When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  Duncan began walking toward the house. “How can you think of food when—damn.”

  “You swore,” Stephen said, hitching along beside him. “Why on earth would you—? Damn.”

  The ducal coach rattled up the drive and continued around to the front of the manor, another large conveyance following closely behind it.

  “The invading forces have arrived,” Stephen said. “Prepare to man the turrets and defend your lemon drops.”

  Jane and Matilda would get on famously. They were both serious, brilliant, determined ladies with a sense of mischief.

  “This is not an invasion.” Duncan resumed walking, his pace more deliberate. “These are our reinforcements.”

  “Which is why you’ll warn Matilda privately before you let Quinn and Jane have at her.”

  “The children will take her captive.” A lovely thought, Matilda spirited away to the nursery, where she’d be forced to read stories and marvel at Bitty’s lone card trick by the hour.

  “I’m surprised Matilda wasn’t out here supervising us,” Stephen said. “You cut a fine figure when you shed your jacket and coat.”

  “Doubtless she was admiring me from the windows.”

  “I was watching for her, and I didn’t see her.”

  Duncan longed to give Stephen a shove—affection and annoyance, in one casual gesture—but one didn’t physically shove Stephen.

  “Find your own true love,” Duncan said, “and leave mine alone.”

  “I’ll intercept your reinforcements,” Stephen said, turning for the back terrace. “You find your true love and explain to her about how the Duke of Walden nearly died with his neck in a noose.”

  “No talk of nooses and death, please. I’ll bring Matilda down to meet the cousins in the family parlor. Say nothing about her, no matter how severely you’re questioned.”

  “Bring her down straightaway. Mortal man is helpless to resist Jane’s interrogations.”

  “Give me five minutes, and don’t eat all the tea cakes before Matilda and I have a chance at them.”

  * * *

  Matilda’s instincts were stirring back to life. Not only the instincts of a fugitive, but also the instincts of a chess player. In the middle of a good game, she lost track of time, lost track of her surroundings. She became a mind absorbed in an intellectual challenge. What options had she left her opponent? What would a person of her opponent’s character and experience do with those options?

  Did she and Duncan have to leave England? Could she find a way to resolve her difficulties without risking death as a traitor? What had Papa been doing with those plans?

  Had he stolen them for the Crown or from the Crown?

  She stopped several yards short of where the path through the trees opened out onto the inn’s side yard.

  “If you’re questioned regarding this package, you don’t know anything about it,” she said, passing the missive to Jinks.

  “Which I don’t.” Jinks shifted from foot to foot on the muddy path. “Would you mind if I stepped around back for a moment after I’ve picked up the mail?”

  Twenty yards away, a groom was leading a coach-and-four up from the stables. No crests showed on the doors, though the conveyance was fine. One wheel lacked the red trim of the other three, suggesting a recent repair.

  Matilda backed up a few steps so a thick oak stood between her and the innyard. To be out in fresh air on a sunny morning was wonderful, but she refused to take unnecessary chances.

  “Step around to the jakes if you must, Jinks, but don’t be long.”

  He grinned and dashed off, as Matilda pulled her hood up and rested her back against the rough bark of the tree. She’d met Duncan in these woods just a few short weeks ago. What a difference, between that woman—frightened, alone, nearly starving—and the woman who’d awoken with a new dream, no longer alone. She was still wary—she might always be wary—but no longer panicked.

  She peeked around the tree to see the coach halt and a footman set down the steps. The coachman wore livery, though Matilda couldn’t make out more than a fancy embroidered hem beneath his greatcoat.

  Jinks skipped down the inn’s steps and dodged around the corner of the building. He’d not tarried inside, bless the boy.

  A hand clamped around Matilda’s shoulder. “Now who have we here?”

  She whirled, but the snow robbed her boots of purchase, and she could not break her captor’s grasp.

  “I do believe we and the lady are acquainted, Herm.” A small, weasely man in much-mended garb held a knife, while his larger companion gave Matilda a shake.

