Duchess Decadence (17 page)

She spoke the obvious. “Mrs. Wheaton, you were employed as housekeeper when His Grace and I married.”

“Oh yes,” Wheaton said, her easy smile broadening. “Such a happy event, indeed!”

Indeed
. “Had you been long with the Worthingtons?” Just the fact she did not know was odd enough in itself.

Her smile wavered. “I came on just after the prior Duke married.” She twisted her hands. “The second time, that is. Some left, you see…” Her voice trailed.

“Ah,” Thea said. “The dowager
was
a scandal.”

“There was that,” Mrs. Wheaton’s voice hovered as if she were deciding whether or not to end her sentence.

“Might you have tea?” Thea asked, following a brief silence. “I am much recovered, but the house is large, and a spot would do me well.”

Mrs. Wheaton colored as she curtseyed. “Oh I
am
sorry, Your Grace. Here I am, babbling on while you’re still healing.”

Clearly, the housekeeper had no idea Thea wanted to encourage
babbling
.

“You go on up,” Mrs. Wheaton continued, “and I will have a hot pot sent ‘round promptly.”

“I was hoping,” Thea hesitated, “we might enjoy a cup together—in the kitchen, perhaps?”

Mrs. Wheaton’s eyes brightened. “Kitchen’s quite busy, but I’d be honored to receive you in my rooms.”

Within minutes they had settled down in Wheaton’s private parlor—cozy enough, though certainly small—and Thea was sipping hot, though weak tea, no doubt brewed from seconds.

Wheaton met her gaze across the table. “I don’t know as I’ll have answers, but if you have questions, Your Grace, I will do my best.”

Well, then
. “Could you tell me
how
you came to Wynterhill?”

Wheaton gave a short history—Wynchester’s mother died after a long, consumptive illness—that much, Thea knew. The fourth Duke had barely completed his year of mourning when he wed his long-time mistress. On that event, the former housekeeper had given her notice.

“But the circumstance did not offend you,” Thea supplied.

“No, Your Grace,” she said, all astonishment. “Who am I to question a duke?”

Who are any of us
, Thea mused,
to question love
?

Mrs. Wheaton continued her take. The present duke, of course, had returned to school on his mother’s death, and was an infrequent visitor thereafter. Eustace’s health and temperament kept him home, under the care of his long-time nurse. The doctor’s visits, which Wheaton understood had been frequent when the duchess lived, continued to be so—only now Eustace was the patient.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Wheaton, but did you say his health
and
temperament?”

“He was always correct with me,” Mrs. Wheaton said hastily. “But there were outstanding incidents, skirmishes with local boys,” her eyes flashed, “and such.”

“I see,” Thea said, though she did not. She’d always believed that she was the only one to whom Eustace had shown his colors. Most of her acquaintance found him charming in the extreme.

“Might you remember details?”

“I’m afraid I do not.” Wheaton pursed her lips, signaling the conversation was at an end.

They finished their tea, on more amenable topics. As Thea rose to leave, Mrs. Wheaton conveyed heartfelt gladness that the duchess had returned.

“You’ve become quite a fine lady,” she said, “As I always knew you would.”

Thea gave her as warm a smile as she could, and thanked her for the tea.

She wandered out through the kitchens, under the great arches that had once supported doors and into the ruins of the original abbey, her mind occupied with the boy Eustace had been and the man he’d become. Losing a mother to death and a brother to school in the same year could not have been easy on a young man whose health confined him to the estate. Gaining a stepmother, losing his father and, a few years after, gaining a very unwelcome sister-in-law would certainly have salted the wound.

Had she actually, as she professed to him, tried to befriend him? She believed she’d extended overtures. Then again, she was the sole child of a reckless gambler and had been raised with little more than her father and grandmother for company. In those dark days, what did she know of friendship beyond what she’d read in books? Should she have tried harder to know Eustace? Would increased effort have made a difference?

No
. She recalled his hollow glare when Wynchester had censured him on her behalf, and then she recalled his look of sneering triumph when he’d suggested society would believe a child born would be a usurping bastard.

Inside the roofless expanse that had once been the cloisters, she closed her eyes and turned her face to the midday sun. Wynterhill seeped into her pores, winding like a wild vine back into her heart. And the duke? He was the wild vine’s tendrils, clinging with tenacity. Nothing could slow the vine’s encroaching growth. Love was a fast-growing, ever-propagating weed.

What could she do to protect her heart… perhaps even her life?

She opened her eyes. The roofless walls cast short, dark shadows and the crumbling walls seemed less picturesque and more menacing.

She heard the unmistakable, inner whisper:
Run.

…

Wynchester stood in the cloister’s shadowed entry, watching his death-still duchess for what seemed like an eternity. What thoughts kept her frozen in the center of a ruined abbey? Was she mourning her loss? Was she re-living the nightmare of the prior day? Was she regretting her choice to return?

