ColonelAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “Lord Wiggins?” Mary repeated, incredulous. “Don’t think you’ll trap me in one of your matchmaking schemes. I’ll not be party to this. If you want to take tea with the Duke of Wiggins, you can do so alone. And next time you see fit to alter my schedule on my behalf, don’t.”

  So angry was she, her head throbbed with an oncoming migraine.

  Before her mother could say another word, Mary bolted from the room. When she reached the foyer, she spotted an approaching carriage, the Wiggins ducal crest emblazoned on the side. Blast! Mary about-faced and made for the conservatory to escape out a back door.

  Only when she stepped outside did she realize her coat and muff were still in the vestibule. Double blast! Not even a biting chill could induce her to return inside and risk coming face-to-face with His Grace. She had never met Lord Wiggins, nor did she want to.

  By the time she reached the manor, her teeth chattered, and her skin was aflame with pink gooseflesh. She shook herself back to her bedchamber and rang for her lady’s maid. New shoes, a new pelisse and muff, a hot brick, and a cup of chocolate were in order before the carriage was called around to take her to Cois Greta Park.

  The chill was bone deep by the time she joined Mrs. Starrett for tea. Nothing seemed to warm her. At least she was not sniveling or sneezing like an old maid.

  Only the two of them met in the drawing room. It was Mrs. Starrett’s special treat, she said, both for herself and for Mary. Mrs. Starrett was fast becoming one of Mary’s favorite people. For nearly a half hour, they talked about the grandchildren, especially those Mary had not met, the viscount and viscountess who happened to be Mrs. Starrett’s father- and mother-in-law, and other familial topics.

  How different life would have been with such a mother. As with her last visit, Mary was greeted with a hug from her hostess. A hug. Not once had her own mother ever hugged her.

  Looking back, she could not recall her mother ever touching her, not once. Surely it had happened at some point. Or perhaps not. As far as she knew, she had a wet nurse. The years went by with a governess to care for her and little interaction with her mother aside from dinner or tea when she was old enough to join the adults rather than stay in the nursery. Growing up, all she had wanted was to be loved, a lap to climb onto, arms to hold her, a kiss to the brow, some sort of physical love, something tangible she could feel and understand.

  As Mrs. Starrett carried on about life following the drum, Mary’s attention faded, her fingers on her lips in memory of Duncan’s kiss, his display of physical love.

  The warmth that spread through her chilled limbs brought to mind the memory of the first physical affection between a man and a woman that she had witnessed—far more intimate than a hug or kiss; it was a kind of intimacy she had never known possible.

  At the age of eleven, she had stolen into the kitchen after dark to fetch carrots for the horses. Sneaking through the kitchen garden, she ran to the stables. She only made it to the first horse before she heard a commotion in one of the rear stalls. With the groaning and grunting and carrying on, she had assumed someone had fallen and been injured.

  Inching her way to the stall, careful not to make noise lest she be caught and punished, she spied the felled groom, only it was not quite an injury she witnessed. One of the grooms was tupping a maid. At the time, she had no words or concept for the sort of hug he gave the maid, but she did know she liked the look of it. Her stomach fluttered, her skin flushed, and she suffered an inexplicable fever the rest of the evening; the experience changed her outlook on life and physical interactions.

  With every kiss from Duncan, she recalled that scene from her childhood. It was a physical touch for which she yearned.

  Glancing to the drawing room door, she wondered where Duncan was and if there was a way to sneak a hello while she was here. He could be out riding, she supposed. Twice a day he rode, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Dreadful bad luck if such were the case, though if not, she was unsure how she would escape Mrs. Starrett’s delightful company in search of a secret kiss.

  “Shall we visit the nursery to see Bernard?” Mrs. Starrett asked, pulling Mary back to the present. “He asks about you every day. Wants to know when his new friend is coming to play.”

  “What a lovely invitation. Yes, I would be honored to see Bernard. I hope it was not too bold of me to bring him a toy the other day.”

  “He loves it! We are so grateful for your kindness.” Georgina reached a hand to touch Mary’s arm.

  Mary stared at the hand. Such a simple touch with a world of meaning.

  “I’m pleased he likes it. My nephew is far too serious for toys. He would much rather pour over his studies. He’s two going on twenty. What does a two-year-old study, I ask you? His mind is sharp, and his desire to learn keen, but really, what’s the point without a little fun? Thrice now he has thwarted my efforts to play by insisting he has to practice writing his name. All my gifts and games are wasted on him. I assure you, Bernard won’t be the only one enjoying playtime.”

  The two laughed, Mrs. Starrett leading the way to the door.

  They made it as far as the fifth step on the main stairs before the butler approached.

  He bowed to Mary with apologies for intruding before turning to Mrs. Starrett to say, “You’re needed in the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen? Now? I’m sure it can wait. We’re off to see my grandson,” she protested.

  “Cook insists it’s urgent or I would not dare disturb you.”

  “Well…” Mrs. Starrett looked towards upstairs then to Mary. “I would hate for him not to see you.” She wrung her hands.

  Mary said, “You see to the kitchen, and I’ll see to Bernard. It’s perfectly understandable.”