  “Be still, you. Jeffrey and me have a score to settle, and we don’t much care how we settle it.”

  More than their appearance, their voices struck a chord in Matilda’s memory. These were Duncan’s poachers, the men who’d set snares for helpless rabbits on land they didn’t own.

  “What can you possibly want with me?” she spat. “These woods are the last place you two should be plying your criminal trade.”

  “We’re not plying anything,” the smaller man said. “We’re gallantly aiding a lady fallen on trying times. Colonel Parker said so. He’s ever so worried about you.”

  Colonel Parker. Matilda had the space of two heartbeats to consider options and outcomes. She could demand to be taken to Duncan, and promise these louts payment for delivering her. That choice would irrevocably entangle Duncan and his family in her troubles.

  She could go meekly into Parker’s arms. She might well end up dead, she might also end up married to Parker, but Duncan—blameless, decent Duncan—would be safe.

  “You come from Colonel Lord Parker?” she asked.

  “That’s his coach over yonder,” Herman replied. “Poor sod’s been lookin’ for you everywhere.”

  A cold wind blew through the bare trees, and Matilda said a prayer for fortitude. Duncan, I’m sorry.

  “Then take me to the colonel at once. This instant, and unhand me or it will go the worse for you when the colonel finds out how I’ve been treated.”

  She’d learned to use that tone on her castle servants, a lazy bunch who’d taken advantage of her husband’s chronic distraction. Herman turned loose of her, and his companion’s knife disappeared beneath a winter coat.

  “Come along, then,” the shorter man said, “and be quick about it.”

  Matilda marched smartly from the woods, praying that Jinks either stayed out of sight or knew enough not to interfere.

  “Miss?” The coachman from the big vehicle called down to her. He was a trim man not much older than Matilda, with the weathered features common to his profession.

  “Good day,” Matilda said, drawing herself up. “These men tell me this coach belongs to Colonel Lord Atticus Parker. Can you confirm that assertion?”

  The coachman wrapped the reins and climbed down. “Miss Wakefield, is that you? We’ve been so worried. So very, very worried. The colonel has been beside himself, and he will be overjoyed to find you hale and whole.”

  “This is the colonel’s coach, then? He’s here? I’m looking for Colonel Lord Atticus Parker and no other.” Please let the dread in her voice sound like reluctant hope. A movement at the corner of the innyard caught her eye, but she dared not look for fear she’d see Jinks preparing to intervene.

  A tread on the inn’s front steps sent foreboding skittering up her spine.

  “I would know my intended anywhere,” Parker said. “Matilda, I have prayed for your safety nightly, and now the prodigal has been found.”

  Matilda turned slowly, all choices and options falling away. She wanted to live. She wanted Duncan to live and to have the freedom to wander as he pleased, secure in the love of his family. She wanted Papa to enjoy a peaceful old age, and she wanted very much to cry.

  “Atticus,” she said, stepping toward him. “I’m so glad you’ve found me.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, and he enveloped her in a gentle embrace. “Have no fear, Matilda. I’ll ensure that
your little queer start has no lasting repercussions, provided you tell me everything.”

  She quelled the urge to wallop him and instead nodded. “I will tell you every bit of it, but not in the middle of an innyard, where anyone might overhear. Take me home, Atticus. I want to go home.”

  She had no home of her own, and accepting Atticus’s protection meant she never would. She would have what Atticus allowed her and nothing more, though Papa and Duncan would be safe.

  “My intended will return with us to London,” Atticus said.

  Please, Jinks, become distracted by some birdcall, by the reflection of the sunlight on a mud puddle, by the gossip offered by a passing potboy.

  Matilda climbed into the coach unassisted and left the door open for Atticus.

  “Eager to be on your way?” he asked, taking a place beside her on the forward-facing bench.

  “I’ve learned not to linger in the open,” Matilda said, though her precautions had been inadequate. “I have nothing left of great value to carry with me. We can be on our way immediately.”

  “What else have you learned?” Atticus rapped on the roof with his fist.

