He nodded, pulling at Mary’s sleeve, not looking up. “Will you be my new mummy? I won’t love you as much as my real mummy.”
“Oh. Oh, Bernard.” Her eyes burned and her throat tightened.
If she thought responding before was difficult, it was nothing to now.
A gust of cold whipped about them as the door opened, everyone in a cacophonous din of voices stepping out to face the chilly air that was feeling more like winter with each passing day. Before long, Mary and Bernard were standing alone in the foyer save an invisible footman. Duncan cast a curious glance behind him as he stepped outside behind his brother.
“She will always be your mummy,” she said. “I know she loves you very much. If you’d like me to be your new mummy, I would be deeply honored and never expect you to love me as much as her. Are you certain?”
Hiding his head against her arm again, he nodded.
“We’ll celebrate tonight with a book and those fairy biscuits. Now, shall we follow the others and wave goodbye?”
Another nod. Mary set him down. Nearly before his feet touched the ground, he was racing out of the door and pushing past Duncan to throw himself at his grandpapa. They would all have to wait for her to join. Taking off her gloves, she swiped at damp cheeks.
A blurry Duncan stepped around the front door. “Is all well?”
With a sniff, Mary nodded and slipped on the gloves. “Your son, our son, rather, just asked me to be his mummy. On the understanding, of course, that he will not love me as much as his real mummy.” She laughed after another sniffle.
In three strides, Duncan took her in his arms. His embrace was breath-stealing tight.
When they joined the others outside at last for hugs, Mary felt none of the anxiety of before. Everything would be well. Everything would be perfect. How had she ever been nervous to share a house with only Duncan and Bernard? They were her family.
The little family of three stood on the gravel drive to watch all depart, arms waving, lips smiling, each hopeful.
Had he known it was a dream, he would have awakened. That was the discomfort of dreams—one assumed it to be reality while suffering its effects, unable to break free of the horror.
Duncan sat immobile in the wicker, wheeled chair. He ought to be frightened. The legs were unresponsive. The feeling gone. Without someone to push the chair, he was trapped, a painting of a pebbled stream his only view. He ought to be frustrated, depressed, angry even. Instead, he was impassive.
A lethargic arm pulled Mary to him. Blocking the pebbled stream, she stood, a coy smile playing at her lips. With a sway of those voluptuous hips, she climbed into the chair with him, straddling his lap. He felt the kiss upon his lips but not the movement below. As she rode him, her back arching and her breasts bobbing, he knew melancholy rather than excitement, for he felt nothing.
Duncan awoke with a groggy groan, a hand resting on the empty space next to him, a pillow tucked between his knees. His hand roamed Mary’s side of the bed, feeling for evidence of her. Nothing. For a disorienting minute, he feared he was back at Cois Greta Park, an invalid, having awoken from a dream wherein he could walk and marry and physically love. Dare he try moving his legs? Dare he open his eyes to see which was dream and which reality?
The lingering scent of lavender on her pillow wafted happy reality. He smiled into the pillow, inhaling deeply.
It was not the first of such dreams. The nightmares haunted his evenings every few days, not visions of battlefields as he had once suffered but memories of the loss of limbs and sensations. As long as he awoke to this reality, he was not bothered; although, he would prefer to wake with her by his side. Not only did he long to see her face each morning, but he was rock hard and ready for love.
After a quick wash and fresh shave, he found his way to the morning room, Mary halfway through a plate, a letter in her hand. She glanced at him, her attention on the letter.
Oh, this would not do. Ignoring the sideboard of food for the moment, he circled around the table to grip the sides of her chair.
Lips inches from her ear, he whispered, “You. Me. A darkened room. Now.”
A hand shooed him away. “Later. I’m reading a letter from Charlotte.”
“Saucy minx,” he replied.
His mouth to the side of her neck, he purred. She tittered, the sound light as air and filled with tinkling bells.
Swatting at him again, she said, “Eat, you beast. I want to finish my letter.”
He brushed his lips to her neck. Teasing her earlobe between his teeth, he flicked his tongue to the soft skin. When she moaned, he knew victory.
Tossing the letter to one side of her plate, she made to rise from the chair.
Two hands on her shoulders, he said, “I’m ravenous.” As soon as she moaned again, he released her to head to the sideboard for food. “We’ll have to find that darkened room later.”
Behind him, she scoffed. “You’re a foul beast, Duncan. You shall pay for this teasing.”
“I look forward to it.”
He filled his plate with a meaty selection. Before he returned to the table, an unseen footman delivered his coffee. Splendid.
Neither Mary nor Duncan spoke for several minutes, Mary engrossed in her reading, Duncan savoring the meat. All meat and dairy at the hall was supplied by one of the tenant farmers. A convivial chap. Duncan had met him on several occasions, twice in the company of his father and brother and once with the steward. The fellow had five children, all too old to be playmates for Bernard, but the wife could be on friendly terms with Mary given the opportunity.
Then Duncan wondered if Mary would call on a farmer’s wife. Duncan saw nothing wrong with inviting them for dinner, but would Mary? A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him she dined with duchesses on a regular basis, not with farmers and their wives. Who would be more uncomfortable at such a table?
