Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Page 13

  When Sir John was obliged to spur on his gelding, Lady Louisa excused herself to speak to Princess Esterhazy, who was out on her daily ride. Holly and Verity dismounted and, leaving their horses in the capable hands of Verity’s groom, took a seat under a liburnam.

  Towering over them, the tree still bore a few yellow blooms. Holly remembered that it wore pretty yellow flowers in the summer – her mama had once done a stunning rendering for her papa’s new study.

  “A liburnam!” Holly said, feeling pleased with the tree and the day as a whole, as she carefully arranged the skirts of her habit so as not to crumple them.

  “Is it?” Verity peered up curiously into the branches overhead. “Are they special at all?”

  “We have one at my father’s house. They have lovely golden flowers, and when the flowers fall, it is as though the whole world is a golden fairyland.”

  “How delightful,” Verity said, with genuine feeling, still examining the tree.

  “Well, yes – but the pods are poisonous. We were warned times beyond count when we were children, not to ingest any. I expect we were just the sort of children who might. Fortunately, we managed to keep ourselves occupied with some other mischief the whole time.”

  “I never had such fun growing up. My brother, Robert, is a very strict and grim sort of person – he is in His Majesty’s Navy, a Captain already, but I expect he’ll make Admiral eventually. He is on leave now – to visit his son and daughter at Chenefelt Park, and mama, though she is in town with me at present – papa passed away last winter and Robert is the new Earl of Chenefelt.”

  “I am very sorry, but at least you will be able to see your brother,” Holly said softly. “One of my brothers is also at sea, and it is always such a treat when he comes ashore.”

  “Yes, I expect I shall visit them once the roads are tolerable again. It would be delightful to see my niece and nephew. Frederick and Maggie are the dearest children! My poor niece has never stopped missing her mother. Her passing had been a difficult thing, and it would be just like Robert to say something callous and make things worse. And I must remember to come back here in the summer and to paint the tree, if it is as lovely as you say. What did you call it?”

  “A liburnam.”

  “I shan’t forget.”

  “I am very sure you won’t be disappointed. But how wonderful! Your brother is Captain Dacre? I think he was a mentor of my husband’s brother – the seventh duke. ”

  “The late Lord Strathavon, then. Ah, yes,” murmured Miss Dacre. “I do recall. He was a very good sort of gentleman.”

  Holly nodded, curious to know more about the man who mattered so much to her husband.

  “I think so too. But I don’t know much about him. Would you tell me what you can remember?”

  “I should be glad to.”

  Verity was a romantic soul, Holly found. Much more than she had ever been. She wore her hair in curls like the ancient Greek statues at the museum, held back with bright blue bandeaux and floral bonnets.

  She lived to admire sunsets and majestic mountains, and to collect pressed flowers.

  Verity spoke often of things splendid and sublime, and sneaked the works of Lord Byron into the house to read when her mama was out.

  On the whole, Holly thought the coy young woman was a perfect match for the equally coy Sir John Compton. They would have tremendous fun with their courtship: they would flutter at each other shamelessly, blush and demure any affection.

  Holly supposed the most sensible thing to do would be to advise them both that they were better off finding more practical matches: ones not given to admiring the clouds, but she had made a sensible match herself and so determined instead to help them navigate the tricky path to love most true.

  *

  The morning was yet to have more surprises in store for Holly.

  His Grace, the Duke of Strathavon, arrived at Lady Louisa’s townhouse before Holly had even changed out of her riding habit.

  They had just passed through into the parlour, discussing plans for the evening, when the butler appeared to inform them of this unexpected visitor.

  “It is the Duke of Strathavon, madam, to see Her Grace,” the butler announced to Lady Louisa, presenting the duke’s fine calling card on a salver.

  If he thought it peculiar that the duke should be calling on his own wife in the house of her friend, his expression did not betray this sentiment.

  “My dear?” Louisa looked over at Holly, her lips curled into a smile of amusement and her eyebrows raised in enquiry.

  Holly felt more than a little nervous – she had spent forever imagining this very moment in all its myriad incarnations, weighing every possibility, perfecting every detail.

  But now that he had turned up at her door, she felt completely unprepared. She wished she could have had a few more days to find the right words and to sort through her feelings before he came in pursuit of her.

  She wasn’t ready yet, but suddenly she was also out of time.

  “I shall see him,” she said, feigning a bravery she most definitely did not feel.

  Louisa nodded approvingly and the butler exited to convey the message.

  “If you will excuse me, Holly, I think I have a headache coming on – it’s all the exertion at the park. I have grown very lazy in the country – and I think that I had better lie down. Do give my best to His Grace.”

  With that, the lady elegantly swept out of the room, and Holly felt lost, before she remembered that it was the duke who had left her all alone in the country to go gallivanting in town, and that she had nothing over which she ought to feel nervous.

  When it came down to it, she was rather angry at him, she reminded herself sternly.

  In an attempt to calm her drumming heart, she carefully studied the pattern on the wallpaper. It didn’t work. With a deep breath, Holly took a seat on the sofa and arranged her skirts neatly, so that she might rise and curtsey icily to her husband when he entered the room.

