She’d never seen him look so joyous, so at ease, as though he was exactly where he was supposed to be. An odd notion when she’d always thought he was right where he belonged, and yet it was the only way she could describe what she was observing. He was at home, completely at home with his surroundings.
His laughter stopped as he shoved something into his mouth, closed his eyes, chewed madly, and dropped his head back. He appeared to be in rapture, and the cook—a short, white-haired woman who obviously believed in sampling the food she prepared—was gazing at him as though he were her favorite child.
Torie was mesmerized, watching the way his throat muscles worked as he swallowed. He wasn’t dressed properly, but wore only trousers, boots, and a loosely fitting white shirt with two buttons undone, leaving the material parted to reveal only the smallest portion of his neck, the top of his chest.
Opening his eyes, he gave the cook a smile of pure pleasure. “Ah, Mrs. Cuddleworthy, no one cooks a raspberry tart like you do.”
“It’s a wonder I still remember how. You’ve not asked for one in years”.
“I want one every morning from now on. At afternoon tea as well. Might as well have them at dinner.” He held up a finger as though he’d suddenly thought of something incredibly important. “And lunch.”
“After saying you never wanted one prepared again. They were always your favorite. I didn’t know why you ordered me not to make them any longer.”
“Clearly I was not myself that day.”
He came partway out of his chair, leaned over, and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek, causing her to giggle like an infatuated schoolgirl and her round cheeks to redden until they resembled apples.
“It’s been years since you’ve been so attentive, Your Grace.”
“An oversight I shall seek to rectify.” His eyes twinkling, he reached for another tart, suddenly stopping, his hand frozen over the plate. He must have become aware of Torie’s presence, because he jerked his head around, his gaze falling on her. He shoved himself to his feet, the chair’s legs clattering over the stone floor.
She felt like an intruder standing in the doorway, watching this friendly exchange between the master of the house and his servant. More, she was having a difficult time reconciling the fact that the man standing in the kitchen was the same man who had asked for her hand in marriage.
Oh, on occasion she’d heard him laugh, encouraged a smile from him, but neither had been delivered with such absolute joy. She’d never heard him laugh with such carefree abandon, never seen him smile with such pure warmth. Certainly she’d never seen him peck a kiss on a servant’s cheek. Come to think of it, he’d always treated servants as though they didn’t exist.
Was it possible that there was a London lord and a Hawthorne House lord? One man whose personality altered depending on where he lived? Or was it simply marriage that had changed him? He’d been acting differently since the ceremony. No, not since it. During it, as well. Gazing at her as though he didn’t know her, apologizing…
She became acutely aware of tension beginning to radiate through the room, chasing away the relaxed atmosphere that had been there only moments before. He tilted his head slightly. “Good morning, Duchess.”
“Good morning. I apologize for intruding, but there’s no food in the breakfast room—”
“My apologies to you, Your Grace,” the cook interrupted. “The duke wanted to eat his breakfast in the kitchen here like he did when he was just a lad. I’d assumed you’d want a tray brought up. I’ll get busy right away on seeing that food is laid out on the sideboard.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary. A plate will do me fine.”
“I’ll see right to it then.”
Her gaze still locked on Killingsworth, Torie paid little attention as the cook began bustling around the kitchen, placing various tidbits of food on a large platter. Robert seemed most uncomfortable with his wife’s presence.
“You seem more at ease here than in London,” she finally ventured, even though his comfort with her had yet to surface.
“I’ve always considered Hawthorne House to be my home. London is simply a place I visit, because I must on occasion do so.”
“Here you are, Your Grace,” the cook said. “Let me carry this to the breakfast room for you—”
“No need,” Torie interrupted. “I can eat in here.”
“Of course, Your Greece,” the cook said.
Torie gave her attention to the woman. “Mrs. Cuddleworthy, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am” The cook curtsied.
Torie decided the name fit. She could imagine a child sitting on the woman’s lap, his head pressed to her pillowy bosom, while he munched on raspberry tarts, his mouth and hands stained, as well as her apron where he sat against her. The woman would no doubt be as comfortable as a soft bed.
Looking back at her husband, Torie said, “If you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. You are the lady of the manor, free to do as you wish.”
Not exactly the answer she was hoping for, because in spite of his words, it didn’t appear that he truly wanted her there. He pulled out a chair. She walked to the table and sat. Mrs. Cuddleworthy placed the platter in front of her.
Robert bent down, pressed a kiss to her temple, and said, “If you’ll excuse me, my darling, I have some urgent business to which I must attend.”
And just like that, he took his leave, making her wonder once again why he was so anxious not be around her. What in the world was going on?
Mrs. Cuddleworthy seemed as surprised by his abrupt departure as Torie did. Looking at her plate, Torie wished she’d decided to have her meal in the breakfast room after all. At least that room was brighter, more open. It lent itself to cheer more than this room did. And right this moment, she needed some cheer.
