A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  “Repington . . . Busick.”

  “Follow orders, Jordan. I expect you here at two with Lionel. Then this door between us will never be shut. I think we’ll both sleep better with nothing separating us.”

  “That’s not a declaration of love. But I had one of those. And in the end, it meant little. It’s a practical arrangement.”

  “With benefits. My title and such.”

  Waggling his brows, he hoped she’d laugh or at least smile.

  “This is crazy, Commander, but since I’m a former inmate of Bedlam, why not? Yes, I’ll follow your schedule.”

  He drew his hands behind his head and watched her wobble like she shifted through dessert jellies returning to the adjacent room.

  She left the door separating them wide open, and he hoped that was indicative of how they’d continue. He picked Colin’s diary back up, looking for the final clues that would set Patience free.

  CHAPTER 29

  A CEREMONY OF CONVENIENCE

  Never thought I’d marry again.

  Or that one of my bridesmaids would be a cat. The countess’s kitty had gotten a hold of the bouquet Jemina made of the brave pimpernel flowers from the field. Athena took them and ducked under the duke’s bed.

  I knelt and tried to coax her out from under the bed. “Come, girl. I need you, dear, to r-return to me.”

  My nerves showed as I stumbled over my words.

  The countess snapped her fingers, but the kitten had too much fun shredding the red and yellow petals.

  Well, it added color to the celebration.

  The duke laughed. “Let her be. Gantry has the rings. Athena can litter those petals to decorate our makeshift wedding chapel, this lovely bedchamber.”

  He was in good humor and took my hand. “Begin, sir.”

  The parish minister began his speech.

  Lionel lay beside the duke. He’d rolled over, surely a result of the baby drills.

  My free palm smoothed my skirt, a huge white cotton gaulle draped with a gold-and-scarlet madras shrouding my waist. The gown spoke of Demerara, of my lost home. I wore a hat, a slim cream-colored bonnet, very English, very much what a free woman would wear on the island. It was a proper memento of my papa, much better than carrying my gold knife.

  No wearing gray or black. I was done mourning. I proudly rolled my r’s on my duke’s title.

  The minister, a man wearing a powdered wig with a very pale face, made me laugh, thinking of my masquerades. But this was no act. It was true. I was wedding my duke.

  “Do you, Busick Strathmore, take Patience Jordan to be your wife?” the minister asked.

  Slightly sitting up, with his cranberry uniform draping his shoulders, he wore the brooch Lionel loved. “I do.”

  His face wrinkled when he held my son, and he seemed to pay more attention to my baby than the binding words the minister offered.

  “Do you, Patience Jordan, take this man to be his lawful wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Jemina nudged me.

  “Oh, I mean I do.”

  This brought a new round of chuckles.

  This was a marriage of convenience. Admitting to more would ruin things. The tightness in my chest as I looked at Busick would be my new secret.

  Athena ran by, dropping petals at my feet.

  The countess made a coaxing tsk.

  Jemina and Lord Gantry couldn’t stop their chuckles.

  I decided to ignore them and focused on the new band on my finger.

  It held no fancy script or initials, just an ounce or two of smooth yellow gold. It was different from the silver band Lady Shrewsbury had given me to make up for the one Markham had taken.

  I was glad for this ring. It symbolized strength and practicality. I’d be a good wife to the duke.

  Lord Gantry took a paper from his jacket. “This is the special license for the archbishop.”

  “Well, it’s done, Duchess.” Busick picked up his watch from the table. “And in such short order. Who knew a ceremony could be so short?”

  His beautiful clear eyes, sweet blue eyes held a smile and me.

  I was a Strathmore, Her Grace, the Duchess of Repington.

  Lady Shrewsbury kissed my cheek.

  Jemina offered a big hug.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Gunshots.

  My heart went into my throat. “Markham?”

  “No, dearest.” The duke wore a full grin, his dimples beaming. “My men. A tribute for us.”

