The Grace of a Duke Page 6

  Despite not having any experience in the matter, she might have been able to seduce him, she considered. But his arm around her shoulder had lowered to cover the part of her back where it was still sliced open from her whipping. The pain had shot through her, causing her to wince and bring her entire being back to the here and now. Whatever was I thinking to visit his room? she wondered then, chastising herself for being such a fool. She could have been discovered in his room, and then she’d be ruined!

  At least she’d been able explain herself and to make a graceful exit, she thought. Joshua seemed to believe her fright; it was real, after all. He would have certainly felt her hammering heartbeats against his chest whilst she took comfort in the strong, even pulse of his. And he’d agreed to allow her to join him on his early morning ride.

  Now she just had to develop some fortitude and hide her embarrassment when she met him in the morning.

  Closing her bedchamber door behind her, she took a deep breath. The scent of him was still in her nostrils, still on her dressing gown, still on her nightgown. Surely he felt something for her if she could cause him to be so aroused that his hardened manhood would remained pressed against her belly during their time together. He certainly had that affect on her, she realized, remembering how the feel of him made her entire abdomen flutter with a pleasant sensation, the space between the tops of her thighs turn to liquid heat, her nipples harden into tight buds that strained against the satin of her nightgown. Had he decided to take her virtue, she would have gladly given it to him, propriety be damned. Only after being away from him these last minutes had she noticed the feeling of warmth slowly fading from her torso.

  As she moved carefully toward the bed, the one candle she’d left burning having gone out sometime during her visit to the duke’s room, she kicked something. It skittered a bit, hitting something else while making a tinkling sound. She felt air move through her hair and turned toward the window. The pane had broken, no doubt from a tree limb, leaving shards of glass strewn across the Aubusson carpet. Having no way to relight the candle without going back out to the hallway, she thought it best to wait until morning before ringing for a maid to see to the broken glass.

  Climbing into the large bed, she gingerly settled herself on her side to avoid causing additional pain to her back. It hurt though, a constant reminder of what had happened that awful night when Edward Bingham was left unconscious and immobile.

  Her father’s injury was ruled an accident by the Bow Street Runner who was dispatched to investigate, the man immediately noticing the empty bottle of liquor and the smell of scotch whiskey that permeated the entire study. By the time he’d arrived, her mother had bandaged Charlotte’s back enough that the seeping blood from the gash across her back could be hidden under the pelisse she’d worn to the soirée. The tears she shed while answering the Runner’s questions were not for her father but for the searing hot pain she felt every time she moved or took a breath. And her mother had seen to it the whip was returned to the stables, taking it herself and hanging it on its hook just inside the carriage house door. There were no servants there that night to witness what had happened.

  That had been just five days ago, Charlotte realized, thinking of the whirlwind of activity that occurred before her departure to Wisborough Oaks. The hospitalization – her father was still in a coma, as far as she knew –, the packing, and her travel arrangements in a borrowed coach that brought her to the Chichester duchy and into the arms of her betrothed. He has the body of a god, she thought as she remembered the feel of sculpted muscle under her fingertips, the feel of the light dusting of hair that covered his chest. And although his scars would be with him for the rest of his life, his flesh had healed so that there was no longer any open wounds that could become infected. And her touch had not seemed to cause him any pain. Unlike mine, she thought as she cursed her father.

  Would the Earl of Gisborn come looking for her someday? To claim what he might consider rightfully his by arrangement with her father? I wonder how much of my dowry he demanded? she found herself considering. And was the dowry still in an escrow account somewhere in London? she wondered, silently cursing her ignorance of the details that had been made when she was just three years old. Even if a decrepit earl came to claim his rights to her as his wife, she knew that she would marry none other than the Duke of Chichester.

  It was that or escape to a convent, she decided stubbornly before falling into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Mr. McFarland Attempts Murder Most Foul

  Angus McFarland had been riding for nearly two hours as he made his escape from Kirdford. Although he was saddle sore and tired, he was still excited at the memory of what he considered a spectacular explosion next to an estate house near the small village. Certainly no one present on the east side of the house could survive the impact of the exploding dynamite. There had been no need to destroy the rest of the house, he discovered from eavesdropping on some carpenters who were drinking at the Foresters Arms pub. No one was living in the newer west wing.

  And the best part of all?

  He had found the sticks of dynamite near an abandoned mine, the wood crate containing them already cracked open. The cylinders, covered in dark red paper, had spilled out around the crate and were simply there for the taking. He scooped up a few for each pocket and, when the last of the lights had gone out in the house, he piled them into the crook of a large oak tree that grew right next to the middle window on the east wall of the house. The impending storm provided plenty of wind and thunder to cover any sounds he and his horse might have made.

  His biggest challenge had been to get a fuse lit. Most of the tinders he had with him were damp from his ride through a rainstorm outside of Chiswick. Thinking it would be too difficult to light the fuse directly, he instead lit up a cheroot from a lamp near the stable yard, the cheroot still dry from having been tucked snugly into his waistcoat. Then he lit the fuse from that and quickly remounted his horse. As he hurried from the estate and headed north, he found himself enjoying the cheroot as if it was some kind of early reward for work well done. At the sound of the blast, he’d glanced back through the trees to see a magnificent fireball engulf the old oak, the sound of the explosion reaching him after a few seconds. Sure his work was done, he’d dug his knees into the side of his horse and ridden halfway back to London before his horse refused to go on. Eager to collect his earnings from his employer, a gentleman he’d seen at several gaming hells over the years, he completed the trip to London the following morning.

