“If she’s bothering you, I can send her to the nursery,” Miranda Starrett said, a crease between her brows as she watched her daughter try to feed the doll a biscuit, the crumbs littering Mary’s dress.
“It would break my heart if you did, Mrs. Starrett. Olivia is a darling.” Mary ran her hand through the girl’s silken curls.
“My sister-in-law will never leave now.” Charlotte chortled. “She adores children. In fact, she spends more time in the nursery than the drawing room.”
Setting his teacup in its saucer, the Reverend Starrett said, “In that case, you should call on us more often. We have three children who do nothing but cause trouble. Just yesterday, Sophie practiced writing her name. On the wall. In ink. With her bare hands.”
“Quinn!” his wife shrieked. “Don’t share such embarrassing tales!” Turning to Charlotte, she said, “I assure you, I run a well-regimented household.”
Charlotte leaned in and said sotto voce, “You fair better with three than I do with one. Theo found one of his father’s compositions last week and decided it would make a grand pallet to paint with his fingers.”
They laughed at the confession, no doubt imagining a duke’s reaction to finding his heir destroying works of art. Mary laughed harder than the others since she had seen both the chaos and her brother’s reaction. Drake had scooped his son onto his shoulders and galloped through the halls, claiming later that his son clearly had genius taste in music because even Theo recognized rubbish when he saw it. The next day, the manor had been filled with the sound of music as the duke composed a new piece inspired by Theodore’s antics.
Just as quickly as Olivia had climbed onto Mary’s lap, she climbed off, skipping over to Duncan and waving her doll at him until he lifted her onto his lap.
How shocking it must be for him to return after all these years and meet his nieces for the first time. What else had he missed? He had six older siblings, four of whom lived too far to have visited since his return. He must be returning to what seemed a different world, a world that had carried on without him.
“Our eldest,” Mrs. Starrett was saying, “Emma, is just like her Grandmama Starrett, Scottish through and through.”
“Much to the chagrin of Papa’s family,” the Reverend Starrett added. “My grandfather is a haughty British viscount who married an Irish spitfire. I’ll leave you to imagine the levity of family house parties.”
Mary glanced at Duncan as he turned his hand into a neighing horse for the doll to ride. To Mr. Starrett, she asked, “Do you see your uncles and grandparents often?”
“We don’t,” the vicar said. “The truth is the family is too large and spread across too many counties for us all to see each other often. The last house party was nearly ten years ago. Such events were far more frequent when we followed the drum with Papa. Our little family, before Duncan was born, that is, traipsed after Papa from one campaign to the next, but between wars, we would return for the larger family holidays. By the time Papa left the army, my siblings had established families and lives of their own.”
Mary studied Duncan, who was so entranced by his niece, he had not heard the conversation. She could relate in some small way to Duncan’s childhood. He had been born twenty years after his eldest sibling. Mary was seventeen years younger than her brother, so she understood the separation of age between siblings, but unlike her, Duncan did have a sibling closer to his age, namely Mr. Quinn Starrett, a brother he had idolized growing up.
How wonderful it would be to get to know Duncan’s family, to spend days taking tea with Mrs. Miranda Starrett, to watch their children grow up together. For the past few years, she had dared not dream; for she feared such dreams would shatter with a single letter. Now, everything felt so easy, so right, all the pieces falling into place after an interminable delay. If his flirting earlier was any indication, he felt the same.
Mrs. Starrett stood, her eyes on Duncan and Olivia. “You can’t stifle that yawn, sweetness. I saw it. Time to return to the nursery.”
Olivia tucked her face in Duncan’s coat, her whines muffled.
“Come now. Show our guests what a good girl you are.”
“No a goo gir. A big gir,” the girl protested, throwing her doll to the ground in protest. Arms crossed, bottom lip pouting, she choked a sob.
Mary recognized the beginning of a tantrum. Her nephew was far too serious for such behavior. Even her cousin’s eldest daughter was too sensible for tantrums. But her cousin’s son, the heir to the Roddam earldom, was a holy terror when he did not get his way. She had rescued many an eardrum from his wails. It would seem he had a kindred spirit in little Olivia.
Without caring if she overstepped her boundaries as a guest, Mary made for the little girl’s doll, picking it up and cradling it.
Smiling at Olivia, she whispered, “Briana is trying to nap. I think we should tuck her into the nursery where she can sleep in quiet. Would you like to rock her to sleep, or shall I?”
The girl stared at Mary, her clever child’s mind trying to sort out if this was a trick. Deciding Mary was sincere, she climbed off her uncle’s lap and took Mary’s hand.
“Do carry on,” Mary said to the others, heading for the drawing room door.
Mrs. Starrett and Charlotte started talking at once, animated voices remarking on Mary’s way with children. Beneath their talk was an undertone of male mumbles. Before she had reached the door, Mr. Starrett spoke.
“You don’t know your way around the house, Lady Mary. Allow my brother to show you to the nursery.”