“You’re awake early,” he said, veering his thoughts from such prejudices.
Nodding, her eyes trained on the letter, she said, “Earlier. I’ve already visited with Bernard, met with the housekeeper, met with McLarren, and taken a turn about the park with Athena.”
His cutlery paused mid-air. He made to speak, but she looked at him from over the edge of the paper and raised her brows.
“You, sir, are not the only one who can wake early or meet with the steward.”
The corners of his lips twitched upwards. “Are you mocking me?”
“Me? Never. I’m far too busy and important to mock you.”
“I see how it’s going to be. And just what was so important this morning that required a meeting with the steward?”
Folding her letter and tucking it next to her plate, she took her time to taste her tea, skewer a cut of bacon, pop it in her mouth in a sinfully seductive way, and chew with agonizing slowness. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table.
She swallowed and took another sip of tea before saying, “Butlers.”
“Butlers?” he echoed.
“Yes, butlers. Or a butler, rather. I can’t do without one. McLarren sent inquires the day after your family departed. It’s now been a week’s wait. He’s optimistic we should receive a character reference or five any day. I’ve asked Charlotte for recommendations on what I should look for in a good butler, but her advice, however helpful, leaned more towards sending me her first footman. I would much rather McLarren look into this. He best knows the staff and house. Don’t you agree?”
Duncan had not realized he was chuckling until she scowled at him. “And here I thought I would do all the work while you shopped. You’re a new surprise each day.”
“Shows what you know.” She harrumphed. “Despite your prejudice against my sex and station, I am a woman of independent mind and means.”
Mary looked down her nose at him until they both laughed.
All week he had been getting used to her not being sixteen anymore. That may sound unusual if said aloud, but he had fallen in love with her during the span of fifteen and sixteen, and that was the Mary he knew best. She was no less Mary now. She was, simply, different. He had realized this the moment of his return, but now that he shared his days and nights with her, it had become astonishingly obvious.
Not on every topic did she agree with him. In fact, on most topics, she disagreed. Their conversations were not contentious, at least, not all of them, though all were lively. There was a poise about her with which he was unfamiliar, a haughty gaze she never used to have, an enjoyment of things both domestic and lordly—hiring a butler being a prime example; should that not be his task? Even her expressions he did not know. Each day presented a new discovery.
“How’s your family?” he asked, nodding to her letter.
“They’ve been waring over baby names, Charlotte and Drake, that is. Theo asks about me every day, Charlotte says. I still get teary eyed when I remember his chin wobble the day we left. Oh, my sweet Theo.” She ducked her head into her cup of tea before continuing. “Drake mentioned paying us a call in a month or two. He has a tentative engagement in Durham, though he’s not yet heard word if it’s before Christmas or after. There’s a little hospital for which he hopes to raise money.”
He stared at her, expression blank.
“His concerts raise money for charity,” she said. “You didn’t know? Well, no matter. According to Charlotte, he’s been working himself ragged on a new opera for the occasion.”
Tapping the side of his coffee cup, he thought how to say this delicately. “I know he’s a composer, though I admit it came as a shock to learn. But raising money for charity? That must be your sister-in-law’s doing. Your brother, if you’ll pardon my saying, is too frivolous for that sort of thing.”
“Nonsense. He has a heart of gold.”
He opened his mouth to respond then thought better of it, resisting the urge to argue.
What he could recall about her brother was an entitled noble who did nothing but play. The Duke of Annick’s love affairs were infamous, especially the long-term affair with a notorious marchioness. Duncan could even recall word of a duel or two. Perhaps the duke had settled down to married life, especially now that he had a son. It had certainly come as a surprise to learn the duke had taken responsibility as head of the household. Before Duncan left for the Army, the Dowager Duchess of Annick ran the household with an iron fist while her son enjoyed his freedom.
Changing tactics to avoid a morning argument, he asked, “Do you miss them?”
“It’s only been two weeks,” she said with a laugh. “One of those weeks was kept busy with your family. I’ve hardly had time to miss anyone.” She looked into her teacup, her smile slipping at the corners. “Yes, yes I do.”
Duncan felt a stab of guilt for taking her away from them. At least Durham was not terribly far. It was not as though they had moved to London.
“Will your nephew and mother be joining for the journey south?”
Mary grimaced. “Theo is always welcome, and I hope he does come, but my brother would not dare invite her. He knows better.”
“You should invite her.”
She looked at him sharply. “We’ve been through this.” Her tone was edged in warning.
He shrugged and finished his breakfast.
All too clearly changing the topic, she asked, “How long until we have a response about the horses?”
“Everything takes forever in the Army. Turtle slow. We might hear something by the end of five years.” He winked when she looked up, startled. “I wrote to a fellow who is most likely to have a ready response. At least from him we’ll have an indication if this is a plausible plan. A more definite answer may take longer. We can work with plausible, at least for a short while.”
“And if they say no?”
“Warhorses are always in need. I’ll look elsewhere if the Army isn’t interested. For obvious reasons, it is my first choice. If it comes to it, we don’t have to breed warhorses. Andalusians are fine horses for many means.”
