Duchess Decadence

by Wendy Lacapra

  Gradually, she became aware her skid had stopped. In the distance, she heard horses’ hooves. Their horses? Another carriage? Her head pounded—she could not be sure. Ache burned in her ribs, her head, and her shoulder. She waited to sense more piercing pain, but none came. She tested her legs—her arms. Not broken.

  “Thank God,” A cold wash of relief. She peered around—looking for any sign of the carriage, the dogs, or Wynchester. Beyond the patter of summer rain, there was silence. With increasing concern, she continued her visual search, dissecting images made indistinct by fine mist. Farther up the road, Wynchester lay prostrate by the side of the road. She pulled herself toward him in a crawl, fear sapping strength to stand.

  “Wynchester!” She repeated his name with growing force until she reached his side.

  She did not think of lines of succession, or tenants, or even her own well-being, she thought only of the supremely arrogant, insufferable, stiff man she loved and she willed him to be alive with the whole of her constricted heart.

  She bent her ear to his mouth. His breath, though weak, stirred against her skin. Afraid to move him—indeed she was not sure she would be able—she remained by his side, keeping her hand over his heart and reassuring herself with each beat.

  Time passed—how much, she wasn’t sure, but she was damp to the skin when a peddler, whose laden cart was led by a lumbering donkey, answered her call.

  “We were on our way to Wynterhill—do you know of it?”

  “Know?!” the peddler’s shook his head as if Thea were daft. “Everyone knows Wynterhill. Why it’s not six miles from here.”

  “Truly?” She had not recognized the road. Perhaps Wynchester had taken a lesser known route…or perhaps she’d been distracted by his nearness.

  She gathered her wits and requested the peddler assist in the procurement of a doctor, assuring him he would be well compensated.

  “Wynchester himself?!” the man exclaimed. “Why didn’t ye say so in the first?”

  He set off at a considerably faster pace than he’d been traveling. She watched the cart rattle down the road until it disappeared around the bed, leaving her alone again with only Wynchester’s heartbeat to offer comfort.

  She brushed aside the strands of hair sticking to her face and scowled down at her husband. “Come to, Clodpate,” she said with fierce affection. “You are too stubborn to die—not now and not this way.”

  The mist made droplets on his ashen cheeks. She drew her knees to the side and, heedless of how such a thing would look to anyone else who approached, she leaned forward to place her ear in his chest. His heartbeat continued—as did his shallow breath.

  Wyn smelled alive—that had to mean something, did it not? She bunched her fist in the fabric of his shirt.

  He had dominated her life—in person or in shadow—since before the end of her first decade. That had to be why the prospect of continuing on without him left her wretched, even though she had lived beyond his reach these past four years.

  Her shuddering sigh could not have been a sob, and the wetness that touched her cheek was certainly just rain, no matter that it tasted of salt.

  “Please.” She fisted his shirt in her hand. “Please.”

  Damnation. A duchess did not beg. She sat up, scowled down at him, and sniffed. “Wake up!” she commanded.

  A bead of rain trickled down her neck. She shivered. Oh, where was the blasted peddler? She peered down the road in both directions. The only other conveyance on the road would have to be led by a donkey, wouldn’t it?

  He groaned. She leaned over him, whispering his name as if it were an incantation that would bring him to life. He drew his brows together, and the sweet sensation of relief made her forget the rain and the cold and the fear.

  “Wynchester,” she said loudly, “are you hurt?”

  He opened his eyes and his pupils shrank as they adjusted to the light. “The horses?”

  Of course he’d ask first of the horses. “I daresay they’ve stopped somewhere.”

  He lifted his head and winced. “And you? How are you?”

  Mad laughter bubbled up through her throat. “Better than you!”

  “Nonsense,” he gritted his teeth. “Just had the wind knocked out of me, is all.”

  “No sharp pain?” she asked, letting him go lest her touch increase any discomfort.

  He paused as if consulting his limbs. “No. I’ve a bruiser headache, though.”