  The meeting had been perfunctory. Nicholas Bingham warned him that no one could know what occurred, and that if anyone were to hear of the incident in London, it was to be attributed to a severe lightning strike. McFarland readily agreed, pocketing the heavy purse and leaving his employer’s small townhouse on Golden Square. He had the wherewithal to change his attire at his small apartment near Covent Gardens before making his way to a pub for an ale or two. Then he would head to his favorite gaming hell. He didn’t consider that he really should bathe if he had any hope of winning over the pretty faro dealer he planned to see.

  Or that he might be a bit late in his pursuit of her.

  Perhaps, when Miss Jane Wethersby saw the size of his purse, she would seriously consider his offer. He rather fancied the faro dealer – had for many years, in fact – and thought he had as much chance at gaining her favors as any of the other gamblers who thought her a good catch. Not for marriage, of course, but didn’t every hard working man deserve a pretty mistress?

  Chapter 7

  His Grace and Lady Charlotte Go Riding

  Joshua watched as Charlotte regarded the horse he’d chosen for her. The bay wasn’t large, nor was he particularly fast, but Joshua’s concern was how long it had been since anyone had ridden the horse. He wondered if it might have been his sister’s. A twinge gripped him as he remembered the young girl. Long blond curls, skinny and tall and barely fifteen when she died …
in my arms. She’d been full of life, the spitting image of her mother and as stubborn as her, according to his father. And the duke and duchess had just arranged her marriage to an earl from one of the middle counties when their lives were all cut short.

  “What is he called?” Charlotte wondered as she approached the horse from the front and reached up with a gloved hand to stroke the bay’s forehead. The horse knickered and leaned into her hand. Her attention back on the horse, she began whispering.

  Joshua let out the breath he’d been holding while wondering how the horse would react to Charlotte. His own mount was content to stand perfectly still while they waited. It wasn’t as if Charlotte had taken too long to get ready for the morning ride; the woman was quite punctual, in fact. But a side saddle had to be found and secured on the bay. Now they were just waiting for a groom to bring the steps that would allow Charlotte to mount her horse. Joshua thought briefly of dismounting and simply lifting her up to the saddle himself, but the thought that his wounded shoulder might not hold up while lifting her above shoulder-height gave him pause. He’d been able to lift her the night before because he’d kept her low and against his body. “I think my sister called him ‘Blackie’,” Joshua replied, almost embarrassed by the name Jennifer had bestowed on the poor horse.

  A giggle escaped Charlotte as she climbed the steps and settled into the saddle, her dark green riding habit and matching bonnet a perfect complement to the color of her horse. “It appears ‘Brownie’ would be a more appropriate name now,” she replied as she took the reins from the groom and thanked him. She made a couple of experimental moves, the horse following her commands as expected before the two moved alongside Joshua and his jet black stallion.

  “Indeed, and I doubt he would mind much if you did rename him,” Joshua said, his lips curling up. The left side of his face was covered by the leather mask, its ties secured around the top of his head and around his neck. His top hat, a low-profile version, had a brim that kept most of his face in shadow. Charlotte thought he looked quite smart in a dark blue riding coat and bright blue waistcoat atop buckskin breeches that met a pair of Hessians. Quite smart, indeed.

  Joshua gave Charlotte another cursory glance before heading toward the west, suddenly conscious of the snug fit of her habit around her waist and bosom. From her ease in the saddle, he realized she had probably been riding since early childhood.

  Charlotte scanned the tree-lined horizon as she rode alongside Joshua, amazed at the vista and the nearly cloudless sky. The air, fresh from the night’s rain and wind, was cool but portended a warm day. Given the good weather, Garrett had taken off on his horse just moments ahead of them and headed north to look for storm damage and to check in on some tenant farmers.

  “Stay on my right,” Joshua ordered as he urged his horse to quicken its pace. “And let me know if you’re not able to keep up,” he added as he noticed her testing the bay’s reactions to her movement with the reins.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, somewhat miffed that he doubted her riding skills. When he dug his heels into his stallion, she was ready and did the same with her left heel. The bay responded as she’d hoped, obviously glad of the opportunity for exercise and a rider.

  “It’s really too bad about the oak tree,” Charlotte commented as she looked back towards the house. The loud crack they’d both heard the night before was the tree splitting, almost down the middle. The roots were partly exposed while the tops of the two halves leaned toward the ground. Several low-hanging branches had already been trimmed away by the groundskeeper in preparation for the tree to be completely cut down and chopped into firewood and building materials.

  Not looking back, Joshua shrugged. “The village will not lack for wood this winter,” he said as his horse’s speed increased to an easy trot. “Not that it ever does. About a third of the land around here is wooded. I believe we’ll use the larger parts of the oak for the house, though. There is still a good deal of interior framing to be done,” he added when he saw Charlotte’s curious expression.