Smirking at their ploy, she turned just in time to catch sight of Mr. Starrett’s hand on Duncan’s arm as the latter rose from his chair. Brotherly affection, or had he needed help rising? She frowned. He was on her heels before she could ponder further.
It took mere minutes to settle Olivia in the nursery, her eyes held open only by optimism by the time they brought her to the nurse.
As soon as the door to the nursery closed, Mary began scheming how she could steal a few moments alone with Duncan before returning to the drawing room. He must have thought the same.
When they reached the end of the upstairs hall, Duncan grabbed her arm and pulled her into a room. Her first startled look about the place gave the impression it was a family parlor, but she hardly had a chance to find her bearings before she was pressed against the door, Duncan’s hands grasping her arms, his face inches from hers.
She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell his cologne. Beneath half-lidded eyes, he studied her.
“I’ve not kissed you in half a decade,” he said. “Since my return, we’ve seen each other only once, briefly at that. But all I can think of is kissing you. Would my attentions be unwelcomed?”
Her breath came in jagged succession. Shaking her head, she said, “Not unwelcomed. I’ve been thinking the same.”
Reaching up, she snaked a hand around his neck and pulled him to her.
Their lips met with a tentative touch, so unlike the frenzy she felt within her breast, the desperation to kiss him with five years’ worth of pent up passion. He brushed his lips against hers. With a gentle taste, his tongue teased her bottom lip, running along the seam until she parted her lips in invitation.
Capturing her mouth with his, he leaned against her, hard muscles forming to her figure. In a tea-flavored kiss, their tongues entwined, Mary’s hand gripping Duncan’s neck, her body aching to pull him closer. He felt different than she remembered. Harder, broader, fiercer. Her hands itched to explore the planes of this new body, her flesh an inferno of longing.
They quitted the kiss as quickly as it began. Mary stood breathless from the exchange, her mouth hot and raw.
“I’m only stopping because we’re in my brother’s home.” Duncan took a step back, his eyes trained on hers. “We’re far too old for secret meetings at the willow anymore, Mary, but I want to see you. I wa
nt to talk about all we’ve missed. I want—I want to kiss you in ways that will show you how much I’ve missed you. Shall I call on you in a few days? At Lyonn Manor? An official and very open courtship?”
She could do nothing more than nod, her eyes wide, her fingertips touching her swollen lips. The seconds of passion had left her bereft, her skin chilled by the distance between them. Mary pressed a hand to her abdomen, hoping to settle the butterflies.
“We can’t linger long, but we should wait until my kiss isn’t so obvious.” He ran the back of his hand down her cheek before grasping her hand in his.
Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles, then her fingers, turning her hand over to kiss her palm. Everywhere he touched, she tingled.
Mary took a step forward, leaning into him as he had done to her. His grip on her hand tightened as her lips found his jaw. With a soft pucker, she kissed a trail down to his neck. The skin along his jaw, though closely shaved, was prickly with an early afternoon stubble, but his neck was smooth, the flesh hot. A curious flick of her tongue caused a sharp intake of breath that thrilled her to her toes.
When she leaned back to see his expression, she licked her lips, savoring the subtle taste of salt.
“Only a few days,” she said.
“Under the watchful eye of your brother, we’ll have a respectable conversation.”
“He can easily be distracted for a stolen moment.” She teased.
“You’re as misbehaved as ever, my wicked one.” He pulled her to him in a chaste embrace, resting his chin against her temple. “I’ve missed you, Mary. Truly.”
“And I, you,” she said into his cravat.
When he released her, he stepped over to admire one of the wall paintings, his back to her.
Her body still thrummed from his touch. She wished they could move past this part, past being in someone else’s house, past reuniting and courting, and simply be together at last. All her life she felt she was waiting, always waiting. She wanted to live. She was ready to break free and live.
“You’re my niece’s new favorite person,” he said after a few moments of silence. “I hope she wasn’t making a pest of herself. Do you really like children?”
“Yes, I do. I want to be the mother mine never was.” She blanched at the confession. It was not quite how she meant to answer the question. But how does one say to a man not seen in five years that she wanted his children?
“You always did want a large family. I remember. Would you want them all to be yours, or would you consider adopting?”
She furrowed her brow. “Adopting? Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, you know, give home to children who might not have one. Illegitimate children or otherwise. Is that beyond the scope of a duke’s daughter, or would you consider it?”
Chin raised, she said, “I’m inclined to be offended by that question. I’m not like my mother, you know. People can’t help the nature of their birth, but they’re still good people. I’ve never considered having children not of my own, though.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “No, that’s not true. Most of the men Mother tossed at me over the years were widowed, but their children were usually older than me. Why are you asking me this?”
The first thought that sprang to mind was her cousin, the Baroness Collingwood, who oversaw an orphanage. Now that Duncan had returned from war, was he thinking of taking on a new project, something similar to Lady Collingwood’s?
They had so much to talk about. Not for the first time, she felt him to be a stranger. As strong as their connection, there was a foreign air about him she did not recognize. Even his kiss, however titillating, was different.
