The Demon Duchess: An Aristocrat Falls for a Cowboy Second Chance Romance (The Demon Duchess Series Book 2)

by Tessa Bowen

  No map or amount of reading could have prepared the Baroness for the vastness that was Montana. Sand-colored, sun-bleached land stretched as far as the eye could see, butting up to mountains that rose into a never-ending sky. The Bighorn River cascaded through these high mountain cliffs separating the valley below—the valley that her mysterious husband owned.

  She rolled down the window to catch the scent of the place, the smell of the air overwhelmed her senses—so clean and crisp and fragrant. She thought the air in the English countryside was good, but this air was something altogether different. It reminded her of fall in the Swiss Alps—she’d spent that wonderful autumn there with her father when she’d been a little girl. The temperature was chilly. She knew this part of the country got loads of snow in the winter. She was glad it was only October. She didn’t have any snow gear for her duckling yet.

  “We’ve entered the Wild West, Ducky,” she told her daughter, pulling her closer as the car carried them down a long stretch of road. “Perhaps we should prepare our six-shooters.”

  Her daughter had calmed down the minute they’d set out on their long adventure. She knew taking a newborn on a transoceanic flight would be a challenge, but there was no other way. This little girl needed her father. Abigail needed him too. She had come a long way to tell him that, and before she told him, she planned on killing him for playing such a nasty trick on her. As nervous as the Baroness was, she knew she was doing the right thing. Ducky seemed to sense they were getting closer and closer. She was actually cooing with excitement now.

  Abigail swallowed hard as they approached the sprawling ranch house with the giant rather intimidating “J” etched on the front gate. She was entering uncharted territory for sure.

  “Your father will be surprised to see us.”

  As they neared the impressive house her heart skipped a beat and her blood started to run faster. She couldn’t let her resolve weaken. This man had a responsibility to uphold and he’d made a damn fool of her—and his daughter for that matter. She wouldn’t let him out of this easily. Yes, she’d stalked him across the globe, but that didn’t make her crazy. He was the unreasonable one for leaving them. He had told her he would watch over their daughter. Deserting Ducky when she was barely a week old wasn’t well done of him at all.

  She frowned at the driver who didn’t make a move to help her out of the car. They’d acted as though she’d come unmoored from her senses at the Billings Logan Airport when she’d asked to hire a car and driver. This sketchy fellow was all they had available. Abigail guessed Montana wasn’t so used to British Baronesses requesting chauffeured limousines. She knew she’d stick out like a sore thumb here. She’d been to New York countless times with Trevor—San Francisco and Los Angeles of course—even a short stay in Chicago, but she’d never expected the great state of Montana to be quite this backward. She may have been in an entirely different country. It felt so different from the metropolitan areas she’d visited before. This truly was the heart of America, for better or for worse.

  “Oh, well—we’ll just have to rough it, Ducky.”

  She straightened the baby’s jumper and patted her hair down, stepping onto Jackson soil. She was met with a silence so deafening that it mesmerized her. It went with the expansive, pristine landscape. The place was a perfect marriage of natural majesty and sacred space.

  “It is boundless, isn’t it?” she breathed. “All that sky…”

  The Baroness only gave herself a half-minute more to admire her surroundings. She hadn’t come here to sightsee.

  Square your shoulders, old girl—you’re going in.

  Her heeled boots crunched on the well-maintained gravel drive. She climbed the steps, feeling like she was walking the plank. The A-frame of the massive entrance loomed, the giant oak door threatened.

  What did she have to be intimidated about? So what, the father of her child had turned out to be the King of Montana (well, perhaps the Prince of Montana), but she was still a baroness from an old and noble line. This wasn’t exactly a castle anyway. No, it wasn’t a castle, she told herself. It was more like a large lodge or a log cabin on steroids.

  She clutched the heavy door knocker and gave it two sharp raps. It seemed like an hour before she heard a rustle from within. It was no wonder really. How a servant got from point A to point B without the use of a helicopter on such a property was beyond her.

  The door swung open and a thick-set woman in her late fifties appeared. She had a round pleasant face, but a tough one. Keen hazel eyes peered at her from beneath a fringe of silver-brown bangs. She wasn’t dressed like a servant. She wore jeans with a brown leather belt and a plaid shirt. Perhaps this was the dress code for house staff in Montana. Anything was possible in the Wild West.

  The woman’s face radiated delight and her dangly turquoise earrings bobbed. “Now who is this little darling?” she asked.

  “Her name is Ducky,” the Baroness answered automatically. “I mean Daphne…”

  “Daphne, what a pretty name—and you are…?”

  The words fluttered from her lips in rapid succession. “I’m Abigail Sutton from England. I’m the wife of John Hale Jackson and this is his daughter.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Baroness prickled when the woman’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I assure you I am no imposter. If you doubt me, look at her eyes—they’re his eyes.”

  She tilted her bundle so the woman could get a good look. As if on cue, Ducky gave the woman a long meaningful stare with her penetrating sapphire orbs. Then she let out a loud quack as if to announce herself.

  “I’ll be switched…”

  The woman tore her gaze away from the baby and belted out a holler that rivaled Daphne’s squawk.

