Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess Read online

  With those words and a kiss on the cheek, Holly’s mother had sent her out into her new world, and Holly had not had the heart to tell her that her new husband had once been exactly such a rake.

  In her first two weeks of the Season, Holly had heard every tantalising whisper of the gossip surrounding this enigmatic man – he seemed to fascinate the ladies of society because of his unconquerable countenance and hooded gaze. Holly was sure she now knew all about rakes.

  There had been other dreadfully unhelpful pointers too, scattered by her mother in the midst of wedding preparations, as though making up for years of teaching her daughter Latin, botany and history instead. Lady Millforte had seemed unconvinced by her own words, but determined to carry on regardless. Holly supposed her mother must have read up on what one said to a daughter about to be married.

  Holly ticked her mother’s edicts off on her fingers, because it made her feel almost at home again.

  “Trust to your husband to help you select your friends – worry more about vexing his good opinion than about being considered unfashionable or obsolete by the world. Remember him in your enjoyments and be moderate in your expenses, no matter your pin money allowance,” she had said, while taking Holly to the seamstress.

  “The duty of a lady is to cheer the hearts of the desolate or of those whose situation in life is in other ways more unfortunate than hers,” she had said sternly on the way back, remembering the need to stop by the vicarage.

  “Gaming is a vice so odious and of so destructive a nature that I hope you will have sense enough to avoid it at all costs: after all, you will bring neither spending connections nor a vast fortune into your marriage. Therefore, let him say instead that despite this, he has received a most affectionate wife, full of earnest trust: capable and considerate. It is such things that make a marriage functional and even felicitous.”

  This last had been delivered while overseeing the packing of Holly’s trousseau, while her sister Rose giggled into her handkerchief, no doubt trying to imagine Holly being demure and solicitous.

  “That will be enough, Rose,” their mother had said primly. “You are a child of simplicity, Holly: though clever in your own way, you are not artful, and you must needs remember that when you embark upon the London life.”

  Holly wished more than anything that she could see her mother or her sister now in her hour of need. She would tell them that simplicity was not a good thing, unless one happened to be a shepherdess! Would Strathavon be ashamed of his choice of bride in the select circles of society?

  Surely nothing but affection could cause him to have made such a disastrous marital choice. A sentiment that went far above and beyond the poor limitations of common regard. But all the evidence before her entirely disputed this feeble hope.

  Though she could not begin to guess what it was that had really prompted his choice. It was as though he was playing some secret game with her, only he refused to tell her the rules. Maybe he expected that she already knew.

  No, she could not possibly shine in polished society, and yet Holly wished very much that she might.

  *

  It seemed that the best time to speak with the duke was at supper: he seemed a lot more genial then, and inclined to conversation. This came as a relief, for the majority of servants, with the exception of Nancy, did not yet trust her, and spoke only when spoken to.

  But at supper, Strathavon seemed open to conversation, and Holly hoped that this was a sign that he would yet open up to her in time. Her heart fluttered at the thought of sitting near him, and talking to him. And maybe even coaxing a smile out of him.

  “Tell me, Holly, what did you make of your short Season?” the duke asked her, as their soup was brought out and set before them.

  White soup, again, she noticed. Cook appeared to be somewhat fixated on white soup. As was every other cook in London, for it had been served absolutely everywhere she’d gone. She was beginning to thoroughly dislike white soup.

  She gingerly picked up a spoon and considered a moment. “It was a real up-and-downer. One didn’t know what to expect: all those parties, and balls, and so many names to remember. I… I almost didn’t recognise Mrs Drummond-Burrell at the refreshment table…”

  In fact, Holly still blushed to think of her faux pas – fancy, not recognising one of the illustrious Patronesses.

  For a moment, it looked as though he wanted to smile.

  “You have my empathy, naturally. That woman can be a gorgon when riled. I crossed swords with her once, as a boy, and regretted it thoroughly. It was right here, in fact. She was to dine with my mother, when I knocked a shuttlecock through the open window and into her soup.”

  Holly stared at him, wide eyed, then looked out the window, imagining the disaster as though she could see it unfolding before her eyes.

  Then something caught her attention. “Was it white soup, by any chance?”

  His lips twitched. “Why, yes, as it happens, it was. I wonder that you guessed so well.”

  “Yes – just the merest luck,” Holly murmurred wryly, and ate a spoonful of the soup in question to keep from grinning in a manner that he would find most undignified.

  “I am afraid Cook has certain ideas and it is beyond me to address them.”

  Holly didn’t suppose he’d been around enough to speak to Cook at all. The house was all in dust sheets. “Forgive me, but why is the house in such disuse?”

  The question was out before she could have stopped it, and then it was too late. Holly held her breath and wondered if she had overstepped herself.

  It seemed, however, that she had caught him in a rare moment of earnestness, because then the duke began to speak. His voice, dark like midnight, dropped lower still and she couldn’t help the shiver that stole through her. Such a wonderful voice he had.