Had he always been such a cynic?

She could be sending up a prayer of gratitude for their mutual survival. He’d encountered gratitude’s bright flares himself, today—startling intrusions of sentiment he was unable to push aside. Gratitude was one sentiment he could not malign, humbling as it was. What kind of man would he be if he were not thankful their lives had been spared?

“Thea Marie,” he called.

She turned. Emotions he could not name lurked in her eyes, emotions not of peace. As he held her gaze, indescribable loneliness wafted through his heart. Loss like a wandering spirit. Loss beyond the power of the living to comfort. Well, she was not alone.

He held out his hands. Following a moment’s hesitation, she came forward and took them into her grasp. He squeezed.

“Wherever you were,” he said softly, “come back.”

She released his hands and placed hers on either side of his face. Blue.
S
o Blue. Periwinkle? Cornflower? Hellenic sea? The sea, of course. One could not drown in a half-penny flower.

She lifted herself to her toes and kissed him. Her lips were sweet and—though she initiated the kiss—yielding.

Or, was it he who yielded? Moving swift on a current, heading straight for her shore. Home. Home.
Home
.

Lowering gratitude struck again—struck him mute.

He gathered her against his chest.
Not alone, Thea Marie. Not alone.
She rested there
.
Subtle tension slowly draining from her limbs. Finally, she exhaled.

“I am ready for the nursery,” she said. “…That is, if you are.”

His breath rested at the bottom of an empty inhale.

“We can wait for another day.”

“No,” she said firmly, “tomorrow will render the task no easier.”

He nodded. She was right. Dismantling the nursery would never be easy, and the sooner done, the better. Together, they meandered back into the house and climbed the stairs in silence. Wheaton had lit sconces and crates stood open, ready to be filled and taken to the vicarage. Thea released his hand, meandered toward the cradle. After a still moment—in which Wynchester forgot to breathe—she ran her hand along the high-end’s carved oak.

“Are you certain,” she asked, “you wish to part with the Wynchester cradle?”

“Yes.” He had memories of the cradle. Not just the hopeful memories they shared, but darker, vague impressions of his younger years, memories from both within the wooden basin—one small hand grasping the edge and the other reaching, always reaching—and without—Eustace crying out to no answer, and he, wanting to comfort, but at a loss. His sudden wave of loneliness matched the one he’d perceived in Thea.

His breath rasped as he inhaled. “Shades of the past will be put to good ends.” He forced a smile. “And we will look to a better future.”

“But another heirloom lost?” She blushed and looked away, busying herself by collecting small linens.

Had she been referring to what had been ruined in the riot or his mother’s sapphires? He’d thought of the times his mother had allowed him to touch the loose jewels. Her eyes had gleamed when she gazed at them—gleamed with far more fascination than they usually held.

He’d punished Eustace
and
Thea for their loss. Punished them both when the thief could have been anyone clever enough to pick the safe’s lock.

With tentative steps he approached his wife. He reached out and lifted a tiny blanket that hung loose in her hands. He remembered this blanket. He remembered the quiet evenings they had sat together, she, stitching tiny roses along the blanket’s corners, while he’d read pamphlets and reports. He longed for that easy scene of domesticity; longed for that mysterious feminine smile she’d worn to once again grace her lips.

“What are heirlooms,” he folded the blanket, “when measured against an unfortunate child’s need for warmth?”

She took the blanket and, with a shuddering sigh, placed it in a crate.

“I am here,” he said, blinking away a slight blur. Of course he was here. Where else would he be?

She turned around and entered his open embrace.

Chapter Eleven

By the end of the week, Thea had had quite enough of convalescing, thank you very much—and more than enough of the maddening near-and-yet-not-nearness of her husband.

Unfortunately for him, the same moment her simmering frustration broke into boil, he chose to stand between her and the attics, which she planned to explore with Mrs. Wheaton, and suggest she postpone her plans until she was better recovered.

With
deep breath and
without
restraint, she showered him with needle-sharp words born of pent-up frustration. The house was a monstrous size and he hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to elegance or ornamentation, which she understood, men in general being clodpates
completely
unaware of their surroundings, and he, likely the greatest clodpate of them all. And besides, what did he intend, with all this overbearing coddling? Was she to be treated like an elder until she actually became one?

“Well, then,” he said when she’d paused to take a breath, “recovered, are we?”

Thea blushed. “An occasional ache, but truly Wynchester. You cannot expect me to convalesce another day.”

“Ah,” he turned to the housekeeper, “the duchess says no to convalescing while I, the greatest clodpate
of all
, say no to labor.” He glanced back to Thea Marie. “Clodpates, may I remind you, cannot reason and are therefore immune to argument.” He turned back to the housekeeper. “What would you suggest, Mrs. Wheaton?”

