“I am positive Mr. Pritchard will be moved by your kindness,” Fletcher said. He was positive.
“Where is His Grace? Down here? There?”
Shite.
Fletcher pointed his gaze ceilingward, begging for patience from the Almighty.
“I demand you take me to him at once.”
The sound of an object smacking wood rang out. At least Fletcher hoped it was wood and not poor Wofford.
“Move aside, you great buffoon.” A familiar strident female voice echoed along the corridor and filtered into the salon. “I already told you. I shan’t be turned aside by a mere servant. I mean to see my son.”
Fletcher’s Mother’s voice rose in pitch and volume, and he winced inwardly.
God save him.
“Rayne…?”
Before he could warn her, his mother, resplendent in a violet-and-black walking gown with matching slippers and bonnet, cruised into the room like a schooner in full sail.
Was that another new gown?
After he’d explicitly warned her to curtail her reckless spending? Damn my eyes. The woman refused to listen or consider anyone else’s wishes but her own.
Her green-blue eyes, so like his own, narrowed to unbecoming, wrathful slits. The movement pleated the corners and displayed ever-deepening creases, resembling a folded fan. Her nose quivered in well-controlled rage as she took in Rayne’s hand in his.
Bloody hell.
Instead of letting go, Rayne tightened her fingers around Fletcher’s and jutted her adorable chin out at an endearingly mulish angle.
Had his overbearing mother at last met her match in this sweet lass?
“What is the meaning of this, Kincade?” Mother pinned her flinty, censorious glare upon Rayne and stabbed her parasol in their general direction. “Who, might I ask, is this chit?”
Ask all ye want, but I dinna have to answer ye.
And Fletcher didn’t.
He remained where he was, regarding his mother with cool disdain while reminding himself she’d given birth to him. He at least owed her a modicum of respect.
“I do not know her, and I know everyone who is anyone,” the duchess said with the arrogant air of someone who is confident of her superiority.
If she thought Fletcher would stand silently by and allow her to besmirch Rayne’s character or permit her to be the target of his mother’s barbed tongue, she was gravely mistaken.
The truth was, he knew next to nothing about Rayne’s family other than her mother had died when she was young and, by some twist of fate, the current Duchess of Sheffield had become her guardian.
There was something about the duchess’s first husband being Rayne’s original guardian, but Fletcher had either forgotten the details or he’d never been privy to them. In any event, it mattered not a jot to him if Rayne were the daughter of a haberdasher and a seamstress or a blacksmith and a tavern wench.
Regardless, he’d bite off his tongue before he revealed any of that to his mother.
Unlike his mother, pedigree didn’t mean two farthings to him.
“I suppose she’s the reason you’ve broken precious Cecelia’s heart, not to mention your own dear mother's?”
“Ye’d have to possess a heart to have it broken, Mother,” he replied nonchalantly. “And Miss Wellbrook has nothin’ to do with the situation with Lady Sheldon-Furnsby, which ye are well aware.”
His mother didn’t so much as flinch at the harsh barb or well-aimed verbal censure.
“If ye must ken, this is Miss Rayne Wellbrook. She is the Duchess of Sheffield’s niece. The Sheffields are my neighbors, and the duke is my friend and business partner. Miss Wellbrook, this is my mother, the Duchess of Kincade.”
Rayne angled her head but didn’t curtsy or babble some insincere drivel about being glad to make the duchess’s acquaintance. No one was ever glad to make her acquaintance.
“Bah. You always were too sentimental and softhearted for your own good, Kincade,” she scoffed, taking in the room and turning her mouth down in unrepentant disapproval. “I shall send you my decorator’s contact information.”
“That shan’t be necessary. I have my own decorator.”
Fletcher would be damned if he’d permit his mother to encroach upon this house, even if it was with something as inconsequential as the recommendation of a paint color or the positioning of a vase or portrait.
Mother’s gaze slid to Rayne, and she fashioned a sardonic smile. “I’m sure you do.”