“Shall I prepare you a cuppa tea?”
Torie lifted her gaze to the cook and smiled. “Yes, please.”
She moved the food around on her plate, her appetite having deserted her. She didn’t understand her husband’s reserve, his endearment, his quick kiss. It was as though he were performing, doing what was expected rather that what he desired.
She jumped when the tea was suddenly placed before her. “Thank you.”
“Do you not like what I’ve prepared?” Mrs. Cuddleworthy asked.
“It’s lovely,” Torie said, forcing herself to take a bite.
“I have to admit that I take pride in my raspberry tarts.”
“The duke seems to favor them,” Torie admitted.
“He does. He always did. As a young lad, Lord Robert was always pleading with me to make some for him, which is the reason I never understood his forbidding me to prepare them.”
Torie had just lifted her cup to take a sip of tea. She sat there, cup aloft, trying to make sense of the cook’s words. “He forbade you to prepare something he so enjoyed?”
She nodded. “Until this morning. He was in here before the sun, wanting my tarts. Strangest thing.”
Strange indeed, considering the enjoyment he’d obviously taken in eating one. “I wonder why,” Torie mused, not really seeking an answer.
“Haven’t a clue,” the cook responded anyway. “It was right after he became duke. Sometimes it goes to a young man’s head—the power of the position. He changed quite a bit after that, he did. The ordering about of the tart making being only the start. Perhaps he thought his love of tarts was something only a boy should have, not a man with the burden of responsibilities he was carrying on his young shoulders.”
“I would have thought if they were his favorite, he’d have ordered you to cook them three times a day. I’m always comforted when I eat something I enjoy.”
“You’d have thought,” the cook muttered as she turned her attention to the oven.
Another of his idiosyncrasies to file away, Torie thought.
Robert had always thought that if he were free of Pentonville Prison, the veil of despair would lift, and it had b
riefly, but as he studied the ledgers and documents before him, it returned with a resounding clank, like the prison doors being shut on him.
The ledgers seemed to indicate that his brother had somehow managed to take the estate to the brink of ruin. Robert had to have misread something or John hadn’t been good at marking income, because surely this couldn’t have happened.
Their family had resources, mining ventures, horses, investments…
He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the frescoed ceiling, and wondered why he was surprised to discover that his brother had put himself above the estate and titles. John had always preferred play to work, had always skipped out on his lessons, had been lazy whenever possible, had flirted with the young female servants, had been tossed out of one school after another.
He wondered if his brother had planned to change his ways after he married, or if falling in love with Victoria had perhaps changed him. For surely he’d fallen in love with her. How could any man not?
Robert closed his eyes, and with no effort at all, he could see her so clearly. The rich luster of her hair, the deep brown of her eyes, the small dimple that appeared in her right cheek, but not in her left, when she laughed. Why one side and not the other? What other inconsistencies might her body reveal? He thought he might be the luckiest of men if given the opportunity to explore, to trace her face, dip his finger—no, his tongue—into that tiny dent that only appeared when she was exceedingly happy. He would like to trail his fingers over her throat, take his kisses as far down her body as she would allow. And if she allowed no liberties on his part, still he would be content to do nothing more than gaze at her for hours at a time.
The door opened, and Robert jerked his head up to find his wife walking hesitantly into the room. No doubt wondering why her new husband was not giving her attention. He was going to have to come up with a reason to explain his distance. Some sort of pox, perhaps.
He shuddered at the thought of that rumor spreading. Then no woman would want him, and he desperately wanted a woman. He hoped he was having more luck masking the yearning in his eyes than he was the desire exhibiting itself below his waist. To get his body under control, he glanced down at the depressing numbers in the ledgers before very slowly bringing himself to his feet.
But her eyes were not on him. Rather they were focused on something behind him. The painting. Of course. The one of his lovely mother with her two sons, one nestled against each side.
“Oh, my goodness. Is that you and John with your mother?” she asked.
“Yes”.
“You look exactly the same.”
“Of course. We’re twins.”
She shook her head, the tiny dimple appearing as she lifted a corner of her mouth. “I’ve always known you were twins, but I’ve never seen a portrait of the two of you. I thought something would distinguish you from each other. A blemish perhaps, a slightly different chin.”
“There’s nothing—which makes it impossible for anyone to tell us apart.”
“How old are you in the portrait?” she asked.
“I believe we were nearly eight.”
“Was it strange?”
“Strange?”
“Having a twin. I can’t imagine how odd it would seem to look at someone who looks exactly as you do.”
“I didn’t consider it strange. When I looked at John, I saw John. That he looked as I did was simply…the way he looked.”
Her dimple deepened as her smile grew. “Did you ever try to trick people, pretend to be each other?”