  “My late brother, you see, was not of a domestic bend, though he was the heir. He had insisted on a place in the army, despite what my father wanted, and once the house passed to him, he carried on with his military career. I do believe he gave hardly a thought to the running of the place, though he was fond of it. We had been very happy here as children. Max mostly kept to the London house when he was on furlough. He had the best of intentions but not the least notion how to go about managing his inheritance. But it is the family seat and now that it has passed to me, I mean to set the pace to rights, in memory of my brother and my parents.”

  His eyes darkened as he remembered the previous duke, and she could read sorrow in the sharp lines of his face. A moment later it was gone, as though it had never been, and his face was once again an impassive mask.

  “I believe that what the house needs most is the exacting attention of a lady of sense and skill in domestic matters.”

  Her stomach turned to ice and she felt somewhat ill. Ah. So there it was then, the answer to the riddle that had plagued her so. All that talk of refurbishment and looking after the grounds.

  He really couldn’t have made a better choice if he had advertised, she thought bitterly.

  She felt full to bursting with hurt and disappointment, which had no place being there because it was not as though he had ever deceived her. Holly wasn’t sure how to respond, so she merely nodded.

  “Of course, the whole estate will need a lot of work,” the duke continued. “New drainage must be installed before the autumn hits, and stone foundations. The roads, too, will need to be widened: I mean to take Pontridge properly into this new century. Macadamised roads would make all the difference, I am told, though they are generally scoffed at.”

  Was the room tilting, Holly wondered, or was it just her imagination? She always did have such an imagination.

  “I think it would be largely appreciated by the tenants,” Holly said faintly, “It will vastly improve the speed of travel.”

  This is about the farthest thing imaginable from declarations of love or strolls in the moonlight. She really had outdone herself. But at least now she knew why he had yet to even try to kis
s her.

  She wondered if she could be bold enough to kiss him first, just to see what he’d do: but no, definitely not. He’d be appalled. She was supposed to be setting the house to rights, after all.

  She tried to eat another spoonful of the damnable soup, wondering if they would go on in this strange fashion forever. Could she go on in this way forever? How long did it take for love to atrophy?

  How much happier a world where she had never met him! And yet, in that cruel world she would have never spoken with him, never shared that one precious cotillion set – and weren’t even such little things worth all the pain in the world?

  How ardently she wished he would look at her. Really look, and see her, as she saw him. Like light breaking out of the clouds, or the sudden solution to a riddle, or waking up and finding that it had snowed overnight and now the world was covered in the purest white.

  “Holly? Holly, are you well? You have gone pale.” The duke was on his feet instantly, and by her side.

  She thought she would wilt when he touched her arm with good-natured kindness.

  “Yes, thank you. Just a little lightheaded. It must be the impending storm,” she said, blinking furiously before she could do anything even more mortifying – such as burst into tears.

  Holly had never been one for crying – Rose was the sister expert in artful waterworks, and Arabella in temper tantrums. But now she wanted nothing more than to throw the biggest tantrum of all, at the whole injustice of her situation. She wanted to cry and throw vases and be truly awful.

  But that was childish and the duke would indubitably think her mad. Heartbreak would never occur to him as the cause of her sorrow: so trite and silly a malady.

  “Some wine?”

  He held the fine glass out to her, almost as though he meant to help her drink from it.

  Holly forced herself to shake her head instead of jerking well away from him. “Thank you, no. I think I shall be right again in a moment.”

  The duke nodded and returned to his seat, still watching her carefully. No doubt, he was wondering if he would have to call for a vinaigrette.

  Holly fought to get her despair under control – this was most unlike her. Rose was the one always falling in love and suffering from cruel heartbreak.

  She forced herself to speak. “I wonder if there is anything immediate you would like me to start on, now that I am here? Anything particular you wanted of me?” Because at least households were something she knew: they were predictable, manageable, mundane.

  “Start?” the duke echoed, thrown by the change in topic, and the strange look in her eyes. Was that pain? And a muted hope? She looked at him with all the hope of her heart and he wasn’t at all certain how he ought to respond. He wasn’t certain she even knew how she was looking at him.

  Was there more to the question than was evident at first sight? And what did he really want of her? He had asked himself that several times since spotting her show of stubbornness in the park, and then again the question had completely plagued him when he had offered for her.

  Strathavon considered what he ought to say. Marriage, after all, was well and good from a practical perspective: a lady was needed to run the house, and do something about all the silverware which generations of past ladies had left behind.

  And she had spoken like she knew just how to head a grand house.

  But as far as he was concerned, any domestic entanglements were to be avoided at all costs. He could not take the risk of them – next, he would be compelled to hold her hand or to kiss her, and then, before he knew it, he would fall in love and then find himself broken at the inevitable loss of her.

  Because loss was inevitable, especially when you forgot to expect it. If there was one thing of which Strathavon was certain, it was that he did not wish to feel the desolation of loss ever again.