  Jemina caught Athena and the flowerless bouquet and stood at the window. “What a tribute, Your Graces.”

  The snowball licked at my dear friend’s fingers.

  I’d never had a salute with a hail of bullets, or a celebration, for that matter. Colin and I left right away on a boat. If I’d known it would be the last time I saw my father, I would have stayed. I would’ve held on to him for much longer in the Demeraran sun.

  Grief and hope filled my heart. Who would be victorious?

  Turning from the window, I watched the duke play with my boy, letting Lionel bat his medals. Then I knew hope was the stronger warrior. It would win.

  Lady Shrewsbury took Jemina’s arm and mine. “Congratulations, Duke, Duchess. Walk me out, ladies.”

  The duke nodded and whispered something that made Lionel’s gums blow spittle.

  In the wide space of the hall, I shuttered as I heard another gunshot. “So does this count as a win for the Widow’s Grace? You promised to restore my custody. This marriage does this.”

  “I’ve come to know you, Patience, as well as I know Repington. I knew you two were well matched, but this is an unexpected blessing. May this union restore your heart. But take care, Markham’s not done. You’re secure, but Lionel is still vulnerable. My nephew says Markham’s been making a fuss in legal circles.”

  The joy I’d been trying to hold on to slipped from my grasp. I clutched my elbows, the billowy sleeves of my gown deflating. “Will I always have to be afraid?”

  “In a little more than three weeks, the payment from your father’s trust will be made to Repington. Markham will have nothing more to fight for. He will tire. His need to have custody of Lionel will diminish. Mrs. St. Maur will stay to help you stay vigilant.”

  Jemina spoke up. “That diary, I think is the thing Markham wants. Without it, he can no longer extort Sullivan.”

  Jemina was brilliant. That must be why he wanted back in the drawing room. Without the diary or my father’s payment, he had no way to get money.

  “Stay alert, but don’t let uncertainty of anything cheat you of joy. Widows have to be smarter, but we have to have peace, too.”

  Peace, bravery, intellect—I was weighted down by all these things I was supposed to have.

  Guards opened the entry doors.

  Kitty in one hand, her shawl in the other, the countess descended Hamlin’s steps to her carriage. Her gooseberry-gold–colored skirts and matching cape flapped in the sweet breeze. “Stay alert.”

  Jemina and I waved at her.

  The air smelled of powdered snow and gunpowder.

  I looked at the steps. I no longer saw Colin there but the duke, the night we’d met, me helping him arrive at the entry.

  The doors closed.

  Jemina and I passed milling soldiers. They were in good spirits, drinking the sorrel punch I’d made.

  “My Demerara is gone.”

  She kissed my cheek. “You have a new home, here.”

  My friend kept moving up to the third floor.

  Walking deep inside the master’s bedchamber, I saw the duke asleep with Lionel on his chest.

  My boy snored his crickets.

  I scooped him up and resettled the blanket on my husband, my Busick. Then, I pushed open the door between the connected rooms.

  Singing to my baby, I sank onto my bed and fed my hungry boy, but my eyes drifted to Busick’s bedroom.

  When night fell, I didn’t like the quiet of my room and how far away I was from Repington.

 
; I’d kept the big bread basket and settled Lionel inside.

  I put on my nightgown and carried my boy into the large bedchamber.

  I set the basket near the duke’s boots, where he could watch over him, then scurried to the other side and climbed aboard.

  When I rested my head, Busick clasped my fingers.

  “Duchess, is our boy asleep?” His voice was lazy and filled with gruff boulders and gravel.

  “Yes, he has a full belly.”

  “Good.”

  I held my breath and scooted deeper under the covers, closer to him.

  His face held an amused smile.

  “I’m still a bit immobile, you know? This spine will loosen any day. What will you do with me then? You won’t be able to take up all the room on this mattress.”

  I glanced up and saw something in his face I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t quite vulnerability or his normal bravado. It was something in between.