How was he to answer that question? With the truth? It was the perfect opportunity to explain the situation, to tell her of John’s deception. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. To lose her completely. So he simply said, “On occasion.”
“Were you ever found out?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “No one ever knew what we did.”
She moved toward the desk, interest reflected in her eyes. “Tell me about one of the times. Tell me what you did, how you managed to pull it off.”
“It wasn’t that difficult. As you say, we looked exactly alike, our mannerisms were very similar. I daresay the only one who could truly tell us apart was our mother. We could never fool her.”
“But you tried”
“On occasion.”
“So reveal to me a time when you successfully pretended to be John.”
He shook his head as a memory came upon him, one from years ago, one he’d locked away and not thought of in a good long while. “It’s not a moment I’m proud of.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“You will think less of me.”
“Impossible.”.
He ran his finger along the edge of the desk, studying the fine grain of the wood. He’d never told a soul. Even John had held his secret when he’d had no reason to. “You owe me, brother,” he’d said afterward.
Surely that incident hadn’t led to John hiding him away in Pentonville.
“Robert?”
He glanced up, having almost forgotten that she was there.
She shook her head. “Where do you go?”
“Pardon?”
“You get a faraway look in your eyes. I’ve seen it happen countless times, and I’m left alone even though you are beside me.”
“I stole an apple,” he said hastily, deciding it was better to reveal the story than to explain where his mind drifted off to. “From a grocer in the village. John very much liked the grocer’s daughter, and I’d been flirting with her, pretending to be him, because she favored him with kisses.”
“So you stole her kisses.”
“Yes, and an apple. The grocer saw me take the apple, not the kisses, and he reported the theft to my father. Only since I’d told his daughter I was John, he told my father it was John who took the apple. So John was punished.”
“Punished? For stealing an apple?”
“My father had a strict moral code. You did not take that which did not belong to you. We were fourteen, John and I. But my father made him hold out a hand—the hand that supposedly took the apple—and struck it three times with a cane. Then he made John pay for the apple.”
He realized that he’d tightened his hand into a fist. The blows had been delivered to John, but Robert had felt the sting of each one of them, because he’d been made to watch his brother being made an example of.
“I should have confessed, spared John the punishment, but I didn’t wish to disappoint my father. Or perhaps I was simply weak. A coward. John had no proof other than his word that it was me and not him.”
And now Robert found himself in the same predicament.
Reaching across the desk, she took his balled hand in hers and slowly unfurled his fingers.
She kissed the center of his palm as though it was he who had been struck. He curled his fingers slightly so they would touch her cheek. “It was a harmless prank. I’m sure there were times when John pretended to be you,” she said.
“I’m sure you’re right. In retrospect, however, perhaps my father did know the truth of it. Punishing me by forcing me to witness his punishing John. If that was his thinking, it was very clever on his part. I never pretended to be John again.”
He worked his hand free of her hold before he did something dangerous like wrap his hand around the nape of her neck and draw her near for a kiss.
“I’ve asked the groomsman to saddle a horse for me so that I might go riding,” he announced, for no other reason than to change the subject and to alert her to the fact that she’d best be on her way because he was soon to be on his.
“May I go with you?” she asked.
“I have the pox.” The words came out, barely audible even to his own ears.
She tilted her head. “Pardon?”
“I said…I have a fox.”
“Are you going hunting then?”
“No, just looking.”
She gave him a smile that almost brought him to his knees, and in that m
oment he thought he might truly hate his brother for having a claim to this woman.
“I would like to take a look as well.”
She was tempting him beyond all reason, and his resistance was weakening.
“Actually another time might be better. I plan to visit the family mausoleum. Not exactly a jolly place.”
“I’d like to pay my respects to your family.”
What could he say to that heartfelt declaration?
“I’ll have another horse readied then.”
“Thank you. I’ll change into my riding dress and meet you at the stables.”
She unsettled him, confused him, threatened his plans. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than nod and say, “I look forward to your company.”
Chapter 11
In the end they walked, leading their horses behind them, because the family mausoleum was not that far from the manor. They reached it by strolling through elaborate, well-maintained gardens. Torie was left with the impression that the gardens had been designed to bring tranquility to anyone traveling through them so that when they reached their final destination, they would arrive with a sense of peace.
Like everything else Torie had seen at Hawthorne House, the mausoleum was magnificent. It sat in a clearing, its stone spires competing with the surrounding trees for height. Stained-glass windows adorned and brought muted and colored sunlight into the cold building.
Torie thought it was probably the marble tombs inside that held the warmth at bay. Several lined the walls, each providing a place where an intricate carving of a man lay next to that of a woman—both exhibited in their prime even if death had not arrived until long past that moment. A kindness to those housed within and to those who would visit their ancestors—who were always displayed at their best.
In the center of the building were the resting places of the fifth Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth, who’d been taken from this earth much too soon. Robert’s parents.
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