  The opening moves were a delicate and interesting aspect of any chess game. Matilda chose the simplicity of truth, though the feeling of the coach rocking into motion, of being torn from the only haven she’d known, made her chest ache.

  “I’ve learned that I am not equal to the challenges faced by women of the lower orders. I’ve learned that I was a fool, and that a head for chess does not imbue me with any ability to fend for myself—just the opposite. I’ve learned to appreciate basic comforts.” And I’ve learned what the love of a good man feels like.

  “Why did you disappear, Matilda? Did Wakefield threaten you?”

  How concerned Atticus sounded, how ready to be outraged on her behalf. “I know not whose livery the coachman and grooms wear, my lord, and another lesson I’ve learned is that privacy should never be assumed. We can discuss the rest of my situation in London.”

  The coach horses set a spanking pace onto the main thoroughfare, despite the muddy condition of the road. Every turn of the wheels made the ache in Matilda’s heart sharper.

  What have I done? What will Duncan think?

  “We can be in London by nightfall,” Atticus said, “and I took the liberty of getting us a special license. By tomorrow evening we can be married, and Wakefield can’t say anything to it.”

  Oh, God.

  Oh, Duncan.

  “I’d like that.” The lump in Matilda’s throat was the size of Brightwell’s home wood. “I want an end to this situation, Atticus, and if you can guarantee me that Papa and I will be safe, then I am happy to marry you.”

  “I can make that promise,” the colonel replied, taking her hand. “Let me handle everything, and your troubles will be over.”

  Matilda gazed out the window as Duncan’s woods were lost around a bend in the road. My troubles have in truth just begun.

  * * *

  Odd emotions stirred as Duncan made his way up Brightwell’s back stairs. Stephen’s half-finished construction project meant the railing between the ground and first floors was missing, and the smell of sawdust permeated the air.

  Change had come to Brightwell. The staff had been in a cleaning frenzy, the footmen had scrubbed the library from shelves to grates, and the garden was being retrieved from ruin. This house could have become the home Matilda had longed for, but that wasn’t meant to be.

  “Have you seen Miss Matilda?” Duncan asked a maid scurrying past.

  “Not since I came upon her—” The maid blushed as only a redhead could blush. “Not since she broke her fast, sir.”

  Came upon her in your bed. Duncan should have been mortified rather than amused.

  “If you see her, please let her know that company awaits in the family parlor.” Because Matilda was family now and should meet her prospective in-laws in as comfortable a setting as possible.

  “She’s usually in the study at midday,” the maid replied. “Poring over them manuscripts. Likes to open all the draperies and sit by the fire.”

  “Right, the study. My thanks.” Duncan spun on his heel and made for the study, where he should have thought to look first.

  Matilda wasn’t in the study, she wasn’t in her bedroom—though her personal effects were still hanging in the wardrobe, a shamefully vast relief—and she wasn’t in Duncan’s apartment.

  Hiding? Rummaging in the attics? Napping in some quiet corner because Duncan had twice interrupted her slumbers to make love with her?

  “Cousin Duncan!” A high voice bellowed. “We came to see you!” Booted feet beat a rapid tattoo as a small female barreled toward Duncan.

  He caught her up in his arms. “Elizabeth, a pleasure to see you.” And to hug her, and to enjoy again the little-girl reality of her.

  “Am I almost grown up yet?”

  “No, thank the celestial powers. You are still your delightfully five-year-old self.”

  “I want to be grown up,” she said, squeezing him about the neck. “Then I can have a fine coach, and waltz, and never, never, never have to sit still in church. Cousin Stephen said I was to fetch you, or you’d be forever trying to put your old self to rights. Is this your new self?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You are not the same,” she said, wiggling to get down, then seizing Duncan by the hand. “You smell happier. You smell of climbing trees and making dams in the stream, not books and coal smoke, and boring old lessons. Cousin Stephen says you have a new friend.”

  Bitty stopped at the top of the steps and speared Duncan with a glower. “Friends aren’t cousins. You are my cousin.”