  He sank his fingers into my braids, tossing away the coiffe head wrap. His thumb tumbled along my ear. “I snore sometimes, you know, in those moments when you’re not trying to seduce me.”

  Busick took my palm and kissed the lifeline of the palm. “You don’t have to stay. My mother never shared a bedroom with my father when he took ill. You don’t have—”

  Crouching on my knees, I brushed my nose against his, then kissed him silent, stopping the foolish drivel coming from his delicious mouth.

  Surely, he knew I wasn’t his mother.

  And he wasn’t his father or mine.

  His hands found me slipping the edges of my nightgown, the lace covering my bosom. I curled into that position under his shoulder, that spot that had become mine, rib cage to rib cage.

  The groan leaving Busick matched the one I held inside. That shimmer of a spark had to be extinguished, put away for later.

  “Not exactly the beginning of the wedding night I imagined, Patience.”

  “I suppose you’re used to more excitement.” A forced yawn pushed out, and I snuggled closer to his pillow. “Well, I will wait with bated breath.”

  He released a growl. “Waiting is supposed to be good.”

  I was at peace knowing Busick would be there in the morning, but that murmur wasn’t pain. It was restlessness.

  My warrior was frustrated. He forewent his portion of rum and drank laudanum, then clenched his eyes.

  “Busick?”

  With a patronizing pat to my hand, he turned his head away.

  What words would the commander heed that would assure Busick I was content as things were? I needed him here, next to me, more than I wanted passion.

  With his eye closed, his face pinched, I wasn’t sure he felt the same.

  CHAPTER 30

  A MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE

  Busick sat by the window watching Gantry lead his troops. They looked crisp, marching on the fresh snow. It ached deep in his gut that he couldn’t be out there. It had taken another week since the wedding, but he could now sit without agony vibrating every muscle. Yet none of this was enough for a man who’d lived to push for excellence.

  The soldiers made a ninety-degree turn that seemed more like a hundred. Their first miss, and Gantry didn’t correct them. He was too far ahead on his horse to see.

  Busick should be out there. The lineup of men was wrong. He banged his fist on the side of the wheeled chair.

  He struck the side again.

  Pumping his hand, he looked up and saw Patience at the door, her arms full of bundles.

  Schooling his face to appear impassioned, even calm, he glanced at her. “My wife does not need to do laundry.”

  “This duchess does. Lionel is quite actively proving a need for fresh linen.”

  She came closer and put the linens down on the bed. “Duke, you look tense. Did you strain getting up?”

  Of course, it was a strain. It was terrible looking at her wearing another dress he admired, one that darted at the waist, above the hips and thighs and . . . not being able to know her.

  He swiped at his mouth and pushed the big wheel of his chair forward. “I needed to be up. You haven’t coddled me, Patience. Don’t start now.”

  “Sorry.”

  Her face blanked of its smile.

  He needed to soften his voice. It wasn’t her fault. Did those topaz eyes hold at least a mild curiosity, if not a latent smolder, for her husband?

  Easing his chair to within a foot of her, he posted. “I told you it was time for me to get up. I’m up. You need to listen more.”

  Her brow cocked. “Did you think marriage would change this?”

  “There was always hope your hearing wouldn’t remain selective.”

  “Why do you sound angry?”

  Now wasn’t the time for this discussion. When he could act upon his desires would be better. He made the wheeled contraption move to the door. “Is that Lionel? I think he’s crying.”

  “He’s not. Or he’s just settling.” She put her hand on Busick’s shoulder, the warmth of her fingers searing through his shirt. “What is it?”

  “You didn’t sleep in our chambers last night.”

  “Lionel was up late. I must’ve fallen asleep. We brought the rocker downstairs. It’s quite comfortable.”

  Spinning around, he glared at her. “Pity. I missed hearing your thoughts. You communicate more when you close your eyes. Very talkative in your sleep.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What have I done? What rule have I broken? I’ll fix it.”