  “What you have is the devil’s own luck. You could have—” A shorn-wool-sort-of-feeling clogged her throat. She bit her lip and looked away.

  He attempted to sit up and she pushed him back down. “Do not even think about moving.”

  He coughed, closed his eyes, and let his head drop back. “I am terribly sorry, my darling. I should never have tried to drive—”

  No, you shouldn’t have. She smothered the thought. All that mattered was he survived. She put her finger against his lips. “Are you responsible for the blasted dogs?”

  “Dogs!” he said with sudden alarm.

  “Shhh. There has been no sign of them.” She patted his chest. “I was enjoying my ride.” She softened as she traced the angle of his cheek with her gloved hand. “…and the driver was very fine.”

  For a moment, his features relaxed. Then, he opened his eyes. “A fine driver would have retained control.”

  “You cannot help that the horses bolted.” She closed her eyes, forcing a mental review of the sights and sounds that had preceded her fall. “Should the bolt have cracked the pole?”

  He scowled. “It should not have. But it did, didn’t it?”

  She looked down the road, eyes fixed on the jagged tracks of the missing curricle. “I am not sure.” A smattering of fear dusted over her heart the way the mist was dusting her cheeks. Sabotage? But no. Harrison had charge of Eustace.

  She glanced back at Wynchester. He stared up at her with the most extraordinary expression in his dark eyes. She waved her hand in front of his face.

  “Are you with me?”

  “Of course,” he said with a lop-sided smile.

  “Do not scare me like that. You looked as if you had taken leave of your senses. Hey. I told you not to move.”

  “Nothing is broken.” He removed her hand from his chest, sat up, and slowly stretched his neck. “But something is paining me.”

  She placed her cheeks on either side of his face. “What is it?”

  He placed a hand over hers. “I am suffering from an excess of sentiment.”

  Her heart did a tilted-whirl. Who but she could ever find him endearing?

  She admonished him with a glance up through her lashes. “You may consult a physician about your affliction—very soon I hope.”

  “And you know this by—?”

  “I sent a merchant for help.”

  He raised his brows in a faint look of bemusement. “Efficient as usual.”

  She set her shoulders back. “Well,” she flashed a grin, “one of us had to keep their head.”

  “So,” he ran a finger down her cheek, “how does one treat an excess of sentiment?”

  “Am I am so prone to excess I should know?”

  His smile was enigmatic. “I did not ask because you are prone to excess. I asked because you are wise.”

  She blinked back a sting behind her eyelids. Could The Duke of Wynchester—who once decreed sentiment the author of all evil—really be sitting in a gravel ditch admitting to his affection?

  She reached out to smooth his waistcoat. She’d always thought of him as a man made of stone—hard and black and unyielding as his onyx eyes. But beneath her tentative fingertips his chest was warm. Her hand crept back up to his cheek and he leaned his face into her palm.

  “Your fingers are cold,” he said.

  “No,” she protested. “Just wet.”

  He started to shrug out of his coat.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warned. “No chivalry allowed. You are just as wet as I.”

&n
bsp; “You must give me some office to perform.”

  She wiped a stringy, wet lock from her forehead, trying to find some excuse that would require he touch her face again. She looked down onto her gloved arm and saw a streak of dirt. Brilliant. She groped for and found the pocket tied beneath her skirts and presented him with a nearly-dry handkerchief.

  “You may wipe the dirt from my face.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, taking the kerchief from her hands.

  …

  Wynchester’s head was a cracking china vase, but Thea Marie remained a stronger pull.

  As far as he could tell, her fall had left her little wounded, but the sight of her pale, dirt stained cheeks caused bile to rise in his throat. He had to stop for a moment.

  Stop and regain control of his breath before he blubbered like a fool.

