Barbara Metzger (26 page)

That was the first part of Sloane’s plan. The second was to carry his impossible wife on board the yacht and not let her out of their cabin until she was breeding. If she were enceinte, that nonsense at Almack’s would be chalked up to the well-known vagaries of incipient motherhood and forgiven in a minute.

His third intention was to make her enjoy it. With no maid, no dog, no duties, no one to care about her behavior or his, Sloane meant to show Lisanne how much he cared, how little other women appealed to him. The gist of the strategy was that he wanted his wife, and was deuced tired of waiting.

While Lisanne was leaving instructions with an appalled Kelly about the dog and the other invalids now placed in his care—made bearable only because Mary was being left behind to help him transport the menagerie back to Devon—the duke was stocking the yacht’s master cabin. Loaded aboard were champagne and oysters, wine and cheese, baskets of flowers.

Lisanne was charmed by his preparations despite herself and Sloane’s high-handed ways. Maybe they could have a real marriage after all, and maybe she’d learn to be satisfied with whatever he could give. For now she was eager and anxious, excited and aquiver about their long-delayed wedding night and her first boat ride.

It might be her last ride anywhere, Lisanne was so sick. All of St. Sevrin’s grand schemes were going overboard, along with the champagne and oysters, the wine and cheese. He never thought for an instant that his intrepid wife might get seasick! He never thought to bring peppermint, ginger, or any of the usual remedies. He never thought he’d be spending his honeymoon holding a basin and a damp face cloth. At least he’d proven his devotion, although Lisanne was too miserable to care. Somewhere between Swansea and the Irish Sea, St. Sevrin vowed to stop drinking if only she’d recover.

By the time they docked in Ireland, Lisanne had to be carried off the boat, begging Sloane to promise that they’d walk home.

Liam was delighted to welcome Sherry and his new wife, although privately he considered the duchess too wan and weak for a man of St. Sevrin’s iron. With apologies for his bachelor quarters, Liam placed Lisanne in his housekeeper’s care and took Sherry off for a taste of home-brewed Irish whiskey. When the duke stuck to one glass of ale and hurried back to make sure his lady was sleeping peacefully, Liam reassessed his opinion. Perhaps there was more to Her Grace than met the eye.

By the next morning, Lisanne was recovered enough to join the men at the paddock, having already visited the barns, made friends with the head groom’s children, and helped cook breakfast.

“I see you are feeling much better, Your Grace,” Liam offered, while Sherry helped her to a seat on the fence railing.

Lisanne threw off her bonnet, letting her unpinned hair fall to her shoulders. She laughed out loud, the happiest sound Sloane had ever heard from her. She opened her arms to include the rolling green hills, the clear, clean air, the beautiful horses in the field. “How could I not feel wonderful in this enchanted land? It’s just too bad that it’s an island.”

Soon it was time to get to the serious business of selecting a mare to breed St. Sevrin’s future champions. Stable boys led the horses past them while Liam recounted their ancestry and racing history. Every one of the mares was a winner.

Lisanne pointed to a pretty bay with a star on her forehead. “That’s the one you should buy.”

“What, on a look?” Sloane scoffed. “I’ll need to see them run, study the stud books, check them for soundness. It’s not as easy as picking a bonnet, sweetings.”

Lisanne just laughed. She pulled her carved flute out of the pocket of her red wool cape, along with some string, papers, a handful of clover wrapped in a handkerchief, and an apple. She played a few notes and, sure enough, the bay mare trotted right over to the fence and daintily accepted the apple from her hand.

“Can you play some more, Your Grace?” Liam asked, thinking, like Sloane, that it was pure coincidence. “Maybe the other mares will like your music, too.”

So Lisanne played a tune, like nothing St. Sevrin had ever heard. He thought he recognized birdcalls and the running notes of rippling streams and the song butterflies might sing, if they could. The other horses pricked their ears, but the bay mare stayed by the fence near Lisanne’s boot, swaying to the music.

There were tears in the eyes of the old grooms, and clapping from the young ones. Liam was stunned. “No wonder you like it here, lassie. There must be a bit of the old country in you.” He slapped his friend’s back as a blushing Lisanne climbed down and ran off. “Your wife is magnificent, Sherry.”

St. Sevrin turned to watch as Lisanne skipped away with the groom’s children laughing behind her, like some Pied Piper. The oldest boy yelled back that they were going to show the duchess where a dragon lay buried, and a real true fairy ring. “You don’t think she is…different?”