  “I must say, I was very surprised at just how much of the house had already been rebuilt,” she replied, her horse’s trot easily matching his. “I half expected you’d be living in another house on the grounds.”

  Joshua considered her words. Had he not had to spend so much time in hospital and then several more months in London recuperating from his burns, he might have had to live in a cottage meant for a dowager duchess. But Garrett, who unbeknownst to Joshua had appointed himself to oversee the estate in his friend’s absence, managed the arrangements to get the grounds cleaned up, the burned debris removed, and the undamaged wing of the house in livable condition. His prior experience as an estate manager had proven invaluable. In just a few months, he had completed what might have taken Joshua years to accomplish.

  Having just finished the replacement central hall and wing construction, matching the existing wing so that the casual observer wouldn’t even notice there was at least a fifty-year age difference in the structures, the carpenters were just starting work on the interiors when Garrett announced he had had quite enough of dealing with construction foremen and masons and carpenters and the decisions that had to be made. He had more than enough to do in managing tenant farmers and villagers and forests and orchards and employees.

  A rather surprised Joshua now found himself trying to manage the household, oversee interior construction, and keep the duchy’s books. And just two days before Charlotte had arrived on his doorstep, he was asked by a foreman what color he wanted the new parlor to be painted. Horrors! Asking if he could be shown some choices, Joshua found himself quite out of his element when the man left him with a book – a book – of dozens of possible colors.

  “I have Garrett to thank for that,” Joshua responded, his attention suddenly on the distant tree line. “But he claims he has had enough of rebuilding and needs to concentrate on other matters.” He scanned the horizon, looking for obvious storm damage. “What color should a parlor be painted?” he asked suddenly, his attention still on distant objects as he redirected his horse toward the south.

  Charlotte gave him a look of amusement. “It depends,” she replied with a one-shoulder shrug, directing her horse to move toward the south alongside his.

  “On what?” Joshua countered, his face turning towards her. She rides quite well, he decided, noting how at ease she seemed in the saddle, how her posture was so erect, her left boot firm in the stirrup but not pressed down too far while her right leg was bent around the pommel of the saddle.

  “Furnishings, carpets, drapes, where the windows are …”

  “Oh, the devil be damned,” Joshua cursed in annoyance. From his vehemence, Charlotte thought perhaps he had seen some evidence of damage in the distance. She glanced across the horizon.

  “What is it?” she wondered, not seeing obvious damage.

  “I cannot spend time considering such things right now,” he responded, a bit of impatience in his voice. “There are far more important matters to consider than how the house is to be decorated.” His aggravation was apparent when his horse, which had been cantering for several steps suddenly broke into an easy gallop. They rode in silence for several minutes, heading southwest toward the village. Although a few leaves and small branches littered the trail, there was no immediate evidence of downed trees or smoldering fires from a lightning flash. Once in Kirdford, they slowed their horses to a trot and nodded as villagers waved or bowed in their direction. Charlotte recognized a few of the denizens, remembering them from when she’d arranged Joshua’s move from the dowager cottage to London. When Joshua did not slow his horse, she wondered, “Have you no business in the village this morning, Your Grace?”

  Joshua glanced her way. “Not these days,” he answered, a bit of wistfulness in his voice. “Mr. McElliott is here nearly every day on estate business, so there’s really no need for me to ride over.”

  Charlotte considered his answer as she noticed
the shingle for the village pub, the Forester Arms. “But you must come over for an ale now and then,” she hinted, hoping to draw out the lighter side of the man. She knew him capable of humor; she’d witnessed his brilliant smile and easy demeanor at several balls and evening entertainments.

  Shaking his head a bit, Joshua sighed before answering her. “I haven’t been in the Arms since before the fire,” he finally said, nodding in the direction of the pub.

  Charlotte caught her lower lip with a tooth. “That is too bad,” she offered, not sure what she could say. He was obviously bothered at not having visited the people in his dukedom. “Perhaps we can come over for a luncheon later this week,” she suggested, hoping he would agree. He needs to get out of that house, she thought suddenly. He’s become a prisoner in his own home.

  “Perhaps,” he answered, his tone suggesting it was more likely that they would not. Once they were through the village, he allowed his horse to return to a faster pace, and Charlotte’s horse followed suit, eager to return to the easy gallop they’d enjoyed on the wooded trail. When the trail opened into a meadow and turned east, Joshua urged his horse on, allowing it to enjoy an outright run. Charlotte lowered herself over the front of her bent leg and let loose the reins, her horse quickly picking up speed to catch up to the stallion ahead of them. She laughed as her bonnet flew back, its ribbons around her neck straining as the bonnet billowed behind her. Looking back, Joshua saw her look of joy and smiled, unaware that his mask had done the same thing. The leather ties loosened and the mask dropped away into the meadow grass. The horses slowed as they neared a spring-fed pond, and Joshua pulled on his reins to bring his mount to a stop next to the water’s edge. Charlotte followed suit, smoothing her gloved hand over her mount’s neck and murmuring her thanks for the ride as the horse bent its head to drink from the pond.