“Why are you here at…?” Fletcher veered a glance to the marble and brass mantel clock. “Half of ten?” When was the last time his mother had arisen before noon? Her reason for intruding this early in the day must be dire indeed. “What do you want?”
He didn’t even strive for politesse.
“Tea and scones or crumpets would be nice. I didn’t break my fast.” She perched on the edge of the chair farthest from Rayne as if she were afraid the upholstery might soil her gown, or Rayne might taint her with her presence.
“Nae.” Tea implied she was welcome. He hadn’t left her house a fortnight ago to have her come around whenever she desired and poke her nose into his affairs at 19 Bedford Square.
Rayne tightened her fingers around his.
Wofford, his gait measured but swifter than normal, entered the drawing room. His cravat hung askew, as did his waistcoat. Several tufts of previously neatly brushed sandy-brown hair stuck out at weird angles. He attempted to right his waistcoat while looking down his considerable nose at the infuriated woman, still pointing her parasol like a sword in Fletcher’s direction.
“Please forgive my tardiness, Your Grace, as well as my failure to detain your…guest.” His flared nostrils and the slight hesitation before the word guest said all that he didn’t dare vocalize. “I’m unaccustomed to being pushed down the stoop stairs.”
Fletcher looked aghast at his mother.
“Ye shoved him down the stairs, Mother?”
He couldn’t keep the incredulity and condemnation from his voice.
Rather than look chastised or repentant, the duchess elevated her chin and pursed her lips. “He would not let me pass, so I gave him a small push. A tiny little nudge, really. One couldn’t even call it a true shove. His own great size and clumsiness caused him to topple onto the pavement.”
Hardly, if Wofford, who weighed at least seventeen stone, had taken a tumble. But it was just like his mother to pass the blame. She’d done that for as long as Fletcher could remember.
Filling his lungs, he willed his ballooning temper under control. “That, Mother, is precisely why I hired him. That is what he is supposed to do.”
He could’ve added that it was also Wofford’s duty to keep unwanted intruders out, but at that moment, his gaze caught Rayne’s, and he couldn’t bring himself to utter the harsh words. She’d been an unwanted intruder, and that had turned out very well indeed.
“It is indeed, sir.” Giving the duchess an indignant look, Wofford flicked his rumpled coattails to ensure they fell neatly into place. “Perhaps, if I may be so bold as to suggest, Your Grace, you might inform Her Grace that my name is not Pinheaded Penguin.”
Rayne gasped, clasping her free hand to her mouth. Her coppery brown eyes twinkled merrily, the little flecks of gold flashing, and a musical giggle escaped her.
At the feminine tinkle, Fletcher grinned. He’d never heard her giggle before, and he could no more keep the broad grin from wreathing his face than poor Wofford could’ve kept the duchess from barging in like an angry tempest.
“Wofford, I trust ye werena injured as a result of the mishap?” Fletcher said.
“Wofford?” Mother wrinkled her nose. “What an odd name.”
Out of all of their discourse, she chose to focus on the footman’s name?
“Only my pride, sir,” he pronounced in a dry monotone, sliding Fletcher’s mother another acrid glance. “As there were three gentlemen, two ladies, a nurse pushing a pram, a governess with her four charges
, five carriages, and an equal number of horsemen nearby when I landed on my…posterior.”
His ears turned an impressive shade of scarlet.
Only a superbly observant servant would’ve noted such details while regaining his dignity and his feet. Wofford would make a splendid butler.
Rayne giggled again, and to Fletcher’s utter astonishment, Wofford winked at her. The most uptight, stodgy excuse for a manservant he’d ever encountered—and as a duke, he’d met a good deal of them—actually winked at Rayne.
It came as no surprise that the minx had won Wofford over at their first meeting. She’d done the same to him.
“Refreshments, Your Grace?” Wofford asked, never once looking in the maid’s direction. “Might I take the young lady to the kitchens as well?”
“Aye, both would be appreciated.”
The perplexed maid looked to Rayne, and at her nod of approval, meekly followed Wofford from the salon.
