Duchess by Mistake (10 page)

"Three quarters of an hour should be enough." She smiled at him. "I am ever so grateful that it isn't raining."

"As am I." He stood and peered down at her. "I shall just have Lawford shave me, then I'll run along to the mews and get our horses. If I recall, all of Haverstock's sisters are excellent riders."

"I fear you have me mixed up with Lydia. She rides as well as any man. I am merely competent—owing to the fact that for some peculiar reason I was terrified of horses as a child. My stern father despised my weakness." She had often wondered if her father had despised her. A colder man never existed.

"But you're not terrified any longer?"

She shook her head. "I conquered my fear. James was ever so good about helping me reason through my irrational thinking. He saw to it, too, that I had my very own mount—one which was gentle. As long as my brother was with me, I thoroughly adored galloping over every inch of Haymore."

"I shall be almost as happy about having James for a brother as I am to have Haverstock."

She nodded. "My brothers have both grown up to be fine men—which is a wonder considering my father." She stopped. She did not want to malign her father. Even if he deserved it.

Philip shrugged. "He must have done some things right. Look at his offspring."

Except for Kate, they all had turned out to be admirable adults.

* * *

Atop his mount, Philip faced the portico and awaited his wife. He did not have to wait long. Elizabeth, dressed in a dark green velvet riding habit, hurried from the house, a smile flashing when she saw the youthful groom holding the reins to her mount. Jacob assisted her in mounting, then she and Philip began to canter toward the north.

"She's a lovely horse," Elizabeth said.

He chuckled. "The gelding is not a she."

"Oh." Her gaze remained straight ahead.

Maidenly modesty
. Then, with a deep, spiraling satisfaction, he realized she was no longer a maiden.

He knew he should probably save the best for last, but after a nearly five-year absence, he hungered to feast his eyes on the one place on earth that he held most dear. He was also impatient to see Elizabeth's reaction to the parkland north of Glenmont. Would she--like most people glimpsing the fine property for the first time--find the landscape magnificent?

Emblazoned on Philip's mind's eye as distinctly as his mother's angelic face was Capability Brown's crowning achievement—a natural-looking lake spanned by a humpbacked stone bridge. It could be viewed from every window on the north side of the house. Like a sparkling jewel, the lake was framed by evergreen trees in every conceivable shade of green. Beyond them rose a gentle hill, just beginning to turn green after being stripped of its colour by  winter's stark hand.

Once he and his bride rounded the west end of Glenmont's main house, her mount slowed as she took in the mesmerizing scene that stretched before them as far as the eye could see. Then she exclaimed. "Oh, Philip, this must be the loveliest spot in all of England."

It was all he could do to tamp down his swelling pride. "I am glad you think so. It's now your home, more so even than Haymore."

She nodded knowingly and spoke softly. "Because I shall probably live for more years here than ever I did in the home where I was born."

"It's very likely, my love."

It seemed inconceivable that just two generations ago, this land had been flat, dry and barren. Old Capability was a genius. And Philip's grandfather's pockets had been very deep. It had taken several hundred workmen a year to dig out the lake, and the excavated earth had made a very fine hill. But since Capability never did anything the easy way, he had insisted the hill be located off in the distance. Which necessitated massive transport headaches. Or backaches.

As if pulled to a magnet, their horses went straight to the glistening water, and when they neared it, she said, "I should love to stroll alongside the lake."

"Then we shall tether our mounts."

A moment later they were walking toward the bridge. "What is there about those ornamental bridges that seem to beckon us to walk along them?" she asked.

He shrugged. "They are inviting." Especially his. He'd been too young, too irresponsible to enjoy all that he had inherited when he succeeded to the dukedom. Now, he could not believe he'd been able to turn his back on all this. For now he had a strong desire to never leave.

