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

by Tessa Bowen

  “And now they’ll never know whose child it was. Most likely the baby was Johnny’s. He has never forgiven his brother. Jeb is an easier sort—he is willing to put it in the past, but not John. He hangs onto things—he’s more complicated than Jeb. He’s got a dark streak and a real bad temper at times. I’ll never forget Johnny’s face the night he came home and found them together, holding hands—Jeb looking all dopey and lovesick, Sophie with her belly swollen. Mr. Jackson got in on it too—tried to break up the fight. It was a tragic affair all around. John left after Sophie’s funeral and we haven’t seen him since. That was nearly eight years ago.”

  “He’s been on the move ever since,” the Baroness said, trying to digest the heartbreaking story.

  “I was afraid he wouldn’t come home when I called about his father, but he did. I didn’t know he’d just had a baby…”

  “He certainly doesn’t tell anyone anything, does he?”

  “He has always been private and guarded—even as a little boy. I’m sorry my call took him away from Daphne so soon, but I can’t say I regret it. He came just in time to see his father. There were kind words between them at the end. Jeb has been doing his best to get along with Johnny, but Johnny’s not having any of it. He’s cold to him—and that’s on a good day.”

  Abigail rose from her chair, fretting with her chignon. “I’m not sure I would have come here if I’d known all this.”

  “Has my terrible tale scared you off, honey?”

  “I just mean he has enough to deal with, and then I show up with a baby in tow.”

  “You stay put, Baroness. Johnny needs to deal with this—he can’t keep doing his disappearing act.”

  “He told me he has no intention of fleeing the ranch. He wants to make sure the business is running correctly.”

  “Well, that’s just business. I was referring to ‘business’ of a more personal nature. Right about now, I’d bet every cell in his being wants to bolt. You stand your ground—don’t let him desert you two.”

  “Why would he want to abandon his family and the women in his life?” she said sadly. “I know I’m nothing to him, but Ducky…”

  “I’m no shrink, but I wonder if all that leaving is a test.”

  “A test?”

  “For the one left behind. It’s almost like he’s testing loyalty and ideally love. You know, to see if it can hold out for him.”

  “It’s all very complicated I’m sure. All that coming and going.”

  Margaret shook her head regretfully. “My Johnny isn’t real good at the coming part, just the going. I fear he never would have come back here if it wasn’t for his father dying. As sad a time as it is, I sure am glad to see him.”

  “He did come back to me, you know?”

  Margaret looked at the Baroness in confusion.

  “Well, not really back to me, but back. I always thought it was strange that he returned to England. We met because he was hired to help me with a troublesome horse. It was a strange time for me. He took a dislike to me right away, even seemed to take pleasure in taunting me.”

  “That’s just because you’re rich and beautiful,” Margaret snorted. “And remember what I told you about the teasing.”

  The Baroness smiled weakly. “We shared a fleeting interlude which resulted in…well, you know. Anyway, he told me he would never return to England, that he hated everything about it, but he did return four months later to find me pregnant. It was almost as if he knew, but he couldn’t have of course. That night he said goodbye to me, it was a final farewell and yet he appeared at a function that he must have known I would attend. It has always seemed strange to me…”

  Margaret pursed her lips knowingly, but said nothing.

  “I’m sure it was mere coincidence.”

  “Well, you coming here is no coincidence.”

  “No,” Abigail admitted. “I need him.”

  “And he needs you—don’t give up on him, honey. Don’t let him run you off.”

  The Baroness squared her shoulders. “I’m not intimidated easily, Margaret. And I thank you for all the information you’ve given me. Tonight has been very illuminating. Now, I think I’m wanted upstairs for a chignon lesson so I’ll say goodnight. Dinner was superb.”

  “See you tomorrow, honey.”

  “And Margaret…I rather like that you call me honey. No one has ever called me that before.”

  “See you in the morning, honey.”

  “Yes…see you in the morning.”