  She’d been battered once before. On that day, his efforts to assist in quelling the fire that had consumed part of his home had stained his clothes with sweat and soot. By then, the riot act had been read and order began to rule the chaos, but madness had gripped the city for three days, and in the confusion, no one had been able to tell him just what had happened to his duchess nor how his home had been set aflame. Two stout men employed by the dowager next door—no doubt men she’d known since her days as a madam—had heard Thea Marie arguing in the mews behind the house. They said, however, the fire had already been set. If it weren’t for the dowager’s ruffians and their skill brandishing knives, Thea would have died that day.

  A harried doctor had given her no more than a cursory examination before telling Wynchester their babe would likely be lost. When Wynchester would have offered comfort, she’d refused him entry. He’d been ashamed and sick and instead of sitting by her side, he’d emptied the contents of his stomach in the mews behind the dowager’s home.

  Her concerned expression brought him back to the present and he resumed his ministrations.

  “You missed a spot,” she said after he had wiped her brow.

  As if she would know. “This time,” he said, not speaking of the spot, “I shall endeavor to do better.”

  He placed a comforting hand beneath her chin, running the cloth again over her angled cheekbones, where wisps of hair were clinging snake-like against her skin.

  He was shaken, and not just from the accident.

  He’d bought the curricle and pair because he’d wanted to surprise and please her, and instead he’d nearly driven them to their deaths and their horses, to injury. Yet, here she sat, looking up at him with a gratitude that matched his own, trustingly silent and softly sweet.

  He cupped her face and a great swell of sentiment—one unlike any he’d felt before—buoyed him up so he floated above the pain in his head and the after effects of terror. Her trust. By some miracle and for no explicable reason, she was giving him her trust.

  He placed a chaste but lingering kiss on her upturned, parted lips, wondering if he tasted salt. He drew back.

  Had she been crying? Her eyes gave him no clue. They were as deep and sincere as they’d been on the day they’d met—wanting to know his thoughts. Wanting to know him. He resisted the urge to turn away.

  “I am glad you are little harmed.” His voice cracked.

  “When you did not respond,” she wavered, “I was so afraid.”

  Tears left damp pools between her lashes. He wiped them dry with his thumb.

  “Thea Marie, I…you must know that I—” Words gathered against a dam in his throat, the whole was love—but who was he to speak such an emotion? “I—” he started again.

  Her eyes grew wide. “Horses!” she interrupted.

  Horses. Wynchester cursed them as the sound of hooves grew more insistent.

  “Can you stand?” he asked solicitously, quelling any sign of his frustration.

  She nodded and took his hand. Together, they stood—how be it awkwardly.

  An old fashioned sort of carriage—one he thought he recalled from his father’s days—lumbered down the road. She swayed and he placed a protective arm around her shoulders.

  He hoped she would not balk at getting into another carriage so soon. As far as he could tell, the carriage was large and comfortable and drawn by not two—or even four—but six docile horses.

  He needn’t have worried. She didn’t even hesitate as he handed her up into the carriage.

  Throughout the relatively short ride to Wynterhill she leaned against his side, both arms wrapped securely around one of his. In her touch, he sensed the same urgency welling up in his soul.

  He placed a kiss to her head and reassuringly patted her thigh—he was not going to leave her—not now, not ever.

  They arrived at Wynterhill, not to the army of smartly liveried servants he had ordered, but to an anxious housekeeper and a solicitous doctor—a doctor who seemed to have regressed in age. The housekeeper bundled Thea up the stairs, while muttering loudly about damp clothes and dangerous chills. She called back to him, making him swear to submit to a full examination, which he promised to do, once she had undergone the same.

  He consulted with cook, and arranged for hot soup and chocolate to be sent up to the duchess’s rooms. Then, he made his way to the library to await the doctor. He took a decanter from a cabinet beneath his desk, poured a finger, and downed the burning liquid in one swallow. The harsh sting of good Scottish whiskey dulled the throb that remained.

  He eyed the decanter. No. One draught was enough.

  Putting down his glass, he meandered to the bookshelves. He opted to skip his usual favorites and, instead, perused Thea’s collection of novels.