Wheaton grinned. “’Tis a fine, summer day.”

“’Tis,” Wynchester agreed with a boyish grin. “Care to join me for nuncheon, my darling?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Wherever you’d like,” he added, with haste.

She raised her right brow. So, she was to be humored, was she? She searched her mind for places he would never agree to go.

“Your grandfather’s folly,” she said triumphantly.

“The folly it is,” he replied, without the smallest hint suggesting he detested the one-room miniature chalet.

With a grin to match Wynchester’s, Mrs. Wheaton announced she’d have a basket prepared in a blink and, true to her word, she met them both on the quarter hour by the entrance to the manor.

“There’s ice to cool the cheese.” She handed the full basket to Wynchester. “Mind you don’t spill.”

The walk to the folly left her skin heated—or perhaps Wynchester was responsible for her heady warmth…a coatless Wynchester, his white linen shirt and ivory silk waistcoat glowed in the summer sun.

Far enough from the manor to picturesquely frame the house and outbuildings just above a view of the pond, the folly itself held claim to beauty. Ornate doors graced the small brick building; Versailles-inspired arched windows and fanciful rooftop statues gave the small building a stately air.

“It’s weathered well,” she said with some surprise. “I am
so
glad time hasn’t ravaged the cottage.”

“You always did see this place’s charm.”

She glanced at him askance.

“I found it,” she said primly, “as charming as you found it useless.”

His lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “As you’ve noted, I am a clodpate,” he said. “What do clodpates know of romantic gestures?”

She sighed. “About as much as ladies know of men’s minds.”

“As much as that?” he said with a laugh. “Then I must indeed be the greatest clodpate of them all.”

She noticed the inner shutters stood open, and the side windows had been set ajar. She glanced suspiciously at Wynchester.

“You
knew
I’d choose the folly.”

“I’d never suggest your actions were easy to foretell,” he patted her hand, “however, you always sigh when you speak of this place.” He raised his hand to shield his gaze and squinted up to the roof-top urns. “Thank you, grandfather.”

He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and led her inside.

“Oh Wyn,” she breathed.

Light spilled through the seven windows—all of them in good repair. The tattered rug she remembered had been re-stitched and cleaned. She crossed the single room and ran her hand along the farthest of two matching, newly re-stuffed
chaise lounge,
overflowing with satin pillows on their single raised arms lounging like pashas in each corner.

She clapped her hands. “You’ve had your grandfather’s folly restored!”

He drew close to her side and placed the basket on the floor. In the glass, she admired his reflection, imposed over a view of Wynterhill. How appropriate.

“I’ve always wondered why you called it my grandfather’s folly, when he had it constructed for my grandmother.”

“A monument in memory of their wedding trip to France.” She shrugged her shoulders in happy appreciation of the romance. “When did you have it repaired?”

“Oh,” he closed one eye, “I am not
quite
certain. Work began, say, three weeks past?”

He had been busy. The roses. The Broadfield. And
this
. On impulse, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I could hardly welcome you back to Wynterhill while the folly remained in disrepair.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Are you pleased?”

“You
know
I am,” she said. “First the Broadfield, then the roses, and now the folly? My dear clodpate…”
…have you the Wynchester heart after all?

She swallowed the question. Though his father and grandfather had been inarguably devoted to their wives, Wynchester had never quite seen the truth between his father and Emma.

She heard Emma’s voice—
that is my fight, not yours
—and knew Emma would want her to revel in Wynchester’s gesture, the warmth of the summer sun, and her husband’s indulgent smile. He
was
capable of the same devotion, wasn’t he? Emma had been right all along.

A feeling blossomed within her chest.

Happiness
. Genuine happiness.

“Wyn,” she said with some astonishment, “these past few weeks…I’ve been happy.”

His fingers made small circles on her back. “You say
happy
as if it were an uncomfortable sentiment.”

“Not uncomfortable,” she clarified, “…unusual, I suppose.”

He led her to the chaise. “Can you see yourself happy for the weeks ahead?”

She nodded.

“How about the months?”

She nodded again, though slower.

“The years? Don’t turn away,”—he swallowed—“just tell me you’ve forgiven me.”

Raw ache met his plea. The familiar refrains echoed through her thoughts—
If you had not… If I had not…
Recriminations only useful for walling-in pain. She searched herself for the residue of fear left from the riots, a residue she’d expected to last the length of her days.

None—to her surprise—existed. Certainly, she’d never be the same as she’d been before her loss, but she trusted the woman she’d become. She thought of him as he’d been the day he’d ridden to her side. She trusted him as well.

“I no longer blame you,” she said sincerely.

His features softened. “And yet, part of me will always blame myself.”