  Abigail couldn’t help but steal one more glance at Sophie’s portrait. The girl’s beauty was haunting. Now she was no more than a ghost—a ghost with perfectly straight hair.

  And those bloody cheekbones.

  The Baroness sucked in her cheeks, checking the result in the heavy wood-framed mirror that hung over the fireplace.

  Not even close.

  THE BARONESS DID HER BEST TO ADJUST to her new surroundings. She’d already made a hit with Jeb and John’s adopted family. Ducky was happy—ecstatic when her father was near, (which was only when she was not). Her husband was a master of avoidance. She supposed it was easy enough to dodge someone on such a mammoth property. Still, she knew it had little to do with that and everything to do with her.

  She spent the first few days settling in, recovering from her jet lag. On the third day, she ventured outside for a walk around the place. Margaret joined her and gave her the lay of the land. The ranch truly was a magical place. She was glad her room had a view of those marvelous mountains. Their female chatter was interrupted by a thunderous rumble in the distance.

  At first Abigail thought a storm was approaching and turned her gaze skyward. Margret tugged her sleeve and pointed to the vast expanse ahead. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight before her. A herd of horses was being driven through the valley by one man. There must have been a hundred animals in the pack. They beat the earth so hard that dirt flew in every direction. These were the painted Mustangs she’d seen only in photographs, a mixture of mottled black, white and brown. They were as hearty as they were speedy and ran with wild abandon. The horses were magnificent, but the true hero of the scene was none other than John Hale Jackson. He rode with the charge as if he was one with the animals he commanded. She’d never seen a horse and rider run this fast, except in a race. But this man was no undersized jockey. He was strong and long, agile as an ancient warrior, the perfect Western rider.

  Abigail hurried forward, climbing up the fence to peer over the slats just as she had when she was a girl. This was no poncy gentleman come to hunt with her father. This man didn’t wear English riding attire, nor did he contain himself in a slender English saddle. In that moment, Abigail knew everything he’d ever tried to tell her about riding was true. She’d never sit in another English saddle as long as she lived. If she could ride like that, she’d never stop riding.

  “He’s incredible!” she shouted over the throng.

  “Yes, he is!” Margaret shouted back.

  “He just brought the first group in off the range. He’ll get to know each animal, weed out the best and brightest. It’s a long process—he’s always been the most skilled at finding the perfect animal to suit the client. He’s got a real gift.”

  “Who is the client?”

  “Maybe it’s the Queen,” Margaret answered with a loud whoop of laughter.

  Perhaps he finally gave in to the old girl.

  Wind blew Abigail’s bun askew. She didn’t care one bit. She would have accepted a lifetime of frizz at that moment. Giving witness to this marvel transcended her bad hair day.

  The women clung to the fence as John corralled the stampede into a large pen. The animals teemed with muscle and sweat, while the lone rider cut a path between them.

  “It’s quite dangerous, isn’t it?”

  Margaret beamed with pride. “Not for Johnny. He’s their king.”

  “King of the Mustangs,” Abigail echoed. “It’s all very romantic.”

  He wasn’t
dressed like a cowboy in a John Wayne movie. He was dressed very simply as himself (whoever that was)—in a barn coat and jeans, his usual boots. He was wearing a hat today, the first one she’d ever seen him in. It wasn’t the traditional Western style with the wide brim, but a simple worn-out old baseball cap. This man couldn’t be put into any box—he certainly wasn’t a cliché. He was a Montana cowboy with an Ivy League education, a man who could waltz with baronesses as well as score touchdowns. He was truly a wonder. Ducky should be proud.

  He noticed the ladies gawking and shot them a quick but guarded glance from beneath the brim of his cap. Abigail dared to wave. It was a bright cheerful greeting. She was reciprocated with a disapproving scowl.

  “He’s not in a friendly mood it seems,” she said, climbing down from her perch.

  “John doesn’t take kindly to being admired.”

  “How can one not admire him?” Abigail retorted, trying to keep her tone light. “He’s thoroughly splendid. Why, if I’m not careful I’ll fall in love with him.”