  “Johnny, you come down here this instant.”

  The Baroness held her breath. She heard male voices from above and then the clatter of boots as someone made their way down a long flight of stairs. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest she feared she might drop. She wished she had a chair to sit on. As it was, she was still standing in the doorway. She held on tight to Ducky for support.

  First his long legs came into view as he descended, then the expanse of his toned torso. He peered over the bannister, focusing on the scene below. When he saw them, his features slackened in horror. Not shock or surprise—and certainly not delight, but horror.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, grasping the bannister. It appeared he too needed support. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Abigail’s nostrils flared. Was that any way to greet your wife and daughter?

  “Johnny, is this your baby?” the woman demanded, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

  “Yes, she’s my baby,” he rasped out.

  Now it was the Baroness’s turn to hiss. “You didn’t tell them about us?”

  “Johnny” sprang into action, moving down the steps with the speed and agility of a running back. The Baroness shrank as he came toward them, elbowing the other woman out of the way to get to Ducky.

  He plucked the baby out of her arms, staring down at her intensely. “Is something wrong with her?”

  “Nothing is wrong with her,” Abigail assured him.

  Ducky gurgled with happiness as her father showered her with attention. He bent to kiss her on each strawberry cheek and whispered something sweet against her ear. When he raised his eyes back to the Baroness, he was scowling dangerously.

  “Well, there was something wrong with her,” she explained. “When you left, she wouldn’t stop crying, but now she’s better…”

  “You came here because she was crying?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Yes,” she answered simply.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  She flinched at his use of language and so did the other woman.

  “I ought to box your ears, Johnny—give me that baby.”

  Abigail started at the idea of a stranger holding her child, but she could tell Ducky li
ked the woman right away. She went for one of her earrings, hiccupping gleefully at the new toy.

  “I can’t do this without you,” Abigail snapped.

  “What did you say?”

  The Baroness erupted. Everyone else had raised their voices in the last sixty seconds, why should she be any different?

  “I said I can’t bloody do this without you!”

  “Margaret, will you give us the room please?”

  Abigail let out a little wheeze of indignation when John clasped her around the arm and pulled her into the house. He slammed the door behind her and hauled her into an airy high-ceilinged sitting room. Roughly, he pushed her away from him.

  “I can’t have you here right now,” he growled.

  “Too bloody late,” she hurled back.

  “You didn’t think to pick up a phone or shoot me an email instead?”

  “You don’t use the phone, remember?”

  “It’s not ok that you just showed up here!”

  “But it’s all right that you lied to us!”

  They were almost nose to nose now. She was glad for her high heels that put her at his eye level.

  “I didn’t lie exactly,” he told her. “I just didn’t tell you much.”

  “Well, you haven’t been honest about who you are. Why deceive everyone about your identity?”

  “I don’t like a fuss made over me,” he supplied with an annoyed shrug. “I can’t stand having my ass kissed.”

  “You could have the Queen herself kissing your arse but that’s not good enough for you apparently. You’re richer than bloody Trevor you know—I’ve read all about you.”

  His mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “Well, I guess you got your ‘upgrade’ after all.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “Comments like that are exactly why I don’t come clean about who I am. It shouldn’t matter—it’s only money. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner. It’s pretty obvious. Maybe if you spent less time worrying about your hair—”

  “Leave my hair out of this. Please tell me you don’t have another family you’re hiding—is that why you’ve kept us a secret? Are you one of those men who has wives and children scattered across the globe.”

  “I’m not a goddamn Mormon. I was going to tell my family about you, but I just arrived a few days ago. I sure as hell didn’t want them finding out this way—I’ve got a real shit storm here. The last thing I need is to add you into the mix.”

  “Ducky was devastated when you left—I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I could manage alone, but I can’t. I know how important your wanderings are to you, but this just won’t work.”

  “Yeah, well I won’t be doing any wandering anytime soon. I need to stay put for a while.”

  He spoke the words like they were a death sentence. John Jackson let out a tired groan and sunk into a large leather chair. He lowered his face into his hands and began tugging at his dark locks.

  Abigail gawked at him in confusion. “I don’t understand…”

  “My father just died, all right. This place can’t run without him—or without me.”

  The Baroness covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh…I’m so sorry.”

  “Do you really think I would have left so soon without good reason?”

  Abigail deflated into the chair across from him, suddenly feeling very foolish. “Why didn’t you say something that day at the picnic?”

  “I thought we were having an ok time, I didn’t want to ruin it. Besides, he hadn’t died yet. They called and told me he was slipping away, but I thought he’d spring back. My father wasn’t the sort of man who…dies.”

  She reached out to take his hand, but thought better of it when he rose to pace.

  “I’m stuck here now—the business all goes to me, not that I’ve ever wanted it. My brother doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Remember I told you he’s the fun one. Well, I’m the ‘smart one’.” He snorted derisively. “I know that’s not saying much. Anyway, I don’t want to deal with this place, but I can’t just sell it. There are people I am responsible for now. I’m responsible for Ducky too, but I’ve been torn in two directions. I don’t really know how I’m going to do this...”