“Mother, do have a seat on the settee,” Fletcher encouraged.
“Not until you tell me why this young woman is here.” Turning her nose up, she thumped her lacy black parasol upon the faded carpet. She scraped a scathing, entirely disapproving glance over Rayne.
The picture of tranquility and decorum, Rayne regarded her impassively.
Fletcher wanted to applaud her for her equanimity. Many a man and woman from the lowest commoner to the most powerful peer had wilted under his mother’s fierce glare and condescending attitude. Yet Rayne stood there regal and serene. Queenly, even.
“No, Kincade, she won’t do. Not at all. She has freckles on her nose,” she whispered sotto voce.
Rayne remained remarkably unruffled at his mother’s horrid behavior.
“Oh, and on my cheeks, chest, and elsewhere, Your Grace,” Rayne said, a naughty gleam in her flashing bronze eyes.
“I ken she does, and I find them most captivatin’.” He glanced down at Rayne, giving her a warm, reassuring smile. She was an absolute marvel. He was particularly interested in the ginger marks on her chest and elsewhere.
She must’ve guessed his train of thought, for pink tinged her cheeks.
Fletcher faced his mother, his patience growing ever slimmer. “Again, I must ask, why are you here, Mother?”
She leveled Rayne a frosty, contemptuous stare. “I’d prefer not to discuss it in front of Miss Wellbrook.”
“She stays,” he said, flint edging the two words.
“You must know, Kincade,” his mother continued, cunningness slipping into her gaze and tenor. “It’s not the thing to entertain a young woman in a bachelor’s residence. I can only presume she’s your mistress?”
At the calculated slur, Rayne stiffened, her sharp intake of breath audible in the now silent room.
“She is no’ my mistress, Mother,” Fletcher bit out, fury resonating in each clipped syllable.
“I’ll bid you a good day, Your Grace,” Rayne said to him. “I shall sketch the wisteria another time.”
Dammit.
His mother’s vindictive arrows had hit their intended target.
Rayne picked up her basket and, with her lashes lowered, moved past him. The brave darling stopped before his mother.
“I am not His Grace’s mistress, and I resent the implication. You saw the maid who accompanied me, and even now, two footmen assigned by my guardians are standing in the garden to ensure propriety. I am only here because I agreed to draw a scene for the previous owner.”
A snide smile curved his mother’s mouth.
“La, could you not come up with a better excuse than that?” Once more, she took Rayne’s measure, and her slightly curled upper lift indicated she’d found her wanting. “I suppose you are pretty enough if one likes ordinary and unrefined.”
“Enough, Mother,” Fletcher snapped, each syllable icy and cutting.
He’d throw the vicious bitch out himself if she didn’t shut her cruel mouth.
She leaned forward, resting both hands atop the parasol’s scrimshaw handle. “You do know, do you not, Miss Wellbrook, that my son has vowed to only marry a Scotswoman and never, under any circumstances, an Englishwoman? That is how I am certain you mean nothing more to him than a common harlot would.”
“Enough!” he roared thunderously.
Must she pollute everything good and pure with her toxic venom?
Rayne recoiled as if struck and swung an agony-filled glance in his direction. A blink later, she masterfully donned a mask of disinterest. If Fletcher hadn’t seen the hurt and accusation in her pretty eyes, he’d never have believed the regally composed woman staring his harridan of a mother down had shown any such emotion.
“As I have never entertained any idea of marrying above my station, the duke’s preferences for a bride are of no interest to me, Your Grace. I’m the daughter of a soldier and an opera singer. I know my place, and it is not amongst the upper ten thousand. I am grateful my birth prohibits me from joining the ranks and spares me the company of such vile persons as yourself.”
At the insult, his mother’s jaw sagged to her chest, and she blinked rapidly.
Well done, Rayne.
She’d done the impossible—rendered his mother speechless.
With quiet dignity, she turned toward the door, and it struck Fletcher with the force of a claymore to the ribs.
He loved her.
God and all the saints, he loved Rayne Wellbrook. The garden nymph with her burnished hair and eyes, berry red lips, and the purest, kindest heart of any living being.