Yes. Her mourning had ceased, but a residue of guilt remained. Guilt she had remained in London, instead of leaving for Wynterhill as Wyn had asked, the day before the vote that started the riots was scheduled to take place.

She looked into his eyes. “I blame myself as well.”

“You will stop,” he said, in his duke-like tone.

“Why?”

“Because, we must learn to live again.”

His eyes—coated with a suspicious sheen—were dark as an ancient oak and the kind of deep she could sink into, knowing discomfort would soon be not only soothed, but healed.

“I know,” she said softly. “I am willing to try.”

Again, he drew her into an embrace, not an intimate embrace, yet something familiar existed in his awkwardness. Something shared.

Wyn was no longer the young man she had married. He was the fifth Duke of Wynchester. A man who’d known loss and pain. A man who was, in his own way, calling her name through the darkness.

She wanted to answer.

“I am such a lamentable thing,” she said. “A log, newly placed on a fire, so in awe of the flame, so caught in the dance of heat, I have forgotten I will be consumed.”

“Such a log,” he offered, “is not consumed entirely, but changed.”

“Wood to ash,” she whispered, with a fleeting thought of the fine-lady figurine.

His embrace became more sure. “Just like I, too, have been happy since you’ve returned.”

Something sticky and thick moved through her throat. “Happy with me?”

He nodded, slow and deliberate. “Neither of us has survived—we merely endured. Let us survive. Let us
thrive
…together.”

She loved him. She loved him madly. But could she trust this lightness? Could she trust his words, knowing he could still choose Eustace’s part? Knowing she had deceived him to keep him from his brother’s influence?

She rested her cheek against his chest, looking out the back window onto the distant aspect of the manor. Wise, she was not. She gambled and lived on instinct, but she was guided by an inner compass she trusted but did not understand. But this was a gamble. He was a gamble. But could she trust that inner compass when she had not touched a deck of cards in weeks—three, to be exact?

She’d never gone so long a stretch without dipping into the soothing click of shuffled cards and beautiful, mysterious patterns that seemed to her the essence of controlling change.

Why had she stopped?

She had stopped because she no longer needed it. She stopped because she was stronger than the reasons she had started. She stopped because she
wanted
to stop.

…And she stopped because nothing—nothing—was worth more than the giddy, bubbling sense of belonging that surged within whenever she saw a twinkle in Wyn’s eye.

How had she ever thought him ice? He was nothing like the hard, thick chunk she’d watched the footmen carry up from the ice-house this morning.

As if to prove her last point, he lifted her chin and lowered his lips to hers. What began as a tender kiss transformed into something deeper. He kissed her as if to kiss her was what he must do to survive. Limp in his arms, she made no protest when he lowered her onto the cushions.

“My dear duke,” she said breathlessly, “you are in a rare state.”

He rested himself on one knee and pressed her into the pillows. Pressed chest-to-chest, she felt the rumble of his voice.

“Nearly to the brink of madness, darling.”

He untied her bonnet and pushed it from her head. With expert fingers he searched and released her hair pins.

“At last,” he said as the locks fell across her shoulders. “At
last
.”

“Wynchester,” was all she managed as, carefully, he removed her fichu. Though still fully clothed, the air across the revealed expanse of her throat and breasts made her feel naked.

“Contrasts,” his breath caressed her skin, “are interesting.”

“Contrasts?” Was this his idea of conversation? And at a time like this?

“Contrasts,” he replied affirmatively, his fingers lightly stroking her neck, “like hard and soft.”

Something in the way he said
hard
left a tingle inside her nipples.

“Oh?” she said lightly, not wanting to admit how quickly her thoughts had gone carnal and her body wet with need.

“Yes.
So
fascinating.” Water sloshed somewhere beyond her view. “Hot,” he rubbed his cheek on her temple, “and cold.” He ran an ice chip along her neck. She went rigid and squealed. “Wynchester! I cannot
believe
you did that.”

He laughed, deep and genuine—a sound she rarely heard.

“Fiend,” she whispered, not unhappily. “I’m shivering.”

“What if I want you to shiver?” He bent his head and warmed the still-wet spot on her neck with hot lips. “Shiver…and moan and squirm and whimper and wail.”

“Someone might see…” she whispered desperately.
Or, hear
. She had hardly proven a quiet lover.

He kissed her forehead and rose from the chaise. “Modesty must be preserved.” He closed the lower shutters, window by window, his movements graceful and deliberate.

“Better?” Again, he towered above, with a hungry smile dancing on his lips.

She put one arm behind her head. “So many layers. You must be terribly hot.”

He removed his neck cloth and, very slowly undid the buttons of his waist coat

“Over-warm still, I am sure,” she whispered.

He shrugged out of the waistcoat. The muscles of his stomach rippled as he drew his shirt up over his head.