As good as it was to be home again and as much as he appreciated all that he saw, he lamented that it was not a sunny day, lamented that spring's full carpet of green had yet to cover this land he loved so much. How he wished the lawns were a verdant, velvety green with yellow daffodils springing up willy nilly as they tended to do. He wanted, too, for her to see the blood-red rhododendron that bloomed so profusely here. They were said to be the most glorious in all of England.

Even though the calendar said it was spring, neither the weather nor the blooms were yet to give evidence of it. Still, without spring's heady scents and splashes of colour, there was something elementally pleasing about this cold, almost wintery day. Here. This deep satisfaction with Glenmont's landscape intrinsically tied to its isolation. For miles ahead, it was only the two of them.  Only he and his duchess.

It was perplexing to him that while he was not accustomed to being married, he was rapidly growing accustomed to wanting to share everything with this woman he had wed. It felt so novel after two and thirty years of bachelorhood to suddenly have a life's partner. Novel but not entirely unwelcome.

He remembered the night he'd asked Haverstock for her hand in marriage. Then, as now, he'd experienced a feeling of bliss at the very notion of having a son. A son to whom he could leave Glenmont and all the other ducal properties. A son born of the union between Philip and Elizabeth. His mouth went dry. His thoughts flitted to the previous night. To Elizabeth's bed.

And he was nearly overwhelmed with strong emotions unlike anything he'd ever before experienced.

Wind hissed and chilled, and gravel crunched beneath their feet as they followed the path to the bridge. "I hope you're not too cold," he said.

"I shouldn't mind if I were for I love it here." She looked up at him. "Now I know why you told me last night that you preferred the outdoors here at Glenmont."

He took her hand and sighed. "I find I don't want to return to London. Even though my duties call." For too long he had shirked his duties. He had to do whatever he could to stop Napoleon. He had to use his leadership capabilities--and he hoped, intelligence--to help pass legislation to benefit their kingdom. And he had young sisters to launch into society.

Had he only himself to consider, he thought he could exist here alone with sweet Elizabeth for the rest of his days.

"I know," she said softly. "I feel the same. Even though I have duties too."

They came to a complete stop at the bridge's summit, and he peered into her fair face. He'd never before noticed the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose. Stray strands of flaxen hair trickled along her cheek. Damn, but she looked incredibly young! Was that why she elicited in him a deep sense of protectiveness?

He stroked her face, sweeping away the errant locks. "Oh yes, Number 7 Trent Square."

"It's good to have purpose. Long before she ever met Haverstock, Anna carried out her charities in the East End. It's in her nature to be benevolent and caring, and I pray that I have been influenced by her goodness."

Haverstock had married very well. His wife was possessed of a kind heart, large purse, and stunning beauty. The Marchioness of Haverstock was certainly more beautiful than the new Duchess of Aldridge.

But since the marchioness was already taken, the duke thought he'd done very well for himself with Elizabeth. She was good breeding stock. That's what the Dukes of Aldridge looked for in a wife. Earlier dukes, of course, had married for fortune, too, but he did not have to seek a woman with a fortune. All the cumulative holdings brought to the dukedom by earlier advantageous marriages had left him exceedingly well off.

"I think you are very good." Even the bedchamber aspects of this marriage were far more satisfying than he had dreamed they could be. This wife of his was surprisingly more affectionate than he'd expected. He must remember to give the lady Madeira every night.

"I hope I never disappoint. If I do, you must tell me," she said. "I think I should like us to be open with one another. Do you not think that honesty is a good foundation for a marriage?"

"Pray, I hope that does not mean that you wish to pry away confessions about my
former
wicked ways!"

She giggled, then turned toward the lake beneath them, and leaned into the bridge's stone balustrade. "I should like to think of the rest of our life as beginning on the day we married."

"Whew!"

Their laughing eyes met, then he came to sit beside her upon the bridge's rock wall, his legs dangling toward the water below. How refreshingly naive the poor girl was! He could never be completely honest with her. A man simply did not tell his wife about his mistress. All the Dukes of Aldridge took mistresses.