  Her shoulders relaxed as she patted Mary’s arm, thanked her, and followed the butler.

  Mary climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned on the landing to ascend to the third when she heard a little boy’s squeal of laughter coming from the hall. Retracing her steps, she followed the sound to the upstairs parlor.

  Without thinking she might be interrupting, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  At first she was unobserved, giving her a moment to witness some sort of game of charades between Bernard and Duncan. Bernard was hunched over, limping and growling, with an occasional break in acting to prompt his father to guess. Duncan was seated in a parlor chair. Had it not been for the wheeled chair pushed into the corner, no one would imagine he was anything but a cavalry colonel. He looked positively virile. Her thoughts drifted back to that childhood memory mixed with the recollection of the feel of Duncan mounted on his horse, his lips loving hers.

  When she realized Bernard and Duncan were the only two people in the room, she made to bow out.

  “Mary!” the boy screeched before she had one foot over the threshold.

  Running at her, he dove into her petticoat, wrapping spindly arms around her legs.

  “Oof!” Mary said, taken quite by surprise.

  “Tut tut,” Duncan intoned. “That’s no way to greet a lady. Take a step back and try that again, young man.”

  Looking up at her, his arms still grasping her legs, Bernard grinned from ear-to-ear, ignoring his papa. “Have you come to play?”

  “Indeed, I have, but only with a good boy who obeys his father. Are you a good boy?”

  With an enthusiastic nod, Bernard stepped back and sketched the sloppiest bow Mary had seen in her life. When she nodded in acknowledgement, he leapt back into her skirt, resuming his hold on her legs.

  “Yes, well, I suppose that will do. Come, let us sit with Papa.”

  Taking his hand in hers, she escorted him over to Duncan.

  Duncan had his turn to bow to her from his seat. “Did you lull my mother to sleep by reciting Donne?”

  “Don’t you dare insult Donne or my ability to charm an audien
ce,” Mary scolded, her scowl teasing. “She was called to the kitchen with an emergency.”

  He winked and looked to Bernard. “Tell Mary five capitals you learned today.”

  “But I wanter play.” The lower lip protruded. “Not fair. My friend’s here.”

  Duncan cringed. “I swear it’s not all play around here.”

  “I believe Bernard and my nephew could learn a great deal from each other. One is far too serious and the other not nearly serious enough. Should we trade for a week, do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t trade him for the world,” Duncan said with a playful pinch to Bernard’s arm.

  “And what a big boy you are to be down here without your nurse,” Mary said.

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Eloise!”

  With those words, he bolted from the room, closing the door none too gently.

  “What did I say?” She stared at the door, concerned she had lost her new friend.

  Duncan cleared his throat. “Well, you see, a certain big boy sneaked away from the nursery when his nanny fell asleep. It happens more often than I care to admit.”

  “I wouldn’t chide him too terribly. He is, after all, sneaking away to spend time with you.”

  Propping his elbow on the arm of the chair, he said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re quite right. Does this mean you find me a bad influence?”

  Mary blushed when she said, “On the contrary, I find you to be a model father.”

  She stared down at her hands, in full realization of what she was implying. Given his condition, she did not misapprehend that there was a real possibility they would never have children together. Though not of their union, adopted children would receive as much love and care. She need only look to his affection for Bernard for proof. This seemed a topic they should discuss. Her mother would be appalled.

  Looking back to Duncan to realize he was studying her with a curious expression, she asked, “Does he ever talk about his mother?”

  Duncan frowned. “No. At least not to me. As I mentioned before, he was raised as part of a community with most of the women acting as his mother, as they did with all of the children. He would have still been well-aware of her as his mother, but I wonder if it was enough to miss her. I don’t know.”

  “And what of you? How did he come to call you Papa?”

  Chuckling, he said, “He proposed to me, actually. Of all the men, he favored me, even before his mother’s death. I didn’t see much of him after her death. I assume Philip spent time with him, but their deaths were only weeks apart. Less than a week after Philip passed, Bernard sneaked into my tent and proposed. With all the maturity of an adult, he said to me, ‘A boy needs a father. I choose you. Will you be my father?’ I couldn’t tell you where he got such a notion, but I would wager to guess it was either from his mother or Philip to accustom him to the idea of having Philip as a father. And so, here we are.”

  “What a brave boy to ask you. Do you suppose no one else would have taken him had you said no?”

  “I honestly couldn’t say, Mary. It’s possible. I wouldn’t have said no in any case. I had already planned to approach him with a proposal of my own, if we’re being honest about the matter. I was torn with how it might affect our chances. I spent more than one sleepless night over the situation, wondering if choosing him meant the end of us or if by choosing us it would mean an orphanage or the streets for him. I had even written a letter to you not only about him but about my promotion to colonel, but it was never sent, not with the upcoming battle at the Rhine, not with the injury.”

  She imagined for a moment how she might have received such a letter. There was no way to guess her reaction to his having adopted or wanting to adopt an illegitimate child. She would like to think she would have accepted the boy without question, even without the misunderstanding. But she could not honestly say.