  “Well, we’ll just have to stay and help you sort things out,” the Baroness declared.

  “You can’t help me with anything. You’ll be nothing but a bother—don’t you get it? There is no one here to pour your tea. The Jacksons may be loaded, but we’ve never put on airs. Look around. Do you see any maids in black and white uniforms? This is the country, and not your version of the country. This is an actual working ranch, not some fruitcake farm with a few chickens for show. I could handle Ducky being here, but you’re another story.”

  “Are you suggesting I just leave her here and go?”

  “It makes the most sense. You could never hack it here.”

  “I’m not a tender English rose, Mr. Johnson or Mr. Jackson or whatever your blasted name is. I’m heartier than I appear. Also, I’m good with horses—you know that.”

  He let out another rude snort.

  “You may think the English countryside is fruity,” she went on. “But I did grow up in a rural area and I have horses in my blood, just like you do.”

  “Those horses you ride are prancing goddamn ponies.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “You’re going to help me break wild Mustangs in a pencil skirt?” he challenged.

  “Of course not—I’ll be wearing trousers.”

  “I need your presence here like I need a hole in the head.”

  “Well, I’m not bloody going anywhere so you’ll have to live with that hole in your head.”

  He started raking his fingers through his hair again.

  “Are you going to stand there falling apart or are you going to show me to my room? I need to feed Ducky and I’m very tired. I’ll want to lie down for a while. What time is dinner?”

  John stopped his tugging and glared at her. “Your room, huh? Jesus, you are incredible.”

  “Well, you don’t plan on leaving us out in the cold, do you?”

  “Fine, you can stay for dinner—it’s at six o’clock sharp. You can help Margaret in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, I’m no good in the kitchen,” she quipped. “You must know that much.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. “Follow me—we’ll continue this conversation in the morning.”

  “Six o’clock is rather early for dinner, isn’t it?”

  “Ranch hours,” he ground out.

  “Oh dear.”

  Abigail chewed her smiling lips as she made her way up the stairs, following her sullen but very handsome escort. They both knew she wasn’t going anywhere—not for a while anyway. She and Ducky were embarking on a Montana adventure. She hoped her room had a view of those marvelous mountains.

  SHE WAS ACTUALLY HERE—A BARONESS IN MONTANA. John shook his head in wonder, as he shoveled more mashed potatoes into his mouth. They tasted like ash on his tongue and he didn’t know why. Margaret’s cooking was always great. Maybe the Baroness really had helped in the kitchen tonight. He had half a mind to ask her if she’d made them. He’d lace his tone with contempt and start a childish fight with her across the dinner table. Margaret would box his ears for sure then, but not before he tossed a spoonful of these god-awful spuds at his new wife. He’d like to see the sticky mass atop her head. She could wear a pile of mashed potatoes for a goddamn fascinator.

  The sick thing was, she could probably pull off a hat made out of a side dish. She looked good in anything. She looked good tonight, that was for sure. So good she had the entire table transfixed with her glowing presence. How a woman could look that beautiful after a ten-hour flight and a two-hour car ride, he’d never know, but there she sat in all her cashmere glory, batting those long lashes of hers at her assorted dinner companions.

  Hank, Margaret’s son (who was in his last year of
high school) had never left Montana and sure as hell had never seen a woman like Abigail Sutton. Margaret’s husband Jay (the boss wrangler at Jackson Ranch) and Jeb (John’s younger brother) had been around a little, but he was sure they’d never met anything close to the glamorous Baroness in their travels. Little Jenny wasn’t staring at him (for once). She seemed to have switched crushes. The teenaged girl practically had hearts fluttering from her eyes as she hung on the Baroness’s every word.

  “I love your accent,” she yammered. “Do your really know Prince Harry? Do you think you could teach me how to do my hair like yours—it’s so elegant. I have the harvest formal coming up.”

  Abigail shot him a smug glance across the table as she patted her chignon. “Of course, Jenny dear—perhaps I’ll even send for one of my gowns. Sir Archibald could ship it over. I think you’d fit quite nicely in my champagne silk, you have a very good figure.” She blinked her lashes again in a demure gesture. “If it’s all right with your parents, I mean…”

  “And maybe you could help me with my bow tie,” Hank piped up. “Mom sucks at bow ties.”

  “Hank is taking the hottest girl in school to the formal,” Jenny blathered. “Well, she isn’t nearly as hot as you, but she’s pretty hot. He doesn’t want to look like a doofus when he dances with her.”

  Jenny sniggered when Hank tossed a cube of bread at her.

  Abigail clapped her hands. “Oh, this will be good fun. I do love getting ready for a party—Hank, fear not. I am a very good dancer. I’ll teach you all the steps.”

  The kid’s face lit up like she had just asked him to go steady. Margaret and Jay exuded happiness. John couldn’t believe what suckers they were for her silly accent. He guessed he’d fallen for it too.

  “I mean how cool—to be a baroness,” Jenny prattled on. “Is that sort of like a duchess.”

  “Not even close, I’m afraid. It’s just a meaningless courtesy title,” Abigail said breezily. “My father was a favorite of the Queen’s.”

  “Wow,” Hank and Jenny breathed in unison.