  She’d meant the comment to be flip, but she realized with shock that she spoke the truth.

  Oh dear, you can’t go falling in love with him. It’s much too soon for that.

  Or was it? She’d had a child with him. Over nine months had passed between them, plus the month prior to her pregnancy. She supposed she’d known him for almost a year, certainly enough time to fall in love. Some people fell in love in the span of a week. She was surely infatuated—perhaps she’d leave it at that.

  “And here comes Jeb bringing up the rear,” Margaret laughed.

  Jeb tipped his brim to the ladies, smiling warmly. He faked falling off his horse just to be a jokester, then recovered with a beautiful trick by rearing back and pulling on the reins until the horse stood on two legs, prancing fancily.

  The Baroness clapped in delight. “They are so very different.”

  “As different as day and night.”

  Abagail couldn’t help her gaze from falling to Jeb’s right hand, hidden safely in a glove. She shivered, thinking of the horrible violence that had passed between the two brothers.

  It was hard to believe that an entire week had passed. She’d only exchanged words with him once. He appeared at dinner (sometimes) but was always sullen and silent, never looking her way. It wasn’t until late one evening when she heard Ducky fussing that they met in the hall. He’d beaten her to their daughter and now stood in the shadows of the wall sconce, dressed only in a pair of grey sweat pants, a naked baby resting against his bare chest.

  “Her rash was pissing her off,” he explained casually. “I’m giving her a break from her diaper.”

  Abigail couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Her daughter looked so pale and small lolling against her father’s broad tanned torso. Her tiny fingers were splayed across his collarbone.

  “She looks quite content now.”

  “She cooled out as soon as I picked her up.”

  “She’s always happiest in your arms. And who wouldn’t be?”

  The words just slipped out, the tone expressed her longing. She was embarrassed right away. He seemed a little embarrassed too and quickly broke eye contact.

  Abigail started to titter nervously as she caressed Ducky’s rounded butt cheeks. “I think her bottom looks like a pair of sugared spice drops, don’t you?”

  John brushed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “She’s a buttercup all around.”

  “Yes, our pretty posy…”

  The Baroness leaned in, kissing the place John just had. Ducky’s silky feathers tickled her lips while the heat of her husband’s chest radiated toward her. The gesture brought the unlikely family into close proximity. Abigail held her breath, praying he wouldn’t take offense. He gave her only a few seconds before he stiffened and drew away from her, heading back into the nursery which was situated between their two rooms.

  The Baroness followed sheepishly, padding barefoot across the carpet. She stood alongside the cradle, feeling a little like an outsider as John laid the baby down and put a fresh diaper on her before covering her with a soft blanket.

  “We do all of our parenting separately,” she remarked quietly. She recalled the walk they’d taken together back at Sutton Place before his departure. “Perhaps…we can take a stroll tomorrow—all three of us.”

  “I don’t have time for strolls. I have a lot to do here. Filling my father’s shoes isn’t the easiest task.” He kept his voice soft, but tension was coming off him in waves.

  She felt childish and selfish for mentioning it, then again did he have to be so abrupt with her? Yes, he had a lot to deal with—but why treat her like a stranger? It only made things more awkward between them. She was the mother of his child, he’d have to get used to her eventually.

  “It’s just…I’ve been here a week and you haven’t said two words to me.”

  “This is all really strange for me—I’m doing the best I can, all right?”

  He glared at her across the crib, his eyes peering through the low lamplight at what she wore—a delicate satin nightgown with a flannel robe.

  “Margaret lent me the robe,” she explained. “I didn’t anticipate how chilly the nights and morning would be. I know it’s an odd combination.”

  “Flannel and lace,” he grumbled. “I’ll say it’s an odd combination—whatever, I don’t give a shit what you wear.”

  “You’re not being very hospitable,” she went on, tightening the robe around her.

  “I didn’t invite you to come here,” he answered flatly.

