by Cheryl Bolen
“Philip Widdington.”
“Is there a Mrs. Widdington?”
Radcliff set down his porcelain cup, the corners of his mouth lifting. “There is. She is twice the size of her husband and quite dominates the poor fellow.”
“And are there little Widdingtons?”
“I should say so. Must be a dozen of them. The rotund Mrs. Widdington is a good breeder. Has stout, healthy children.”
How Bonny longed to be a good breeder and have Richard’s stout, healthy children.
“And how do you propose finding the parsonage, my love?”
“I thought you could tell me how to get there. It will be a lovely day for a walk.”
“I will not have you traveling about the unfamiliar countryside unattended. My groom will drive you.”
Bonny rose from the table and crossed the room, stopping by Radcliff’s chair to lightly brush his leathery cheek with a kiss.
“I’ll have Rusty bring the phaeton around for you,” he announced.
She longed for more endearing words. So many times during their night of lovemaking she had bitten back her declarations of love. He must be the first to say it. But would those words ever tumble from her husband’s lips?
After one hour in the Widdingtons’ chaotic household, Bonny was not so sure she wanted to be that good a breeder. The house was hopelessly cluttered and smelled of an unpleasant pet odor, Mrs. Widdington had scarcely been able to get the hair out of her eyes, and shrieking, crying babes vied with one another for their harried mother’s attention.
But one of the babes made the nerve-splitting hour worthwhile. His name was Jonathan. Not quite old enough to walk, the chubby fellow with deep blue eyes and an adorable giggle bounced happily on Bonny’s knee and thoroughly enjoyed her making a cake of herself over him. With reluctance, she gave him back to his mother at the end of the hour. “It was so very good to meet all of you, but I must get back to Hedley Hall.”
Mrs. Widdington pushed her light brown hair from her brow. “Our pleasure, your grace.”
At that second, two-year-old Anna collided with the tea table, sending the teapot and teacups clattering to the floor.
Bonny stooped and gathered the broken pieces of glass before Anna could cut herself, and the vicar found tea towels to wipe up the spill.
“Oh, your grace, I am so very sorry,” Mrs. Widdington said, color rising to her already rosy cheeks as she slung Jonathan halfway over her shoulder. “Pray, don’t clean that up. Philip will get it.”
Bonny placed a chunk of broken china in her palm. “It’s nothing. I was afraid Anna would get cut.”
“She’s seen worse, that one has,” her father said, crouching to the floor and relieving Bonny of the broken porcelain. “She’s a right whirlwind, she is.”
Having watched her climb on top the piano, pull the cloth off the table and poke Jonathan in the eye, Bonny could not deny the parson’s remark. She hoped poor little Jonathan would not emulate his sister’s behavior when he got older.
On the lane leading to her phaeton, Bonny met an extremely well dressed young lady whose eyes swept Over her, and a flicker of emotion—was it envy?—crossed her pretty face. She stopped in front of Bonny, smiled broadly and extended a gloved hand. Her pink glove perfectly matched her gown and pelisse, and she wore a rose-colored bonnet trimmed in the same pink. “You have to be the new duchess. You are just as beautiful as they said.” She smelled of rose-scented perfume and spoke in a girlish voice.
Bonny took her hand. “You’re very kind...and correct about me being the Duchess of Radcliff.”
“I’m Cressida Carlisle.”
“Squire Carlisle’s daughter!”
“Richard’s mentioned us?”
“Indeed he has. In fact, we had planned to pay you a call this very afternoon.”
“You make me ashamed we have not called on you.”
“Pooh. I daresay you had no way of knowing before yesterday that we were even here.”
“True. I heard that your cousin was with you. Will we have the pleasure of meeting her?”
Bonny frowned. “I am sorry to say she has returned to London.”
Bonny felt the young blonde studying her. “I fear you will sadly lack female company,” Cressida said.
“I do miss my cousin, but I’m enjoying getting to know my husband.”
Cressida coughed. “Well, I shan’t keep you, since we will have the pleasure of a nice, long visit this afternoon. My parents will be delighted—and I will, too.”