  She held up her arms and Duncan sat her on the bannister. Down she went, skirts flying, right past a startled Manners.

  “Cousin Duncan, come along!” Bitty yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  “That one has a fine set of lungs,” Manners said.

  “If she directs you to saddle her dragon, you will deposit her on the nearest bannister and bid her good hunting.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wentworth.”

  Duncan took the stairs at his usual decorous pace, but where on earth could Matilda have got off to? The niggling fear that she’d bolted had no basis in fact. She’d left her effects in her room, she’d had no reason to leave, she’d—

  “Mama, I found him!” Bitty bellowed, taking hold of Duncan’s hand when he reached the bottom stair. “I told him we have come to pay a visit.”

  The family parlor door opened to reveal Jane, Duchess of Walden, looking as serene and benign as a Renaissance madonna. Jane was dark-haired, on the tall side, and a mother three times over. If anything, years of marriage had gilded her beauty with humor and a certain wily tenacity that often masqueraded as graciousness.

  “Jane, a pleasure.” Duncan kissed her cheek and endured a hug, Bitty still kiting around on his hand. “I hope the journey was uneventful.”

  “With three children? Surely you jest. Fortunately, Elizabeth was up on the box or in the saddle with her father from time to time. She was vastly disappointed that no highwaymen presented themselves for target practice. You look well.”

  Duncan felt well, but for his worry regarding Matilda. The morning’s exertions in the garden agreed with him, putting Brightwell to rights agreed with him. Spending the night with Matilda agreed with him very much.

  “Thank you. I hope somebody thought to order a tea tray.”

  Bitty towed him into the parlor. “I told Uncle Stephen not to be a hog with the tea cakes or you would be very disappointed in him. I am never a hog, but sometimes I am an adorable little piglet, right, Papa?”

  Quinn turned, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. Still no gray in his hair—he and Duncan had something of an unspoken contest in that regard. With his free arm, he cradled an infant, who surveyed the room with the equanimity any ducal child ought to claim from birth.

  “Duncan.”

  “Quinn.”<
br />
  They did not embrace. They had never embraced. They’d lived under the same roof for years without even speaking much. Duncan’s job had been to keep Stephen out of trouble, and he’d done that to the best of his ability. Quinn’s job had been to not make Duncan’s task more difficult. Then Jane had come along, and Quinn’s responsibilities had taken on new and besotted dimensions.

  “I’ll take that baby,” Duncan said, plucking the child from her father’s arms. “You’ll get crumbs in her hair.”

  The infant waved a fist and smacked Duncan on the shoulder.

  “She’s pleased to see me.” Duncan was more than pleased to see that the baby was in the pink of health.

  Quinn regarded Duncan with the blue-eyed acumen that had made many a bank customer squirm. “You’ve no pin in your cravat.”

  “Quinn,” Jane said. “Duncan hasn’t been in the room five minutes and you’re interrogating him.”

  “He always wears a cravat pin.”

  Stephen, who’d been steadily ingesting tea cakes, paused. “So lovely, to be discussed in the third person by one’s nearest and dearest, isn’t it? These cakes are wonderful.”

  “Don’t be a hog, Uncle Stephen.” Bitty bounded from Duncan’s side. “You should save one for Hester. Nurse had to take her upstairs to finish her nap because Hester is little.”

  Hester was Bitty’s younger sister, and as quiet as Bitty was exuberant. Hester had picked her first lock at the age of two and a half. Jane worried that the child had inherited her uncle Stephen’s mind for mechanical devices.

  Duncan looked forward to teaching Hester to play chess.

  Though if he and Matilda emigrated to some far-flung clime, he’d likely never see Hester, Bitty, or Artemis again. That thought disagreed with him almost as much as not knowing where Matilda was.

  “I will leave defense of the tea tray to mine host,” Jane said. “Bitty, you may take three tea cakes, one for you, one for Hester, and one for Nurse, then you will join me in locating the nursery.”

  Bitty snatched up three cakes. “I don’t have to take a nap, do I?”