  “Everyone else has gone out of their way to make me feel welcome—”

  “I told you before I don’t want you here,” he cut her off. “It’s too much for me to deal with.” He broke away from the cradle. “Let’s not do this in front of the kid.”

  She followed him back out into the hall, feeling terribly rejected. “I haven’t been any trouble, have I?”

  “You cause a stir,” he snapped. “It’s annoying as hell.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “They’re acting like I brought home a goddamn princess—they’re so impressed by your accent and your fancy ways and your looks…” he trailed off.

  “You didn’t bring me home, remember? In fact, you hid me like you were ashamed of me. And I’ve tried not to be too fancy. I’m only a baroness after all, not a princess. I even helped Margaret feed the chickens yesterday.”

  He groaned and raked a hand over his face. “You don’t belong here, feeding fucking chickens,” he grumbled. “It freaks me out.”

  “I quite enjoyed myself actually. Why take that away from me? I may not belong here—I may stick out like a sore thumb in fact, but Margaret, Jay and the children have accepted me. I can’t help it if they find my foreign ways novel.”

  “You don’t have to patronize them, you know. You’ve really been laying on the charm with a shovel.”

  Her eyes moistened with tears. “I know you think I am a cold and calculating snake, but I wouldn’t dream of being insincere to such fine people. Why, they’re the loveliest group I’ve ever had the pleasure of keeping company with. I’ve never been accepted easily by people. They’ve always kept me apart, admired me from afar perhaps—but I’ve never been embraced so readily. I’ll never forget their kindness.”

  She finished her little speech with a sniff.

  His eyes narrowed on her as if weighing the sincerity of her words. “I’m not sure I approve of that little stunt you pulled with Jenny either.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt. I simply helped a young lady feel good about herself for her autumn ball.”

  “We don’t have balls in Montana,” he drawled.

  “Oh yes…what did she call it—a formal?”

  “You made her look just like you,” he accused.

  “I did not,” she said hotly.

  “Her hair—the dress…”

  “She looked smashing—the champagne silk worked quite well on her.”

&nbs
p; “The next thing she’ll be doing is starving herself.”

  “If you think I’m setting a bad example, I’ll eat more pie at dinner.”

  “I won’t have her going to class in goddamn pencil skirts and cashmere sweaters.”

  “I don’t understand this obsession you have with my pencil skirts and cashmere sweater sets.”

  “It’s not an obsession,” he grumbled. “I’m going to bed. If I hear the word cashmere one more time, I’m going to puke.”

  He stalked off toward his bedroom, scratching his perfectly formed rear end. How could a woman stay upset with a man who had a backside that looked like that—especially when he was her husband?

  A husband with a perfect backside who sleeps in a separate room…

  Abigail heaved a long sigh and headed into her own quarters. He was the one who caused a stir. She’d barely survived his horse-herding routine without swooning and there was the half-naked baby swaddling performance she’d had to survive as well.

  There was no doubt she’d dream about him tonight. How could she not?

  Chapter Twelve

  A baroness in a pig sty, now that’s a sight he never thought he’d see. And was she actually pushing a wheel barrow? John watched in amazement as she positioned the wheel barrow alongside the trough and began shoveling feed into a bucket.

  A baroness with a bucket? This scene just didn’t fit.

  She didn’t have her bun today either, it had untwisted with her physical efforts and now fell in a glamourous ponytail down her back, swirling in a cascade of spun silver and gold. She wore her tall rubber boots—he remembered them from England. An oversized wool coat, sort of like the one he wore covered her top half—another loan from Margaret? He squinted through the distance. Was that his coat—the one he’d given her after their tussle in the barn?

  She’d kept it all this time.

  “What the…” he muttered.

  He closed the space between them, anger replacing his incredulity. He didn’t know why he was put out exactly. It did something weird to him to see her wearing his jacket. It reminded him of a girl wearing her boyfriend’s letter jacket. He remembered his high school girlfriend doing that, wearing his colors with pride, wanting everyone to see that she belonged to him. Is that what she was doing?