On the way back to Hedley Hall, Bonny struck up a conversation with the freckled groom as they bounced along the bumpy country road. “How old are you, Rusty?”
“Fourteen, your grace.”
“Do your parents work at Hedley Hall?”
“I ’aven’t got no parents, your grace.”
“How is it you came to be employed by his grace?”
“I would ‘ang around his grace’s town ’ouse ‘opin’ to earn me a shillin’ watchin’ ‘is grace’s ’orses. The duke could see I loved me ‘orses, and ’e asked me if I would like to come learn ‘ow to take care of ’em. Now I got me a regular post, a roof over me ’ead, three meals a day and the best master in all of England.”
Her dear Richard had obviously taken pity on the poor orphan and had wanted to ease life’s cruel harshness for the lad. Bonny fixed a smug smile on her face. And I have the best husband in all of England.
When she got back to Hedley Hall, Bonny went first to check on the cleaners. Mrs. Green was overseeing the removal of the old draperies in the musty banquet hall. Their absence brightened the room with undiluted sunlight, but as the drapes came down, clouds of dust rose, causing Bonny and Mrs. Green to start coughing.
Alarmed because of the elderly housekeeper’s frailty, Bonny led her from the room. “Come, Mrs. Green.” She coughed. “We shouldn’t want your lungs to take a disease.”
The old woman issued no protest as Bonny escorted her from the room.
“I must commend you on the progress being made at Hedley Hall,” Bonny said when they reached the ballroom.
“Thank you, your grace.” Mrs. Green sneezed. “Did you have a nice visit with the vicar’s family?” Mrs. Green’s lips twitched mischievously.
“Why, Mrs. Green, I believe you know how very unpleasant those children of theirs can be—all except for the precious baby boy.”
“Indeed. They’re a wild bunch. Unfortunately, the poor little babe will probably turn out like all the rest.”
They walked across the ballroom’s parquet floors, which were in need of a good polish. Mrs. Green took a dust cloth from her pocket and ran it over the gilded frame of a massive painting of the Spanish Armada. “This place is sadly in need of a great deal of work, I’m sorry to say.” Mrs. Green’s thin, shaky words echoed in the vast room.
“With the extra day help, it will be done before we know it,” Bonny said reassuringly.
Mrs. Green sniffed away the last of the dust. “I do hope your visit to the rectory wasn’t altogether frightful.”
“Oh, no. In fact, as I was leaving, I had the good fortune to meet Miss Cressida Carlisle.”
Bonny detected a slight stiffening in Mrs. Green’s manner at the mention of Cressida. “’Tis a pity that one never married,” Mrs. Green said. “She had many offers during her season in London but turned them all down. I always felt she was holding out for his grace.”
Bonny thought of the lovely young woman and swallowed hard. “For Richard?”
“Yes. They were the best of friends as children.”
“Then she’s past thirty?”
Mrs. Green nodded. “Though she’s younger than his grace. She rather followed him around like an adoring pup.”
Bonny’s chest tightened. “Did he return her ardor?”
“No. He treated her as a sister, if you ask me.”
“Well, I must say she was quite nice to me.”
“I feel sure it has been many years now since she acc
epted that she would never be his duchess.”
Bonny left Mrs. Green to supervise the laundry and went to her room to freshen up before Radcliff returned, her thoughts on the unfortunate Cressida Carlisle, who had chosen the lonely life of a spinster.
On the ride to Squire Carlisle’s manor in Radcliff’s curricle, Bonny inhaled the fresh country air, not objecting to the cool winds, which ruffled her hair and caused her bonnet to flap. This was the first time she had truly observed the green Kent countryside. “I must scold you, Richard, for praising Northumbria when your own Kent is so much more beautiful.” The sun shone again today, glancing off the many lakes. Sheep grazed in hedged meadows, and gently rising hills seemed to hunker over the landscape.
“They are different types of beauty.”
She watched Radcliff’s masculine hands holding the ribbons to the high-stepping bay and spoke in an offhand manner. “Speaking of beauty, do you find Cressida Carlisle beautiful?”