“I promise not to be too disappointed, then.” She smiled.
Not until he felt her foot on his thigh did he realize why she smiled. Good heavens. She must have been inching those toes up his shin for some time. He had not felt it, of course. But now that her foot rubbed his thigh, he most certainly could feel it. On command, his body rose to attention. Her smile became more devilish as he nursed his coffee, eyeing her over the rim.
“Didn’t you promise me a darkened room?” she asked with a bat of her eyelashes.
Oh, yes. He did enjoy married life.
These were the moments when Mary knew love. Duncan’s shoulder pillowed her head, her fingers trailing across his chest. It was an evening like most others. The post-coitus snuggle was her favorite part.
Every night, they read to Bernard together, Duncan’s hand finding its way to hers to lace fingers or brush strands of her hair while she read. She relished his touch. This was what she had longed for during the course of her life—human touch. Once Bernard’s breathing slowed, they closed the book, bade Mrs. Eloise goodnight, and slipped off to Duncan’s bedchamber. Sharing a bedchamber with her husband had been unexpected for Mary. To be held every night. To reach a hand and feel him next to her. To wake to his arm draped over her waist. Oh, what glory!
In the darkness of night, she often wondered if her mother had ever been held like this. Was that why Mother was so cold? Was that why Mother never touched her children? As soon as such thoughts crept in, unwanted, she banished them with all the passion she could give to Duncan, filling her world with the touch of all-consuming love. She did not want to think of her mother.
Many nights, the couple fell asleep within moments of coupling, sometimes while still joined. Other nights, such as this night, they embraced and talked, getting to know each other as two strangers who married youthful fantasies.
Inhaling the musk of his cologne and sweat, Mary nuzzled closer. Duncan’s fingertips brushed circles on her shoulder.
“What do you suppose our life would have been like if we had eloped?” she asked.
Her pillow lifted and lowered as he took a deep breath.
“We wouldn’t have had a butler,” he said, chuckling, the sound reverberating against her ear.
“How silly. That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it? I rather think it is. The only money to my name was what my father had set aside for me, enough to get a start in life, but not sustainable. There would have been no servants. You would have needed to learn to cook. I would have needed a profession to support you. I might have become a farmer yet, though I had little experience, only what I had gleaned from Mr. Bauer.”
Mary propped herself on her elbow. “Mr. Bauer? Is that the farmer whose daughter you wanted to court? You fancied Miss Poppy? She has terribly bucked teeth.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Aw, yes, Poppy,” he said dreamily. “Ye horse teeth I do love. Ye words of wit shat like a dove. Ye breath of odious perfume I adore. Ye whiskered chin longs for amour.”
Throwing her head back and laughing, she pinched his arm. “You are no poet, sir, and she was not that bad. I can, however, see why you fell in love with me at first sight if she was my competition.”
“You think me so vain? I’ll have you know she was kind and clever.”
“She married the butcher’s son two years ago.” Mary ran her fingers down his nose, over his lips, and along his jaw.
“Did she? I didn’t know. Pimple-faced boy, last I recall, though I suppose he’s not a boy anymore.” He studied her, his eyes dark in the dying light of the fire. “I shouldn’t think you would have liked life if we had eloped. My grandfather might have been able to secure me a position. Someone who served with my father might have, perhaps a fellow offi
cer with land could have offered me work. Though it’s possible we could have had your dowry, I highly doubt it.”
“Our love would have sustained us.” She said, dashing a kiss to his nose.
With a hollow laugh, he said, “Love doesn’t put food on the table, Mary.”
“Who needs food on the table when we can be on the table, our bodies joined in holy matrimony.”
Duncan’s laugh was rich this time, full of humor. “I see. It’s that sort of conversation, then. Not at all the serious kind.”
His knuckle under her chin, he tugged her to him until their lips met. He moaned his approval of the lingering kiss.
“What if you met me now?” she asked. “Let’s say we bump into each other at the hat shop. Would you fall in love with me as you did before?”
“But I thought you don’t like shopping? And if I’m in a hat shop, wouldn’t it be assumed I’m buying a bonnet for a special lady?”
She pinched him again, smirking.
“Ouch! I’m going to be bruised before morning.” Lacing his fingers with hers, he said, “Have it your way. If I saw you now in a hat shop, while I’m purchasing a present for my mother, I would think you far too grand a lady for me and hide behind the plumes on display.”
“Too grand for you? What nonsense. You didn’t think me too grand before.”
“You were different then. You were young and carefree. If I remember correctly, your hair was flying about your shoulders, your head bonnetless. I would never have known you a lady, much less a duke’s daughter. It wasn’t until you drew closer that I finally recognized you as Lady Mary, but by then I was too besotted to care. Now? You’re a woman, Mary. You wear your station on your sleeve whether or not you realize it. One look at you, and anyone would know your blood is blue.”
She might have taken offense had his hand not been rubbing her back, his lips smiling.
“You’re turn,” he said before she could respond. “Am I all you imagined me to be while I was away losing a campaign?”
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