“Different? I’ll say she is. She’s one in a million, you lucky dog. If every woman was like your duchess, there’d never be a bachelor left in the world.” With that Liam left St. Sevrin at the gate, most likely to follow Lisanne, too.

Damn, Sloane thought while pretending to study the field of horses, Lisanne just wasn’t like other women. “I’ll never understand her,” he muttered to himself.

“Seems to me, boyo, ye don’t have to understand the lassie to love her.”

There was no one nearby. St. Sevrin shook himself. He’d known that giving up drinking was going to wreak havoc with his system. He’d expected shaking hands and sweaty skin—not hearing voices. He tried to get his attention back on the mares, ignoring Lisanne’s bay, for what did his wife know of race horses? “Now, which one of you is going to bring me the luck of the Irish?”

The same voice, with a shade more impatience, spoke again: “Seems to me ye’ve already got all the luck ye need, ye blitherer, and the good advice.”

St. Sevrin looked around, then down. Far down. At about ankle height, he spotted a tiny gentleman in a green suit. St. Sevrin reached for the flask that had always been in his pocket until today when he needed it. Since giving up demon drink was obviously too hard, Sloane switched his vow to giving up wenches. That was easy; his wife was the only woman he desired. Seeing Lisanne in his dreams was one thing, seeing leprechauns in broad daylight was another. “What am I supposed to do now?” Sloane asked his hallucination, “catch you and make you tell me where you’ve hidden your gold?”

The little man wagged his finger at the duke. “Ye’ve already found the pot o’gold, spalpeen, ye’re just too clottish to recognize it.”

That touched a sensitive nerve. “I didn’t marry her just for the money.”

“I know that, ye noddy Englishman. Does she?”

Either he was suffering from the lack of drink, or else he was going crazy. As crazy as his wife.

*

St. Sevrin decided to buy two mares, the one with the best record and breeding, and the one Lisanne picked. Liam was willing to take the yacht as payment for one of them. The duke hustled his wife through quick good-byes and onto a blessedly short, smooth ferry crossing. He hired a carriage to take them the rest of the way home to Devon.

At the first inn, St. Sevrin waited until after dinner and tea, and then fifteen minutes, no more, before he knocked on his wife’s door. She was sitting at a dressing table braiding her hair for the night, wearing a lacy nightgown that made the breath catch in his throat.

“You’re not sick?” he asked. “Not tired? You have no injured bird to tend or the innkeeper’s children to read a story?”

She shook her head, smiling, hoping. She knew he wasn’t drinking, for her, just as she knew he’d bought the bay mare for her.

Encouraged, Sloane went on with the speech he’d prepared over the last two days. “Lisanne, I want to be the best husband I can, the husband you deserve. But I need you to show me how.”

“In London?” she asked, troubled.

He stood behind her and unbraided her hair, then reached for the brush on the dresser and started feathering the blond curls down her back. “I don’t want to go back to London, not without you. But I don’t want to be in your way if you don’t wish me in Devon, either. I never want to see you hidden away like a hermit. I think we can have a good life together. Will you let me try?”

“I think I would like that very much.” She already liked how her toes were tingling at his touch, but it wasn’t enough. “I know it wasn’t in our agreement, but do you think you could come to love me?”

“I don’t know.” He stopped brushing and Lisanne lowered her chin so he wouldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes in the mirror’s reflection. She’d taken his crumbs, like the birds in her hand. Maybe she could love enough for the both of them.

Sloane moved to stand in front of her, then crouched so their eyes met. He cupped her chin in his hand, one finger brushing at a crystal teardrop. “I don’t know what love is, sweetings. You’re the one with the wisdom of the ages, it seems. You tell me. If you are on my mind every minute, waking or sleeping, if I would gladly lay down my life to make you happy, and if I want you with me for the next century at least—what do you call that?”

“I’d call that love.” Now tears of joy fell unashamed. “But…but are you sure you’re not afraid I’m insane?”

“Precious, I’m only afraid you’re too sane to love me back.”

Later, deep in his embrace, with nothing between them but satisfied desire, Lisanne whispered, “Now that is something you never have to worry about.”

*

“Are you sure the children are safe playing in the woods by themselves, Lisanne? I know you trust Buck to look after them, but shouldn’t they have someone besides a dog, even if he is Becka’s son?”

“Stop worrying, darling. They don’t need the dog. They’ll be fine.”

St. Sevrin wasn’t satisfied. “The boys are one thing, but even little Fiona? Are you sure?”

“I am certain, my love, as certain as I am that I love you.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go upstairs. We might as well take advantage of the peace and quiet for once.”