“Cressy?”
Bonny nodded, her eyes on the rugged profile of his unwavering face.
“Never gave it a thought. She’s quite a rattlebrain. I suppose she’s fair enough, but...” He turned and lifted Bonny’s chin to gaze into her aquamarine eyes. “She’s no match for the lovely Duchess of Radcliff.”
Bonny listened to the steady clop of the horse, glowing over her husband’s words.
The Carlisle manor house seemed small compared to Hedley Hall, but the stately redbrick mansion was three times bigger than Bonny’s home in Milford.
The Carlisles greeted the Duke and Duchess of Radcliff with enthusiasm. Both the squire and his wife appeared well fed and were much older than Bonny had expected. She soon realized that Cressida was their youngest child, four older sisters having married many years ago and produced a bevy of grandchildren for the squire.
Like so many older men, the squire still powdered his hair as men of fashion had done a dozen years previously. His wife looked much like Cressida but plumper and grayer.
They all took tea in the drawing room, permeated with the scent of a half-dozen bouquets in porcelain and crystal vases. The agreeable Mrs. Carlisle served tea from her silken settee.
Before much time passed, the loud-speaking squire and Radcliff were deep in conversation about sport and farming matters, which the women tried to ignore while they discussed fashion.
“I see that you are in mourning,” Mrs. Carlisle said.
Bonny’s eyes lowered. “Yes. My mother died just after Richard and I wed.”
“How terrible,” Cressida said.
“Yes,” Bonny replied, setting her teacup back on its flower-trimmed saucer. “What helps most is that she had prepared for her death for some time and went without sorrow.”
“And you’ve got his grace to fill in some of the emptiness,” said Mrs. Carlisle.
Such personal observations were generally withheld from unfamiliar acquaintances, but Bonny found the older woman’s remarks comforting. She decided she quite liked the entire Carlisle family.
“I hate to bring up fashion since you are in mourning,” Cressida said, “but I do long to hear of the latest fashions in London.”
Bonny picked up a biscuit. “I’m probably not a good one to ask. I was in London but a month after spending my entire eighteen years at a parsonage in Northumbria.”
“You humble yourself,” Cressida said. “I am sure you were the picture of fashion when you captured Richard.”
Bonny appraised Cressida, who wore her hair in the latest fashion and whose sprigged muslin dress seemed most appropriate day wear. She noted, too, that Cressida had changed from the lovely pink dress and matching pelisse she had worn earlier in the day. “Judging from your short curly hair, Cressida, I would say you have kept up quite well with London fashions.”
Cressida shrugged off the compliment. “Is it true that hats are all the rage, even for evening wear?”
“Oh, yes, hats and feathers are on every London woman’s head.” Bonny wondered why Cressida did not wear the white cap that was expected of women who were past their youth. Is that why Bonny had been so surprised to learn Cressida was past thirty?
“I feel so removed from everything here,” Cressida complained.
“Richard admitted company could be quite thin, which explained why he spent so much time in London,” Bonny said. “But we expect to spend more time here now that he intends to settle down.”
A smile broke across Cressida’s face. “It will be perfectly wonderful to have another woman around.”
“Then maybe you’ll get your head out of those books,” Mrs. Carlisle told her daughter.
Cressida gave an exasperated sigh. “Mama just doesn’t understand how truly wonderful the books from the Minerva Press are. Have you read the latest?” Cressida asked Bonny.
“Because of my religious upbringing, my father discouraged me from reading stories of that nature.” Never mind that her father had shared with her his own eclectic library, which included works of a quite pagan nature.
Mrs. Carlisle poured more tea. “When you are finished mourning, your grace, we shall have to have a ball.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
As the duke and duchess departed, Cressida and her mother announced they would pay Bonny a morning call.
Bonny was relieved to know that Cressida had so well accepted the fact that she would never be the Duchess of Radcliff.