  But when he did, time seemed to stop as she almost toppled into his startling blue gaze. Had his eyes always been so soul-searing, his mouth so sensual, his jaw so strong? She tried to remember, but found that she could barely recall her own name.

  His Grace of Strathavon stood just as frozen at the sight of the creature before him, as though he had never seen her before in his life.

  Lady Strathavon had undeniably put his blunt to good use, he noticed critically, taking in the deep chocolate curls and the twill concoction in which she was draped.

  She was wearing riding fashions of the first stare. The dress was a striking creation that fell in folds to a slight train, and he found he could not seem to look away from the way it outlined her slim but feminine form.

  Neither seemed aware of the butler, who had personally announced the duke, took stock of the situation, and made a very discreet retreat.

  Strathavon noticed that Lady Louisa was nowhere to be seen – they were all alone in the sunny parlour. The connection between his wife and Lady Louisa Somerville was not one that he could ever have foreseen or could hope to understand.

  He had been more surprised than ever to learn that the ladies were not only frequently seen together, but that his housekeeper had been correct and the duchess was indeed staying as a guest of Lady Louisa at Park Lane.

  It was with complete bewilderment that Strathavon ended up at that address the following day, sending up a calling card to his own duchess, and feeling the fool. He still didn’t know what had possessed him: but he was there now, and he may as well see what came of it.

  The silence between them grew thick.

  The duke recovered first, clearing his throat and schooling his expression.

  That started Holly out of her own reverie and she was completely struck by the calm expression on her husband’s face. Where was the passion that she had imagined so painstakingly for every scene?

  “Good day, Holly,” Strathavon said, with a smart bow.

  “Strathavo
n,” she returned the greeting, rising to her feet to face him on a more even ground. “I did not expect your visit.”

  For his part, Lord Strathavon felt wholly incapacitated by her bright, expressive countenance. Who was this elegant stranger? Surely, she was a plotter sans pareil, his wife, to have enchanted him without so much as lifting a finger. Strathavon owned himself impressed and entirely charmed.

  “My dear lady wife – let me remark a moment upon how splendid you look.”

  And she did look spendid indeed. When he had heard Avonbury and others speak of his marvellous wife, he had not been able to fully comprehend the change in her. The last time he had seen her, she had been practical, nervous and full of that warm emotion that had made him so very perturbed.

  Now, she was nothing if not startling. Arresting.

  Over the blue twill, she wore a riding pelisse of claret velvet that instantly drew the eye to her generous bosom. Her eyes sparkled with life and defiance, and her lips were set with a stubbornness that stirred something within him. Something altogether ungentlemanly and feral.

  Had he ever been fool enough to think that distance would make him immune to her? He was like a starving man come before a feast.

  The young duchess calmly held his gaze and Strathavon felt like he was drowning in the endless, glistening depths of her beautiful eyes. There was such an energy about her – such a burning, intoxicating spirit.

  He scrabbled for words – never before in his life had he been struck so thoroughly speechless. “I must compliment you on the miracle you have wrought with Pontridge – I would have voiced my admiration for the house sooner, had I been able to find you in it.”

  An eyebrow went up in response.

  “I could not find you in town. I had supposed Your Lordship gone grouse-shooting in the country,” Holly said, a touch coolly.

  His own tone of casual politeness made her heart twist in her chest. Did he not care even a little that she had left the house without him? Did he not wonder why she had done such a thing? Holly wondered if the man was even capable of love. Could he love anyone but the memory of his late brother?

  “And so you decided to seek your share of admiration in town?”

  She shrugged – a surprisingly graceful gesture. “It seems to me,” said Holly, looking at him with an infuriating calm, “that husbands and loves are very separate entities and very rarely overlap.”

  She watched his eyes flash strangely at her words and wondered if she had pushed him too far.

  His lordship was amazed at his wife’s quick progress in fashionable manners – and her fashionable opinions about matrimony, which left him feeling stranegly bereft.

  The duke grew angry – how dare she have such power over him? How dare she be so off-handed? “Is that so? That couldn’t be why you chose to go riding with Sir John Compton, could it?”

  “Why, no – Sir John came to join our party coincidentally. I find his company to be diverting. But where is the impropriety in that?”

  “That, madam, depends entirely on you.” He took a step towards her as he delivered these icy words.

  Holly found that she simultaneously wanted him as near her as possible, and gone out of her sight.

  Having made up her mind to forget the duke entirely because that was the only chance she had of retaining her sanity, Holly was thrown off her guard by the desire, longing and love that flooded through her once more. His nearness was intoxicating. Her heart fluttered like a bird in her chest.

  She wondered briefly if this meant that she was headed for even greater agony, a pain she might not even survive, until she caught the matching sentiment flash briefly in his eyes.

  Holly supposed she might have become content to live without him in time, had she not felt and seen what she had – but now she knew that, though she might learn to be at peace without him, she would never be truly happy. In him lay her one source of eternal felicity, and she had seen her feelings reflected in his face. There could be no forgetting. It was deplorable.