  The feel of his hand touching her arm startled her. Her eyes first went to his fingertips as they ran the length of her forearm from wrist to elbow. Her body shivered in response, a warm shiver of pleasure. Old calluses made his fingertips rough to the touch, but his hands were well-manicured with clipped, half-moon nails. For his return pass, he used those nails rather than his fingertips to trail back down her forearm with a light tickle.

  “Has it escaped you that we’re alone?” he asked, his voice husky.

  She gave a studious examination of the room, slow, steady, thorough, exaggerating her peering around furniture. “It would seem so. Whatever do you plan to do about it?”

  His smile could only be described as wicked. “I plan to discern if we’re—how shall I say this—a good fit.”

  Her eyes widened as his fingertips caressed her arm again, making another circuit to her elbow and back down.

  Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she said, “What should I do?”

  Even with her imagination running amok, she had not the foggiest what he intended. They were, after all, in the family parlor, one door away from discovery.

  “Let’s start with your affirmation that you can run an estate.”

  Brows drawn in, she said, “I beg your pardon. Can I—can I what?”

  “You listed for me what you want in a man. I believe you said something about a witty and well-read man who is also a good horseman. A short list, but it’s something I can work with. You, however, don’t know what would be a good, er, fit for me. Now, I ask you, can you run an estate?”

  His eyebrows waggled.

  She laughed at his silliness. This was the Duncan she remembered. He may look different with all his muscles and steely glare, but this was most certainly the Duncan she fell in love with as a young girl.

  Gathering her wits about her and calming her laughter, she cleared her throat, looked at him from down her nose, and said in her best daughter-of-the-Duke-of-Annick voice, “You dare to question if I can run an estate? You, a mere peasant?” She scoffed. “Since birth, I’ve been raised to serve as mistress to even a royal estate. One more word from you, sirrah, and I shall call the guards.”

  Barely had she said the final three words before she dissolved into laughter.

  His expression smoldered. “But can you select the month’s menu to appeal to the hearty appetite of a colonel?”

  Still giggling, she said, “Will meat and potatoes do?”

  “I wasn’t referring to food.”

  Her smile faded until she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. Oh my.

  And then she did what she suspected was the last thing he would have expected or intended. She stood from her chair, took one step in front of his, and climbed onto his lap, her legs perpendicular to his, her bottom tucked against his side, and her arms around his neck.

  With bosom pressed to his chest, lips inches from his ear, she asked, “Do you still tingle when you ride?”

  His hands grasped her hips, fingers digging into her curves, “Mmm. Yes. Twice a day, I feel alive.”

  “Even more alive than when I do this?” She kissed along his jaw, stroking smooth skin with her lips.

  “Perhaps there’s one exception.” Running a hand from her hip up her back, he palmed her head and pulled her to his mouth, his lips slanting over hers.

  Her own body tingled at the contact, her skin aflame. As the kiss deepened and lengthened, a dizziness swept through her. This was what she wanted—to be touched. She wanted every inch of her person touched by him, his body wrapped around hers.

  At a moan she had not realized came from her, he drew back, his eyes sweeping over her.

  “You should leave,” he said.

  Surprised, she asked, “Am I hurting you?” She looked down to his legs, embarrassed she had forgotten his condition to satisfy her own desires.

  Darkened eyes stared back at her, half-lidded, lingering on her lips. “You are weightless, my love. But at some po
int, my mother will come looking for you, and I’m not sure you want her to see you like this.”

  If she had not felt heated before, she did now, only it was the heat of embarrassment. Reluctant, but not wanting Mrs. Starrett to think her disrespectful or wanton, Mary climbed off Duncan’s lap. With a final kiss to his cheek, she saw herself out of the room.

  At the break of dawn, Duncan awoke with a start. His torso was drenched with sweat, his skin afire. Tossing aside the covers, he breathed in the chilly autumn air, hoping it would cool his desire. He had been dreaming of Mary again. In the dream, he had been seated in the wheeled chair, she astride. His imagination had filled in the details of her bare flesh. Her hips had rocked against his in a maddening rhythm, only he had still been wearing breeches. It was when he reached to unbutton the fall flap that he had awakened.

  The dream readied him for love—except for one important factor. With a quick check, he confirmed his plight. Still no evidence of function. Turning over, he pummeled his fists into his pillow.

  He moved to the edge of the bed, eyeing his ankle. It was red but could bear his weight. Even the swelling had decreased. It did not appear to be sprained, as verified by one of the grooms Peter had brought in the day before. Duncan had not wanted to tell his father or have a physician sent for, so he was grateful to both Peter and the groom. Although the groom was not a medical expert of any kind when it came to humans, it would seem he was correct.

  Relieved though he was, Duncan did not take chances. He focused on his usual regimen of upper body exercises rather than his walking practices to allow for more healing time.

  Once washed and dressed, he climbed into the wheeled chair and had a footman wheel him to the morning room, always an inconvenience when it came to having to carry the chair down the stairs, but well-worth the effort so Duncan could enjoy a sense of normalcy by breaking his fast with his family in the morning room. However many times they offered to have breakfast in the upstairs parlor, he refused. He would not be an invalid forever, he told them.