And his mother may have ruined any chance of their happiness, just as she’d intended.
“Rayne.” He started after her but drew to an abrupt halt.
Goddammit.
He couldn’t say what he wanted to say with his mother smugly looking on. He fisted his hands and clenched his jaw until he thought the bones might crack.
Look at me.
Dinna leave like this.
Please, let me explain.
Spine straight and proud, Rayne glided from the room without a backward glance.
“’Tis for the best, Kincade,” his mother said in the patronizing manner she always adopted when she believed she’d won an argument. “She’d never do. Surely you were aware a woman of her breeding could never be the next Duchess of Kincade.”
“Her breeding? This coming from a malicious, immoral adulteress who abandoned her children and husband? Rayne Wellbrook is far superior to you in every way, madam.”
Something in his voice must’ve finally registered, for his mother’s rouged cheeks went pale.
Icy fury tunneling through him, he stared at her. It wasn’t healthy or normal to despise one’s parent. The Bible said to honor your mother and father. God help him, Fletcher had tried to. Aye, but the Good Book also said for fathers not to provoke their children to anger.
After glancing at the mantel clock, he approached the duchess. When he stood three feet away, he clasped his hands behind his back. Standing there, Fletcher willed his fury to ease. After several tense moments, he could at last speak without violently cursing, he smiled. A hard, merciless, uncompromising upward sweep of his lips.
She’d brought this on herself.
“Fletcher?” Uncertainty puckered her forehead.
“Ye have exactly two hours to pack. At that time, I am personally puttin’ ye in a coach, which will take ye to Aberdeen. There is a five-room cottage there that will be yer home until yer last breath. Ye may take one servant and one trunk with ye. And I do mean one. Defy me in this, and ye will no’ be permitted to take any.”
“Fletcher, darling.” She gave an artificial laugh, one hand fluttering near her throat. Panic glinted in her eyes. “Surely you jest.”
Och, so it is Fletcher now?
He couldn’t recall the last time she’d addressed him by his given name. Not since he’d been a wee laddie.
“Do I look like I’m jestin’?” He withdrew his timepiece from his pocket. “One hour and fifty-six minutes.”
>
Spluttering, her face a ghastly shade of grey beneath her cosmetics, she came unsteadily to her feet. “I understand you are upset and disappointed. But let’s discuss this sensibly.”
“Nae.” He pounded his fist into his open palm. “Ye are a self-centered, inconsiderate woman who only cares about yerself. It wasn’t enough that ye destroyed Father and deserted yer children. Ye’ve hurt someone I care about verra much. Someone who could make me happy. Someone who means far more to me than you ever have or ever could.”
He looked to the door Rayne had disappeared through.
“If Rayne is lost to me now because of yer malicious spite, I shall never, never forgive ye. Ever.”
Gravenstones’ Ball
The next night
Heart and feet leaden, Rayne descended from the coach. She wrapped her gold-and-white satin cloak more snuggly around her as if she could ward off the stares and curious looks. Or as if she could guard her fractured heart against further pain.
Fletcher hadn’t come after her. Hadn’t sent a note. Hadn’t sneaked into the gardens, at least she didn’t think he had. She’d pleaded a headache and spent the afternoon crying, and by evening she had resolved to put him from her mind and heart.
Far, far easier said than actually done.
“You do know, do you not, Miss Wellbrook, that my son has vowed to only marry a Scotswoman and never, under any circumstances, an Englishwoman?”
Those spiteful words shredded Rayne’s heart and dignity, her hopes as well, every time they replayed in her mind. Which—God curse her for a weakling—was far too often.
What had pained her far worse was when she’d turned to Fletcher, expecting him to disavow his mother’s claim, and she’d seen the stark, undeniable truth reflected in his brilliant eyes.
He had said those very words.
That was the what else he’d not told her that day he’d first kissed her in the arbor. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to marry Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby. Fletcher didn’t want to marry any Englishwoman.
The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11) Page 9