  Yet, despite his own obvious turmoil, the duke seemed to be set on delivering what was by far the unkindest cut: indifference. It was just an illusion maybe, but it hurt her all the same.

  She watched him fold his arms across his powerful chest.

  “I’ve no time for such palaver,” scoffed Holly. “Recollect, if you please, that it was you who departed Pontridge in unseemly haste. I am perfectly within my rights to visit town.”

  “Undeniably.”

  He was full of that infuriating calm again. She wanted to shake him, to ruffle that impossible exterior.

  Holly remembered Lady Louisa’s words, spoken in what seemed like another lifetime. But it is not mere desire you must create – you will settle for nothing less than love… She wondered if Strathavon even knew the difference.

  Then she thought of the previous Lady Strathavon, his mother, who had known such a warm and splendid love in her own marriage. Holly forced herself to push aside the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her. It wasn’t worth dwelling on the things that she was unlikely to ever have. Pining never did any good.

  “I wonder if you care for anything at all but your estates,” she said with a flash of anger, suddenly unable to contain herself.

  Strathavon looked stricken, as though she had slapped him.

  “That is hardly justified. I had thought that my own wife would have a better opinion of me than that. I hope in time you will learn otherwise. Now I bid you good day, Holly.”

  His regard lingered on her once more, caressing her.

  His use of her name was personal, intentional, intimate. Her heart pounded in her ears, and suddenly, amidst all her fury, she wanted nothing more than to draw him into her, to step near enough to feel the heat of his body against hers, and to kiss him until her head spun.

  His eyes were fixated on her lips, as though unable to look away.

  Then he gave a stiff bow and departed.

  Holly sat back on the couch, suddenly weak at the knees, as though her legs had turned to jelly at the strange, intense encounter. Was that really a flash of jealousy she had seen in his enigmatic eyes at the mention of the hapless Sir John?

  Holly sat some minutes alone after Strathavon had left, trying to get her thoughts in order, for they were suddenly in frightful disarray.

  Lady Louisa found her sitting motionless when she returned to the parlour.

  “How did it go, my dear?”

  It took a moment for Holly to gather herself enough to be able to produce a coherent answer, but Lady Louisa seemed content to wait.

  “I have come to the conclusion that a romantic nature does a lady absolutely no good,” Holly confided at last. “It only gets one into impossible scrapes. I think I ought to forswear any such silly notions in future. I have always been practical, and my one lapse into romance has landed me in this mess.”

  Lady Louisa gave her an indulgent look, and opened her sewing box, retrieving an embroidery frame and silk thread.

  “What one ought to do has very little influence on what one actually does. Have you considered that your scrape is not yet so bad as you believe it to be? Life is much too short to forswear things. Such extremes are an appalling waste of time. I find that it is best to try to be neither one thing nor another, but simply to fall into the natural state of being what will make one happy. No more, no less.”

  Not for the first time since the whole dreadful matrimonial adventure began, Holly wondered what it was that would make her happy. And how it was that she came to find herself in such a strange position…

  *

  That night, Holly stood in front of her tall cheval glass, lifting her long hair this way and that, as the gentle candlelight made different colours play across the chestnut strands. It was a fetching style.

  But maybe she needed something entirely different – something well and truly removed from the confusion that seemed to stuff her head full of muslin. And Strathavon seemed to like her hair long. She glanced
at the journal, which sat neatly on the little table by her bed, and wondered what Strathavon’s mother would have done in her shoes.

  Holly considered cutting her hair daringly short in the style most recently popularised by Lady Caro Lamb. It would go a long way towards annoying the duke.

  But she could not seem to part with her locks. Her long hair was a part of her – always had been, and she would feel naked without it. She would miss the comforting weight of it and the security.

  It was one thing to let Lady Louisa’s maid style it, but another to cut her hair completely. The former had been a pleasant shock but the latter would be overwhelming – she doubted very much she could bear to cut it. After all, she couldn’t possibly survive being any more overwhelmed than she already was.

  The fault lay almost certainly in her country upbringing. Giving up, she returned to bed and pulled the warm blanket around her. She had never been à la mode or high born enough to wed for property or succession. It was affection that had guided her choice – affection and a naïve belief that her sentiment was returned.

  Perhaps if she had been bred into it gently, she would not have been so affected by the spark of emotion that shot through her every time she saw the duke or heard his name spoken.

  She would have been wiser, would have known better than to read too much into simple words and gestures, to ascribe to Strathavon more affection that he had ever exhibited towards her. His regard had been particular, but only in the degree that a gentleman owed the lady that he was courting: affection had nothing to do with it.

  But then, what were his true sentiments? The ones she had seen blazing so brightly in his eyes. And what could she make of his jealousy, if jealousy it had been? Could she gain ground after all, if she planned a sound enough campaign?

  One thing was certain, she was too far gone to give up now.

  Once, Holly might have been delighted if Strathavon had taken even the slightest notice of her, but now things were different. Holly was no longer satisfied with so meagre a victory. Nothing less than love, she reminded herself. That was important: a goal.