  “I know you’re frightened. Tell me why. Hamlin is secure. Your position is secure. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

  She looked down and crossed her arms. “You heard my ramblings. What do you think?”

  “That you’re still in love with Colin. That you miss him.”

  “He was my husband. Should I not have loved him?”

  “Of course you should. He fathered Lionel. But you are still calling for him. You chased after a man who knew him. You’re stuck in the past. Is this because I’m physically stuck, too?”

  Clasping her bony elbows, she sat on the bed, the bed where he wanted to gather her up and make her his own.

  “I don’t want Colin, but he still haunts my head. I don’t know how to make him stop.”

  He pushed back to her. “What can I do to make you secure? You have my name, my protection. You must know how I crave you. What else?”

  She came near, knelt, and dropped her head into his lap. “I don’t know. Lady Shrewsbury says Markham may strike up until my father, my late father’s payment is settled.”

  Patience counted her fingers. “That’s two more weeks. More time to go about tasks pretending I’m not looking for the fiend to come from the catacombs. Or that he has stolen Lionel, or has found a way to hurt you.”

  He lifted her face, fingering that wonderful cleft in her quivering chin. “I have troops patrolling. Gantry is outside. He’s capable of protecting you.”

  Her wide eyes narrowed as she stood. “Do you think my fears are because you can’t walk? Don’t disparage me like this. You know me better than this.”

  “I think I know you, but you’re the only one to ever deceive me twice. I need to know what you’re thinking, and it can’t come from your dreams.”

  She rose, towering above him like the queen she was. Chin lifted, she went into the adjacent room.

  The noise of drawers opening, content shifting struck his ear.

  When she returned, she placed a scrunched-up piece of parchment into his palm. “The last time I told a man what I thought, he walked into the Thames.”

  “I’m not Colin.”

  “I don’t want you to be. I thank your Jove that you’re not him. But we’re not free, Busick. We’re not. Waiting for Markham or Colin to appear will drive me to your rum. I don’t know how to be around you and not be the cause of your suffering.”

  “It’s not you—”

  “Read it. Know my thoughts. They killed Colin.”

 
Unfolding the paper, Busick saw a beautifully penned letter to his cousin. A few words stood out—hate, can’t forgive, tired, leaving.

  “I sent it to him when he left me again over the summer. I told him I was done being alone, that I wanted to go home. He should’ve laughed at that notion, knowing there was nothing in Demerara for me. My father’s brothers—I can’t call them uncles—they believe in enslavement. My sisters, they may all be enslaved.”

  “Patience, I’ll find out what happened to them. I’ll do that for you.”

  That look on her face—the angry and frowning purse of her lips when she thought no one saw, when she pounded loaves with her fists—made Busick feel worse.

  “I don’t want my words to kill you, Duke.”

  “Tell me your disappointments to my face. Let me know. No hiding, no disguises. Tell me, Patience. That’s an order.”

  “What is it you want to hear? You want to know how I like to hear you breathing next to me? That I hate that you can’t walk because it pains you so? Do you know I’m relieved that you’re not traipsing to gaming hells with Markham and how I don’t have to wait for him to come to Hamlin to tell me you’re dead as he did Colin?”

  “Markham was the one to tell you? Not the magistrate?”

  “Halt!”

  Men shouted from outside.

  Busick clasped her hand and led her into the hall to view the front lawn. “Buck up. Maybe it’s a note from Markham telling you he’s given up.”

  He pushed his chair toward the stairs.

  Patience came behind and put her hand on the seat as if she would assist.

  Taking up her fingers, he kissed them. “I can manage.”

  “Must be a rule about not wanting my help.”

  Before he could answer her barb, he saw the rider coming up the driveway. The fellow wasn’t in regimentals, but this could be a disguise to deliver a message straight from the battlefield. “Thank you, Patience, for never disguising yourself as a soldier. I still think of your hips in breeches.”

  “Why do you make me laugh when I’m angry?”