At the present, he would not seek a mistress. Not when his duchess's lovemaking was proving to be so satisfactory.  He drew in a breath. He must direct his thoughts away from such arousing thoughts. But he dare not bring up the topic of dancing. Or finger preferences.

What did females like to discuss? Love. Social activities. Clothing. None of these subjects remotely interested him, but he must make the effort to establish as easy an intimacy in their conversations as there had been . . . No, he couldn't allow himself to remember the feel of her silken flesh. He suddenly blurted out, "You must help me ensure that my unmarried sisters get suitable mates. I will own that I was disappointed when Clair didn't take."

Elizabeth nodded. "I was surprised."

"I know she's not considered pretty though she certainly is to those of us who love her. Do you remember how old she is now?"

"She's three and twenty. Almost exactly two years older than me."

"Everyone will believe she's on the shelf. So men won't seek her."

"It's difficult to seek someone who's not there. You know that she no longer attends balls?"

He frowned. "I did not."

"Her appearance is not offensive. It's just that she exercises a careless disregard for . . . the things that other young ladies care about."

"Like fashion, attending balls, and falling in love?"

"Exactly. I had thought that despite her lack of effort, any number of men would want her for a wife because she's the daughter of a duke."

"It seems you were mistaken."

"I should love to tell her what to wear and how to dress her hair."

"Perhaps if I -- as head of the household now -- asked her to heed your advice, it would send a message that I want her to marry."

"Pray, Philip, don't. It might wound her deeply. I'm afraid she would think you don't want to be burdened with an old maid sister, even though I know that's not what you mean. You love her and want what's best for her."

"Was not Lydia exactly like Clair?"

She  nodded. "I had come to believe that if she had not received an offer in thirty years, she never would. I thought she was happy with spinsterhood. Later, I learned that she had loved Morgie always and didn't think a fashionable man like him would ever lose his heart to her. She is less attractive than Clair."

He did not know if he should nod in affirmation or ignore the comment. He chose the latter.

"I never even suspected she held a tendre for Morgie," Elizabeth said, "but Haverstock said she was very clever in the manner in which she coaxed a declaration of affection from him." She looked up at him and smiled. "They adore each other."

He had even learned that Morgie was so besotted over his own wife that he had failed to take a mistress. Haverstock was besotted in the same way. Philip was incapable of loving as those two did. No woman had ever besotted him.

More's the pity.

* * *

The next week was the happiest in her life. How difficult it was to feign acceptance when her husband announced his intentions of returning to London. She never wanted to leave Glenmont. It wasn't the magnificence of the home and its land that held her heart. It was so much more.

To her complete amazement, she realized on the third day of their marriage that she had fallen totally, blindingly, madly in love with Philip. How difficult it had been during their lovemaking not to whisper words of love. How she longed to say
I love you
  to the man who lay beside her at night, the man who captured her heart.

But she could not make such a declaration without forcing a similar--insincere--one from him. Hearing those words upon his lips would make her the happiest woman in the three kingdoms, but she only wanted to hear them if they truly came from his heart.

Would that day ever come, she wondered morosely.

The discovery that she loved Philip uncovered memories buried beneath the years of time. She now recalled with the clarity of clear spring water the first time she saw him. She remembered distinctly that she was four, and she had blurted out, "I'm going to marry Charles's friend. He's so handsome, he must be a prince."

Mama had told her he wasn't a prince but would be the closest thing to it when he became a duke. As a little girl, she fancied herself growing up to be the Duchess of Aldridge. But as he grew into manhood, the gap between him and the little girl she had been grew wider.

Because she was far too drab to entice a rake like him and because he was gone from England by the time she came out, all her girlish affections for him had been suppressed. Until now.

Now that old flame had ignited with more potency than she had ever dreamed possible.

She knew they were utterly compatible. Their backgrounds were similar. They held each other in high regard. And their physical intimacy brought each of them to quivering masses of pleasure.

A pity man did not have to be in love in order to slake his physical needs, needs she'd been told that men experienced much more acutely than women.