Chapter Ten
Stanley had ridden hard all day, and he was bloody glad to see Hedley Hall’s dormers and chimneys lining up across the gray horizon as he humped over a gentle Kent hill. He stirred with envy when he beheld Hedley Hall spreading its magnificent proportions across the countryside. Richard did not deserve such splendor. He cared nothing for entertaining. Why, he had scarcely used the ancestral home since Uncle and Aunt died so many years before.
What grand entertainments he would have if he were master at Hedley, Stanley thought. An invitation to Hedley Hall would be coveted by the noblest in all of Europe. Each guest room would be fit for a king, and only the finest meals would be served in the great dining hall. The best musicians in Europe would entertain his guests. Why, his own consequence would be second only to the regent’s.
Dismounting from his stallion once he reached the imposing entrance, Stanley felt mist on his face and eyed the dark clouds. “We barely miss a thorough drenching,” he said to Wilcox. He handed his reins to a footman and ordered, “Do see to my horse and to my man’s.”
He strode into the palatial entry hall, looked Carstairs up and down, then said, “Announce me to your master. I’m his cousin, Stanley Moncrief, in case the years have erased your memory.”
“I am sorry to say his grace is not home at the present.”
Stanley’s eyes narrowed. “Not here? Then where is he?”
“He and the duchess have gone to pay a social call.”
“The duchess!” Stanley’s heart sank. He had hoped to get to Richard before the foolish deed was done. The stories he had planned to tell on the fair Bonny Barbara Allan! By the time he finished, Richard would have fled the country to avoid linking his life to hers. But, alas, the vows must have been spoken. He swallowed hard. “Then, they have already married?”
“To be sure, sir.”
Things were not totally lost. At least Richard was here. He had not ridden to Kent for nothing. It might not be too late. He turned on his most charming smile, one that never failed to melt one of the gentler sex. “Please show me to my room and have someone bring my things.”
“I shall have to consult with the housekeeper to determine which room will be most satisfactory, sir,” Carstairs announced, pivoting stiffly and striding toward the west wing.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Green escorted Stanley to the green room Emily had occupied. The housekeeper informed him that country hours were kept, that the room had been thoroughly cleaned—including fresh bed linens put on this very week—and assured him a fire would be lit in his grate in a thr
ice.
After he settled in his chamber, he began to pace on the green carpet. Forwnately he had another plan up his sleeve, a plan he hoped would cause an irreparable rift to the marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Radcliff.
Carstairs forgot to inform the duke his cousin had arrived. The butler had other things to worry about when his master, soaking wet from encountering a rainstorm on the way back from Squire Carlisle’s, came flying into the hall barking orders left and right.
“Her grace needs a hot bath in her chamber as soon as possible. See that there’s a fresh fire in my chamber and her grace’s. Send Evans up immediately. And Marie, too.”
The duke had pulled his drenched wife into his embrace and shot a worried look at her before mounting the stairs and ensconcing Bonny in her dry room.
From behind her screen, Bonny threw off wet clothes while a procession of servants carried pans of hot water to her room. Marie assisted Bonny with her bath, then Bonny slipped into her shift and sat at her dressing table while Marie worked wonders with her hair, pinning it back into a Grecian style that hid its wetness. Marie curled little ringlets to frame Bonny’s face, and by the time she assisted her into a rose-colored gown, the ringlets had dried.
Marie stood back to survey her mistress. “I am so very glad that his grace likes ye in colorful gowns. Mourning don’t suit one as pretty as yer grace.” Her eyes darted to the low-cut neckline. “His grace may want ye to wear a pelisse. He seemed sorely worried ye would take the death of cold. The duke is most surely a man in love.”
Bonny dabbed perfume behind her ear. If only those words were true. She could understand why Marie suspected Richard of caring. In truth, he really did care about her. But he cared for his horse, his groom, his snuffbox collection. And now that she was his wife, he seemed oversolicitous of her. A smile brightened her face. Perhaps those feelings were deepening to love.
“I had best get ye a shawl to keep his grace from worrying so.” Marie found one of ivory cashmere and draped it across her mistress’s shoulders as Bonny absently stroked its softness.