An Ideal Duchess (49 page)

*          *          *

              Beryl glanced worriedly at the serene, inscrutable countenance of her sister-in-law as they sat in the drawing room to await the rest of the family to gather for dinner. Amanda was like the black swan from Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
, pale and still in a black and white watered silk gown that left her back shockingly bare save for the black chiffon straps.

             
Her sister-in-law deftly deflected all of her attempts at conversation, returning Beryl’s banter with noncommittal responses, and answering her hesitant questions with questions of her own, as she amused herself with a deck of playing cards. Beryl finally gave up and retreated into an unhappy silence, hurt and bewildered by the swift change in Amanda’s attitude after that afternoon.

             
Her only point of reference were Roddy and Neil’s tear-stained faces when their mother managed to pry the reasons for their abrupt halting of their scouting game, and so she assumed Amanda was angry with Bron for sending the boys back to the nursery.

             
Yes
, Beryl thought to herself,
that must be it
. Bron’s high-handedness regularly burned her up something fierce, and she could imagine how he was with Amanda, so she planned to corner him to express her displeasure.

             
Speak of the devil.
She narrowed her eyes as Bron stepped into the drawing room in waistcoat and tails, and walked towards the drinks cabinet, without acknowledging her or Amanda’s presence. He opened the leaves to reveal an array of cut glass decanters, glasses, and other cocktail accoutrements, from which he extracted a water siphon and tall crystal glass. Beryl glanced swiftly at Amanda, who continued to play Patience with a deliberate serenity, and rose from her chair to approach her brother. He lifted an auburn brow at her as he poured brandy into the glass filled partially with fizzing seltzer water, obviously unperturbed by the fierce expression on her face.

             
“You, brother dear, are the rudest, most inconsiderate—”

             
“If you’re itching for a quarrel, can it wait until after dinner?” He interrupted, turning away as he lifted his high ball to his lips.

             
“No, it cannot,” She hissed, stepping in his path. “You simply must apologize to Amanda for your unconscionable behavior today.”

             
“What behavior was that? We’ve barely spoken two words to one another,”

             
Beryl stared at him, setting her mouth mulishly. He stared back, only averting his eyes as his mouth quirked into a wry grin. “And just when did my baby sister grow into an avenging angel?”

             
“You are going to apologize, aren’t you Bron?” She pressed, her irritation slowly dissipating beneath his humor.

             
“Yes, if you’d like,” He said finally.

             
“Oh good,” Beryl smiled happily at her beloved elder brother. “I knew you couldn’t be too much of a rotter.”

             
“Your immense faith in me is terribly misplaced,” He said pensively before draining his glass. “But perhaps I should be grateful for this bit of grace.”

             
She frowned, slightly unsure of the tenor of his conversation, but smoothed her brow when he smiled at her and took her arm.

             
“Hurry, before Mother arrives,” He steered her towards the drinks cabinet. “Now, my soon-to-be out sister, just what would you like to drink?”

*          *          *

              Amanda never felt such a surge of loathing as she watched Malvern step into her bedroom in bare feet and his dressing gown untied to reveal his bare chest, which gleamed faintly in the light of the lamp beside her bed. Just the thought of him climbing into her bed, touching her with his hands, and kissing her with his lying, horrible mouth made her tremble from the willpower it took to restrain her urge to vomit.

             
Acidic, filmy bile rose in the back of her throat, and she slid from the bed before he could reach it, not wanting to even feel the dip and roll of the mattress as he settled his large, warm body beneath her blankets. She reached for the cup and carafe of water the housemaids filled with fresh water every morning and evening, and drank deeply, the cool freshness of the water washing away her ill feeling.

             
She turned to face Malvern, who had rightfully paused in the act of approaching her when she removed herself from the bed. He narrowed his eyes at her, mouth pressed into an uneasy smile, and fiddled with the sash on his dressing gown.

             
“Beryl told me I ought to apologize,” He said awkwardly. “So here I am.”

             
“The targets of your apology lay a few floors above us,” She blinked hard in anger when he looked puzzled. “Roddy and Neil.”

             
“They disobeyed my strictures against playing in the deer park,” He said flatly.

             
“You needn’t have been so harsh—they are children!”

             
“And children are meant to obey.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “My God Amanda! You are quite naïve if you believe a few harsh words of discipline will topple a man’s character. They shall—and will—receive far worse when they go up to Eton.”

             
“Which is why they must know their home will be a refuge from such monstrosity.” She set her glass down hard on the dressing table. “It’s bad enough I have so little say over my sons’ upbringing, but to know that their time at home will be just as joyless and cruel as going away to school is appalling. You must apologize.”

             
He looked at her in disbelief. “You don’t honestly expect me to undermine my authority by apologizing to those boys?”

             
“I do, and I certainly don’t think they would see this as undermining your authority—they would appreciate a kind word and some consideration from their father.”

             
“You’re turning American on me, Duchess,” He mocked.

             
“Well perhaps that would be a good thing, Malvern.” She said. “After ten years living here, I don’t see much to commend for the character of the typical English gentleman or lady.”

