one fat hen, isn’t it?”

  She smiled gratefully at his attempt to put her at ease, but as Dawson poured wine, her nerves felt as if they were all but exposed, hovering just beneath the surface of her skin, ready to explode. She drank the wine and pushed her food around, her appetite completely crushed under her anxiety.

  Middleton, however, didn’t seem to be bothered. He made small talk as he ate, asked her about the sorts of things that amused her.

  “I’m not certain I know what you mean.”

  “What sorts of things do you like to do? Besides your charitable work, of course,” he added with a devilish smile.

  “Oh. Well. I suppose I like to read—”

  “What do you read?”

  “Novels,” she said. “Popular novels, particularly.”

  “Ah. Stories of love and lust,” he said, his gaze dipping to her lips as he reached for his wineglass.

  “And the daily newspapers,” she added quickly. “I particularly enjoy the on dits. Phoebe and I make a game of out of it.”

  “The sort of game that supposes which gentleman is in which lady’s bed?” he asked, idly watching her.

  Ava didn’t answer—her face burned with the truth.

  “Or perhaps you enjoy another sort of game,” he suggested, his voice dropping to a low pitch. “Wondering which gentleman you would like to find in your bed?”

  “Of course not,” she said instantly.

  Middleton smiled at her obvious lie but nodded gallantly. “I beg your pardon, madam. I did not know you, your sister, and your cousin were as chaste as that.”

  “We…” Her voice trailed off, and she cast her gaze to her plate. She tried to think of something witty and clever to say to her husband, but nothing came to her.

  He smiled and picked up his fork. “What else amuses you?”

  “Music,” she said. “I like the pianoforte, although I play it wretchedly. Greer is the talented one among us. And I like dogs, I think. Not cats, especially, for they are rather aloof. But I enjoy seeing the dogs in the park. They seem friendly and exceedingly loyal. And, oh yes, I do enjoy a good walkabout.”

  “You shall have plenty of room to roam at Broderick Abbey.”

  She tried to picture herself walking around the grounds of Broderick Abbey, the lady of the manor, and the image brought a smile to her face. How absurd! Ava Fairchild, a marchioness!

  “There we are, at last—a lovely smile,” he said, smiling, too. “What amuses you at this moment?”

  “The idea that I should be a marchioness. Or a duchess, for that matter.”

  “I suspect you will be a very good one. I have all faith.”

  “Your faith in me is v
ery much appreciated, but very much undeserved.” Before he could politely argue, she asked, “What amuses you, my lord?”

  “Hmm,” he mused, his brow wrinkled with thought. “I suppose horses rather than dogs, although I had a dog as a lad and I was quite fond of him. Hunting rather than walking. I do enjoy music. And reading, although I must confess I have never read a popular novel of lust and love,” he added with a sly smile. “Perhaps we might indulge in one together.”

  Ava pretended to study her wineglass. “What was your dog’s name?” she asked, avoiding any mention of lust or love.

  “His name?” He grinned. “Doogie.”

  Ava laughed.

  “What?”

  “That is a wretched name for a dog.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, feigning offense. “It is a perfectly suitable name for a cur!”

  “It is perfectly suitable for a stableboy. Not a dog!”

  “And who are you, madam, to declare what is a suitable dog’s name?” he teased her. “I will have you know that I spent hours determining the perfect name for him. Now, then, to be fair, you must tell me the name of your childhood pet.”

  “I did not have a dog, I had a canary,” Ava informed him. “And as there were three of us, the naming was not done entirely on my own.”

  “Very well, what did the three of you name your pet canary?”

  “Buttermilk,” Ava said, and smiled, pleased that he should laugh so roundly at that.

  He asked about her childhood—Bingley Hall, the move to London after her father died and her mother remarried. She told him about her debut into society, and her presentation at court, and how she had accidentally spilled wine on the prince regent’s velvet shoe at the ball afterward.

  She talked at length about her mother. It felt good to talk about her; it helped to lessen her anxiety somewhat. And it was good to speak of her to someone other than Phoebe and Greer, to someone who had not known how lovely she was so that Ava could say it aloud. She even spoke of herself, and of Phoebe and Greer, too, of Greer’s foray into Wales and Phoebe’s despair that she’d been abandoned.

  “We shall send for her once you are with child,” he said instantly.