  The impossible sentiment in her eyes made something deep within him tremble. It was really simple once one thought about it – no good could come of letting Holly’s eyes affect him. But what lovely eyes she had…

  He discovered that he’d lost all interest in his supper.

  He needed an heir, eventually. That couldn’t be avoided. It was up to him to continue the family line. But that was a consideration for another time. He wouldn’t think about it just then.

  What he really needed an aide in his campaign against the decay of Pontridge Abbey and so he had gone out and found himself a wife – a pleasingly domestic sort of girl who would keep his house ordered and never intrude in his heart. That was the only way it could be. Anything else was inconceivable.

  He just had to keep on reminding himself of this fact. What was it about her? He never would have looked twice at her, surely, if he hadn’t been taken by that inexplicable whim at the park. And now, of all things, he had acquired a wife. It would have been far less hazardous to acquire a leopard.

  Strathavon took a drink of wine uneasily, trying to concentrate on rich, oaky flavour instead of her face. He could read her expressions so much better than she knew and it made him wonder about things that were best left undisturbed.

  She was watching him expectantly.

  “Well, my dear, I should think you may pass the day however you please.”

  The enigmatic duke looked directly at her then, but Holly was certain that he did not really see her – had never really seen her.

  She was a ghost in her own marriage. She nodded slowly.

  “Yes, precisely as I please. Thank you for clarifying, Your Grace. I think I had better go and lie down a while after all, if you will excuse me.”

  Strathavon rose as a footman stepped forward to help her move her chair, but she waved him away.

  “Shall I ring for your maid?”

  “No, no, I wish you wouldn’t bother. I shall be right as rain in no time at all.”

  She left the room so that he would not be able to glimpse the pain etched across her face.

  It was not his fault, after all, that she loved him and he did not love her. It was not fair to make him disconcerted with all this show of emotion.

  There were few things in life as cruel as feeling such abiding affection for one who had not the least intention of returning it.

  Why was it that she still felt compelled to try, over and over, to make him confide in her? To show some warmth of sentiment? A part of her had known the truth all along, really, but that only made it worse.

  It was as though he was wholly closed off from her, unreachable, and the thought of him so near yet so completely foreign caused a sharp ache in her heart. She yearned for him to take her hand, and to love her: the impossibility of this dream near stopped her breath.

  *

  Holly avoided Strathavon all of the next day, but at supper, when she could avoid him no longer, she determined that she would fill the silences herself. If he wanted to conjure memories, then so would she.

  If there was one thing she was good at, it was filling silence with words. She told him of her family, and of growing up with all her siblings, because she didn’t know what else there was for them to discuss.

  He listened and nodded, and even inserted a comment here and there. But the duke possessed a distressingly cold exactitude, Holly found, and a knowing demeanour which made her feel as if he knew just how unremarkable and hopelessly in love she was.

  Was he aware of her feelings? Even she was not aware of the full spectrum of pain and despair which she had encountered in the last day.

  Failing entirely to make any sort of connection with her new husband and left to her own devices in the miserably shabby house, Holly resigned herself to occupying her time with domestic matters.

  And how much time she suddenly had!

  Time that would otherwise have been spent laughing with Rose, helping Arabella with her French, looking at Cassandra’s new saplings, or ignoring John being tiresome. And to think of all the times she had bitterly complained to her mama that she couldn’t get a moment to herself at Millforte.

&
nbsp; But now there was just the house to keep her occupied, and it would indubitably take a lot of time to fix it up. At least she knew that her strengths definitely lay in that direction, though she did not make for much of a grand lady.

  She put on a comfortable old dress with a high neckline and a slightly fraying hem, pointedly ignoring Nancy’s look of astonishment that the lady of the house should ever presume to wear such a thing.

  “Maybe the peach, Your Ladyship?” she suggested tentatively.

  “No. The peach won’t do for what I mean to accomplish today. It won’t suffer the dust like this old gown will. Now, do please hand me the apron.”

  Once Holly got started, there was suddenly an endless procession of domestic matters for her to attend to. Requesting a tour of the gardens from Harold Swinton, the chief groundskeeper at Pontridge, Holly looked over the property with a critical eye. The man gave Holly a very sceptical look before proceeding to show her around the grounds.

  The estate was a large one: it would be impossible to cover the grounds in a day, let alone before breakfast, but Holly got to see the fruit orchard, and her late ladyship’s garden, the stables and the lovely fountains that graced the front façade of the house.

  “It was her ladyship’s favourite place to read of a summer’s day,” Mr Swinton informed Holly, his voice gruff with the memory of the former duchess.

  Holly could well see why: on a fine, clear day there could be nothing lovelier than sitting on one of the shady benches near the water and losing oneself in a good story.

  “It is a remarkably beautiful spot,” Holly agreed. “The last Lady Strathavon – she has been gone a number of years now, hasn’t she?”

  “Ten years, Your Ladyship. She and the sixth duke. It was very unexpected, and a great shock to the boys, though they were grown already.”

  “A shock?” Holly tried to recall if she ever got to hear about what had happened to Strathavon’s parents.