             
“It’s far too late to change that now, isn’t it?” He smiled coldly.

             
“Is it?” She lifted a brow.

             
He narrowed his eyes at her again, but said nothing.

             
She walked back to her bed and slid beneath the blankets, pointedly turning her back to him and reaching over to turn off the lamp. “Good night, Malvern.”

             
She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax beneath his silent, expectant scrutiny. She could sense the direction of his thoughts as he remained standing beside her bed, and tensed, now suffused with a cold fury when he dared to climb in beside her, his skin radiating an unbearable warmth. Bile gorged in the back of her throat once more, this time less in anger over his treatment of her sons, and now for his deliberate ignorance of her abhorrence for him. It was partially her fault, she knew, for she had not turned him from her bed in the past no matter how disastrous their union had grown. A hand touched her hair and then slid down to rest on her shoulder, pausing, as though waiting for her response.

             
‘There isn’t any need for that,” Amanda snapped, jerking her shoulder away from his touch. “We have our heir and our spare, and all one go.”

             
His fingers flexed in his palpable surprise, and she opened her eyes when he pulled her onto her back. The indiscriminate oval that was his face in the darkness hovered over her, his breath hot and slow on her skin, and she moved her hand between them before he could lower his mouth to hers.

             
“Perhaps you should press your desires on someone more willing—such as Viola,” She said tautly, almost daring him to confirm her worst suspicions.

             
“You needn’t be so self-righteous, my dear duchess,” His fingers bit cruelly into her skin, twisting the fabric of her nightgown beneath his nails. “You went wrong before I did.”

             
His accusation—and confirmation—was like a douse of icy water, and she gasped. “Get the hell out of my bed.”

             
For a moment, as he pressed his hands against her shoulders, pressing her into the bed, she panicked, her hands up, fingers curled into a feral claw, ready to fight him off if need be. But he relinquished the pressure and was off the bed in one smooth, quiet motion, and she could not breathe until she heard the sound of the door closing behind him. The breath she did release was shaky and gasping, and she lay heaving bile and choking on her own pained horror, unaware of how long she did so until she was able to fall asleep.

*          *          *

April 16, 1912

              Maggie watched Lucy carefully as the new kitchen maid arranged Her Grace’s breakfast tray, and ignored the general hustle and bustle of belowstairs as she made certain the tray was prepared properly.

             
“Her Grace likes orange marmalade, not raspberry,” Maggie plucked the ceramic pot from the tray and placed it into Lucy’s hands. “Go fetch the orange marmalade, and quick.”

             
“My, aren’t we a bossy one,” Mrs. Alcock made a rare appearance outside of the kitchen, hands on her hips as she surveyed the servants’ hall.

             
“It’s my responsibility to see Her Grace’s breakfast is correct—and that Lucy will know the proper way to serve in this household.” Maggie lifted her chin proudly.

             
“Leave Lucy’s training—
my
kitchen maid, mind you—to me. Mrs. Alcock squinted. “You used to be such a kind, timid little thing!”

             
“People do grow up, Mrs. Alcock,” Maggie said coolly and turned away when Lucy came back with the right marmalade. “Thank you Lucy.”

             
“You’re welcome Miss Wilcox,” The kitchen maid bobbed a curtsey and then scrambled back into the kitchen at Mrs. Alcock’s jerk of her head.

             
Maggie lifted the tray carefully. “I do believe you’ve outdone yourself this morning, Mrs. Alcock.”

             
The cook snorted, shaking her head as she turned to go back into the kitchen. Maggie shrugged and carried the tray down the long corridor towards the servants’ staircase.

             
“Psst!”

             
She nearly turned towards the sound before remembering she mustn’t stop for anything or risk upsetting the duchess’s daily schedule.

             
“Psst! Maggie!”

             
This time she did turn her head and saw Cedric standing against the wall. “It is Miss Wilcox to you,” She said crisply.

             
“Oh shove off, Maggie,” Cedric said shortly. “I’ve got something to show you.”

             
“Can’t it wait until I’ve served Her Grace’s breakfast?” She frowned at him.

             
“You’ll want to see before she hears about it from someone else,”

             
His sudden gravity made her pause, and she gestured for him to show her.

             
“In here,” He pushed open the door to the cook’s room.

             
“Oh no you don’t Cedric! I know your reputation with female staff,”

             
“Do you really think I can make love to you with a breakfast tray between us?” He smirked.

             
Maggie wanted to wipe that smug smile from his face. “Tell me out here if you don’t have any ulterior motives.”

             
“’Ulterior motives’,” Cedric mimicked. “Jesus Mags, you’ve gotten more than a bit high in the instep these days. You didn’t used to be half bad.”

             
“You watch your tongue, Cedric Norman, before Mr. Fowler does it for you,” She said impatiently. “Now what is it you must tell me?”

             
Cedric looked about before pulling a folded newspaper from his green striped waistcoat.

             
“Cedric! Is that His Grace’s newspaper? Mr. Fowler will have your hide.”

             
“He don’t know I’ve got it. I’ll put it back after you see
this
,” Cecil unfolded the
Times
and held it in front of her face.