Duchess Decadence (15 page)

He’d arranged shelter for the servants, and they could follow on the morrow.

Thea joined him as the horses were put to.

“Wynchester,” Thea said under breath, “are you certain? Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Nonsense,” he patted the horse. “I’m well acquainted with these fellows. I had the pleasure of driving the pair at a house party over Christmas.”

His smile was boyish. More genuine than she’d ever seen. How could she not respond to such a sight? “Very well.”

He handed her up into the seat and took a place at her side. She remained reflectively quiet as he guided the pair onto the road.

“You see?” he said, “Not just well-matched, but docile and agreeable.” He gave her a quick glance. “I prefer more spirit, but a curricle depends on a steady pair.” Although he gave no outward sign, she could have sworn he was laughing at her expense.

Resisting the urge to hold to the seat, she folded her hands in her lap. “I did not know you liked to drive.”

He gave her another brief, sideways glance. “I’ve had little to keep me at home these past years.”

She frowned and he nudged her with his shoulder.

“The past is past. This is not a day for scowls,” he said brightly. “Do you remember the rise a few miles east of Wynterhill? What do you think of stopping for a nuncheon?”

She glanced up doubtfully at the heavy clouds, but did not wish to spoil his pleasure. “Are you to serve?”

His smile deepened. “It would be my honor.”

His gaze returned to the road and the horses. Begrudgingly, Thea admitted to herself that they were a beautifully matched pair—calm and responsive to his command. As they traveled along the road at a brisk but cautious pace, he pointed out the picturesque—clustering of flowers here, a grouping of houses there, and, once, an ancient tree, whose tangled branches stretched up and out in every direction, giving it the appearance of a wise, old sentinel.

His efforts at conversation, at first, held an awkward first-time-at-an-assembly sort of air, but gradually, Thea’s unease lessened. Had he truly taken Sophia to heart? Was he attempting to court her with conversation? Within two hours they settled into a rare, companionable rhythm and she had her answer—yes, bless him. And she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him all over his face.

In her mind’s eye, she was drawing a perfect image of doing just that when a sharp bark of a small dog startled the horses, and they jerked left. With a steady voice and a skillful handling of the ribbons, Wynchester brought them back under control. In a low voice he said, “Walk on. There boys, stay steady. Walk on.”

The knots holding Thea’s breath in her lungs started to loosen. Just then a second dog appeared through the grasses, barking even louder and baring his teeth.

The horses sped. Thea lost her hat.

Wynchester did his best, but the horses would not be calmed. Their off-kilter pace strained the pole. Thea held to the seat with white-knuckle hands, but the wood squealed loudly—horribly—and then she was falling.

She balled as she fell, landed on her thigh with a jarring thud, and skid across the road.

Damp, rough gravel tore at her arms, but her sleeves and kid gloves protected her face. She thought she heard Wynchester shout her name, but she could be sure of nothing but the pain in her shoulder and the sound of her rushing breath.

Gradually, she became aware her skid had stopped. In the distance, she heard horses’ hooves. Their horses? Another carriage? Her head pounded—she could not be sure. Ache burned in her ribs, her head, and her shoulder. She waited to sense more piercing pain, but none came. She tested her legs—her arms. Not broken.

“Thank God,” A cold wash of relief. She peered around—looking for any sign of the carriage, the dogs, or Wynchester. Beyond the patter of summer rain, there was silence. With increasing concern, she continued her visual search, dissecting images made indistinct by fine mist. Farther up the road, Wynchester lay prostrate by the side of the road. She pulled herself toward him in a crawl, fear sapping strength to stand.

“Wynchester!” She repeated his name with growing force until she reached his side.

She did not think of lines of succession, or tenants, or even her own well-being, she thought only of the supremely arrogant, insufferable, stiff man she loved and she willed him to be alive with the whole of her constricted heart.

She bent her ear to his mouth. His breath, though weak, stirred against her skin. Afraid to move him—indeed she was not sure she would be able—she remained by his side, keeping her hand over his heart and reassuring herself with each beat.

Time passed—how much, she wasn’t sure, but she was damp to the skin when a peddler, whose laden cart was led by a lumbering donkey, answered her call.

“We were on our way to Wynterhill—do you know of it?”

“Know?!” the peddler’s shook his head as if Thea were daft. “
Everyone
knows Wynterhill. Why it’s not six miles from here.”

“Truly?” She had not recognized the road. Perhaps Wynchester had taken a lesser known route…or perhaps she’d been distracted by his nearness.

She gathered her wits and requested the peddler assist in the procurement of a doctor, assuring him he would be well compensated.

“Wynchester himself?!” the man exclaimed. “Why didn’t ye say so in the first?”

He set off at a considerably faster pace than he’d been traveling. She watched the cart rattle down the road until it disappeared around the bed, leaving her alone again with only Wynchester’s heartbeat to offer comfort.

She brushed aside the strands of hair sticking to her face and scowled down at her husband. “Come to, Clodpate,” she said with fierce affection. “You are too stubborn to die—not now and not this way.”

The mist made droplets on his ashen cheeks. She drew her knees to the side and, heedless of how such a thing would look to anyone else who approached, she leaned forward to place her ear in his chest. His heartbeat continued—as did his shallow breath.

Wyn smelled alive—that had to mean something, did it not? She bunched her fist in the fabric of his shirt.

He had dominated her life—in person or in shadow—since before the end of her first decade. That had to be why the prospect of continuing on without him left her wretched, even though she had lived beyond his reach these past four years.

Her shuddering sigh could not have been a sob, and the wetness that touched her cheek was certainly just rain, no matter that it tasted of salt.