“Let’s talk more about this later, shall we? When we have more time? I think it’s safe to return to the drawing room.” He returned to her side, taking the liberty to kiss her temple before seeing her to the door.
Duncan shifted in the saddle for the tenth time in as many minutes. Caesar snorted his displeasure. The wound throbbed from the exertion of the day and the jostling of the ride. Even Duncan’s feet tingled with numbness. He had pushed himself too hard today.
But what use was he to anyone from a convalescent bed? No, he needed to show his body who was in command. This was who he was and what he did, just as he had done in the army—he pushed himself with a determined, iron will against all odds.
Aside from the persistent pain, the day had been good. Better than good. There was a sense of wholeness when with Mary, as though all were right in the world. The trouble was, he did not know what to do about it. His heart spoke the same answer as it had when he was twenty—marry her. His head countered with a different answer.
There could be no doubt how his family felt. They were courting her with every opportunity, determined to see them matched. It had been the same before he left.
His father had pushed the relationship, encouraging their trysts. His father’s attempts to matchmake had not been nefarious, as he was not greedily wanting Duncan to marry a duke’s daughter. At the time, Lady Mary’s mother ruled Lyonn Manor and would not accept Duncan as a suitor. In fact, the Dowager Duchess of Annick would accept no one as a suitor except aging nobles over forty years Mary’s senior. Duncan’s father knew their love to be true and wanted his son to marry, by any means necessary, in hopes it would force Duncan to stay grounded, a curiosity since his father had devoted his own life to war.
True, it had not been Duncan’s intention to make a career of war. His only intention had been to make himself worthy of Mary’s hand. But in doing so, he found a place of belonging. He was respected. He was a leader. Purpose drove each day and each decision. Now that he was home, he felt restless, useless. Where did he fit? What purpose did he have?
His heart wanted to whisk Mary off her feet and marry her without delay. He still loved her. He had always loved her. He may not know the woman she had become, but that did not change his feelings. If anything, seeing her as a grown woman deepened his affection. It certainly deepened his desire. And yet what would he do once married? Leave her here while he went to war? Stay to become idle and drive them both insane?
He was not altogether sure she would even want him after learning of the man he had become. There was little doubt in his mind she still loved him just as he loved her, only she loved the boy of the past, not the man he was now. Would she still love him once she knew all he had done?
By habit, he slowed Caesar with a lean and squeeze of his knees rather than by the reins as they came up the drive of Cois Greta Park. And what a bonny sight to greet him! His mother stood at the front, all six feet of her, waving an arm in greeting. On her hip, perched a little boy with spindly arms and a toothy smile.
“He’s begged for a ride since the moment you left,” Georgina said when Duncan slowed to a stop.
A warm smile to his mother, he leaned to capture the three-year-old. Duncan winced through the pinch at his spine as he hoisted Bernard on the saddle.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, he asked, “Would you like to take the reins?”
With a squeal, the boy took the ribbons in hand, flicking them with abandon. Duncan chuckled, folding his hands over tiny fists. Never too early to teach horsemanship, he decided.
“Papa, make him go!” Bernard commanded. “Go, horsey!”
With a tap of Duncan’s calves, the stallion set off, much to the delight of the boy.
Chapter 4
After threading the needle with purple for the peacock’s tail, Mary turned back to her embroidery.
“It’s all so tragic. Jilted at the altar,” Charlotte said, rethreading her own embroidery needle. “The bride never showed. Rumors abound, but the truth of why remains a mystery.”
“Poor Winston. He’ll be forty soon, will he not? Hardly a respectable age for a bachelor.” Mary admired the progress of the peacock tail. The green thread next, she decided.
“He brought it on himself. He loved his rakeish reputation too much to set up a nursery as a responsible gentleman should. What he needs is a woman who can teach him to love marriage more than gambling. He’s coming for dinner later this week, you know, along with the Thompson sisters. Drake is determined to play matchmaker for his friend, though I told him it was a lost cause.”
Mary leaned back, studying her screen. No, not the green. The gold. Definitely the gold. She swapped the purple thread for the gold for the finishing touches of the tail eyes.
“I was madly in love with him once,” Mary admitted.
“With Winston?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “He’s nearly twenty years your senior, and that’s not mentioning his bad habits.”
“Yes, well, I was all of twelve at the time. He was this magnificently mature man who called on my brother from time to time and always treated me as though I were a lady, not a child. And lest we forget, Mother disapproved him. How could I not fall hopelessly in love?” Mary smirked.
“Yes, I can see the appeal from the eyes of youth, but in all seriousness, Mary, that would have never worked out. He would have gambled away your dowry, dallied with every milkmaid in the county, and then gone grey before you reached your majority. Regardless, I do pity his plight. I earnestly believe he was in love with the girl.”
Mary tutted.
Days with Charlotte were among her favorite. Only two years apart in age, they had become the best of friends after Mary’s brother brought her home as his surprise wife. While no one would replace Arabella as Mary’s best friend, there was room in her heart for more than one friend, and she did need someone close. It would be a most lonely life without Charlotte now that Arabella lived in Lancashire with her husband.
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