  And there were plenty from which to choose. … Radcliffe, Richardson, Reeve…He chose one from the R’s at random and checked the spine. Pamela, Or Virtue Rewarded. He raised his brows. It sounded very…improving. He opened the book and read the first sentence he saw.

  “But I must love you; and that vexes me not a little.”

  He snorted.

  …Well, at least the poor sod in the story could say the word love. He closed the book and carefully returned it to the shelf.

  “Your Grace,” the housekeeper called from the doorway, “Doctor Smith can see you now.”

  “Come in,” he said. “And thank you, Mrs. Wheaton.”

  The housekeeper nodded, stepped aside to allow the doctor to enter, and then left.

  On closer inspection, the doctor was clearly not the same doctor he remembered, but he bore his father’s likeness to an astonishing degree.

  “Dr. Smith,” Wynchester greeted, “when first I saw you, I presumed you had found the fountain of youth.”

  The doctor laughed. “Would that I had. My father has gradually reduced his work these past two years. Unless there is a specific request, he confines himself to his study and his books.”

  “Well, good health to him. Please, sit.” Wynchester sat in a chair opposite the doctor. “How did you find my duchess?”

  “Better than expected.” The doctor studied him for a long moment. “May I speak frank?”

  The man may have looked like his father, but his direct gaze and perceptive expression were more in the modern vein. Wynchester nodded, surprising them both.

  “Well.” The doctor pushed his spectacles up his nose. “But for the onset of the female complaint, she professes no pain. Though rare, it is still possible she could be with child and, if there is any chance, I would recommend—”

  Wynchester blinked. “The female complaint,” he repeated in a low voice.

  The doctor pursed his lips and nodded. “Considering her prior injuries, the loss of a second child…”

  The doctor stopped speaking—which is when Wynchester became aware he’d been glowering.

  “Forgive me, Doctor Smith,” Wynchester said. “I was merely surprised you knew of the duchess’s loss. I take it you have studied your father’s records?”

  “In the strictest confidence, you understand,” the doctor replied. “Prior knowledge can be very helpfu
l.”

  “Yes,” Wynchester agreed thoughtfully.

  Since he had promised Thea Marie, he allowed Dr. Smith to poke and prod and generally insult his person beyond endurance. In the end, he was given a pronouncement of good health, considering.

  “However,” the doctor continued, “the duchess informed me you were unresponsive for a time.”

  “Of course she did,” Wynchester said wryly.

  The doctor prescribed rest, and warned against riding and travel.

  “I believe,” Wynchester said with good humor, “that can be arranged.” He pressed his templed fingered into his lips before continuing. “I have a request.”

  “Certainly,” the doctor said, “If it is in my power to grant…”

  “I would like you to sign an affidavit stating the duchess, at the time of your examination, was not with child.”

  The doctor opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  “…Confidentially, of course,” Wynchester added, catching the infinitesimal rise in the doctor’s right brow.

  “As I said, there are rare cases…”

  “Yes,” Wynchester replied, “rare.”

  The doctor visibly swallowed. “If you have need of such a document.”

  “At present, I have no need,” Wynchester cleared his throat. “We are recently reunited, you see. I am concerned with Her Grace’s protection.”

  Understanding dawned over the doctor’s expression. “I would be happy to oblige.”

  “One must,” Wynchester said, “be prepared.”

  “I see I am not the only one with paternal resemblance. I remember yours using that exact expression.”

  The doctor smiled as if he had not just ripped the carpet from under Wynchester’s chair.

  “Did he?” he drawled. “And were you well acquainted with my father?”

  The doctor colored, as if aware of a subtle set down.

  “You mistake me,” Wynchester said. “I remember your father’s attentive”—and frequent—“care of my mother. I do not remember you being present.”

  “I came when he treated Lord Eustace.” The doctor lowered his lids. “Your father thought the presence of another boy would do him good.”