“Please.” She fisted his shirt in her hand. “
Please
.”

Damnation
. A duchess did not beg. She sat up, scowled down at him, and sniffed. “Wake up!” she commanded.

A bead of rain trickled down her neck. She shivered.
Oh, where was the blasted peddler?
She peered down the road in both directions. The only other conveyance on the road would have to be led by a donkey, wouldn’t it?

He groaned. She leaned over him, whispering his name as if it were an incantation that would bring him to life. He drew his brows together, and the sweet sensation of relief made her forget the rain and the cold and the fear.

“Wynchester,” she said loudly, “are you hurt?”

He opened his eyes and his pupils shrank as they adjusted to the light. “The horses?”

Of course he’d ask first of the horses. “I daresay they’ve stopped somewhere.”

He lifted his head and winced. “And you? How are you?”

Mad laughter bubbled up through her throat. “Better than you!”

“Nonsense,” he gritted his teeth. “Just had the wind knocked out of me, is all.”

“No sharp pain?” she asked, letting him go lest her touch increase any discomfort.

He paused as if consulting his limbs. “No. I’ve a bruiser headache, though.”

“What you have is the devil’s own luck. You could have—” A shorn-wool-sort-of-feeling clogged her throat. She bit her lip and looked away.

He attempted to sit up and she pushed him back down. “Do not even
think
about moving.”

He coughed, closed his eyes, and let his head drop back. “I am terribly sorry, my darling. I should never have tried to drive—”

No, you shouldn’t have
. She smothered the thought. All that mattered was he survived. She put her finger against his lips. “Are you responsible for the blasted dogs?”

“Dogs!” he said with sudden alarm.

“
Shhh
. There has been no sign of them.” She patted his chest. “I was enjoying my ride.” She softened as she traced the angle of his cheek with her gloved hand. “…and the driver was very fine.”

For a moment, his features relaxed. Then, he opened his eyes. “A fine driver would have retained control.”

“You cannot help that the horses bolted.” She closed her eyes, forcing a mental review of the sights and sounds that had preceded her fall. “Should the bolt have cracked the pole?”

He scowled. “It should not have. But it did, didn’t it?”

She looked down the road, eyes fixed on the jagged tracks of the missing curricle. “I am not sure.” A smattering of fear dusted over her heart the way the mist was dusting her cheeks. Sabotage? But no. Harrison had charge of Eustace.

She glanced back at Wynchester. He stared up at her with the most extraordinary expression in his dark eyes. She waved her hand in front of his face.

“Are you with me?”

“Of course,” he said with a lop-sided smile.

“Do not scare me like that. You looked as if you had taken leave of your senses. Hey. I
told
you not to move.”

“Nothing is broken.” He removed her hand from his chest, sat up, and slowly stretched his neck. “But something is paining me.”

She placed her cheeks on either side of his face. “What is it?”

He placed a hand over hers. “I am suffering from an excess of sentiment.”

Her heart did a tilted-whirl. Who but she could ever find him endearing?

She admonished him with a glance up through her lashes. “You may consult a physician about your affliction—very soon I hope.”

“And you know this by—?”

“I sent a merchant for help.”

He raised his brows in a faint look of bemusement. “Efficient as usual.”

She set her shoulders back. “Well,” she flashed a grin, “
one
of us had to keep their head.”

“So,” he ran a finger down her cheek, “how does one treat an excess of sentiment?”

“Am I am so prone to excess I should know?”

His smile was enigmatic. “I did not ask because you are prone to excess. I asked because you are wise.”

She blinked back a sting behind her eyelids. Could The Duke of Wynchester—who once decreed sentiment the author of all evil—really be sitting in a gravel ditch admitting to his affection?

She reached out to smooth his waistcoat. She’d always thought of him as a man made of stone—hard and black and unyielding as his onyx eyes. But beneath her tentative fingertips his chest was warm. Her hand crept back up to his cheek and he leaned his face into her palm.

“Your fingers are cold,” he said.

“No,” she protested. “Just wet.”

He started to shrug out of his coat.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “No chivalry allowed. You are just as wet as I.”

“You must give me some office to perform.”

She wiped a stringy, wet lock from her forehead, trying to find some excuse that would require he touch her face again. She looked down onto her gloved arm and saw a streak of dirt.
Brilliant
. She groped for and found the pocket tied beneath her skirts and presented him with a nearly-dry handkerchief.

“You may wipe the dirt from my face.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, taking the kerchief from her hands.

…

Wynchester’s head was a cracking china vase, but Thea Marie remained a stronger pull.

As far as he could tell, her fall had left her little wounded, but the sight of her pale, dirt stained cheeks caused bile to rise in his throat. He had to stop for a moment.

Stop and regain control of his breath before he blubbered like a fool.

She’d been battered once before. On that day, his efforts to assist in quelling the fire that had consumed part of his home had stained his clothes with sweat and soot. By then, the riot act had been read and order began to rule the chaos, but madness had gripped the city for three days, and in the confusion, no one had been able to tell him just what had happened to his duchess nor how his home had been set aflame. Two stout men employed by the dowager next door—no doubt men she’d known since her days as a madam—had heard Thea Marie arguing in the mews behind the house. They said, however, the fire had already been set. If it weren’t for the dowager’s ruffians and their skill brandishing knives, Thea would have died that day.

A harried doctor had given her no more than a cursory examination before telling Wynchester their babe would likely be lost. When Wynchester would have offered comfort, she’d refused him entry. He’d been ashamed and sick and instead of sitting by her side, he’d emptied the contents of his stomach in the mews behind the dowager’s home.

Her concerned expression brought him back to the present and he resumed his ministrations.