Georgianna: The Last Real Duchess (The Real Duchesses of London) (7 page)

Only it had. Part of being brave was admitting the hollow within, admitting that she'd lost something in the fires of last night's passions.

Enough.

She was done with shoulds.

She'd wallowed abed for weeks the last time, letting the world pass her by.

Not now.

Now there were things to do.

Hargrove was dead. A cold lump formed in her chest at the thought.

Hargrove was dead – perhaps that was why . . . No. She would not think that way. No matter what the reason, she would not be treated like she didn't matter. She pushed up in the bed, in his bed.

It smelled of him.

She held her breath and swung her feet to the floor, grabbing her chemise and pulling it over her head.

She strode over to the door leading to her own chamber. Her maid would be waiting. She would dress and then figure out what needed to be done.

Her mind was already beginning to list the tasks that must be accomplished. The house was bound to be filled with visitors paying condolence calls. She would need to consult with Cook to be sure the pantry was well provided. And the mirrors must be covered. Black crepe must be purchased. Did Richard have a suitable . . . And what about the duke's house, now Richard's house? What must be done there? Would they need to move? How soon? And what of . . .

Opening the door she beheld a flutter of maids. It took a couple of blinks to take in the large trunks and the careful folding of muslin. Even then it did not make sense. Why did they need muslin to unpack? Surely that was what they were doing.

Her second-best walking gown lay upon the bed. Constance lay a clean swatch of white muslin over the dress and began to fold it with care – one blue serge arm and then the other. The skirt carefully folded from the sides and then the bodice folded down. Each fold carefully softened and smoothed with muslin.

"What are you doing, Constance?" Annie hoped her voice did not sound harsh.

"Packing, my lady – your grace. I did not have time to finish yesterday with – with all that happened."

"But surely you realize I will not be going. There is so much to do here. I am sure Lord Tennant will need me here."

Constance looked down, and then turned her head toward the window.

"What is it?" Annie asked.

Constance did not answer. She continued to pack.

"I don't need you to pack. I am staying here."

"His grace told us to finish up. He's having the carriage readied at noon."

"Well, I don't intend . . ." Annie let the words trail off. Richard wanted her to leave. In telling her maid to pack he was almost commanding her to. She could fight. She could insist on staying. There was so much to do – and yet, did she want to be here if he did not want her?

Every maid in the room had stilled. All eyes were on her.

Richard had enough troubles right now. He did not need a shrewish wife.

Where was the line between being brave and being a shrew?

"Carry on, but do not worry about the new delivery of evening gowns. I cannot imagine I will need them soon.” Annie walked over to the washbasin and splashed cool water on her face. She could still feel the gaze of the maids.

It was clear that she had come from Richard's room, clear that she was attired only in her chemise, her hair a cloud about her shoulders. Every woman in the room knew what had happened the night before.

And every woman knew that now she was being sent away – that she had been found an unsatisfactory wife.

Again.

Her chin went up, her shoulders back, her eyes narrowed.

She would not let him know that she cared, not let anyone know.

She had pasted her shattered heart together once before. This time she would lock it away and not allow anyone save her precious son near it again.

Her life would pass second by second and then minute by minute.

Anybody could survive for a second.

Anybody could find happiness for a minute.

The Duchesses

"Have you heard from Annie?" Elizabeth marched into Kathryn's dining room interrupting breakfast. "It's been almost a month since I've had a letter."

"No, I haven't. And I must admit I've begun to worry, but I am sure she would have written if there was a problem."

"Are you?"

Kathryn dropped her toast to her plate. "No, I am not – and you know it. Annie never says if there is a problem. I used to know she was troubled because she'd chatter endlessly, but now it's the opposite. She just withdraws completely if there is trouble. But, why do you ask now? Has something important happened? What would cause you to leave your own breakfast to interrupt mine?"

Sinking into a seat across from Kathryn, Elizabeth picked up a piece of toast and began to nibble. "Nothing really – but Westhaven ran into Hargrove at his club last night and they got to talking. It doesn't seem that Hargrove is any happier than Annie. Even Westhaven could tell – and he is not the most perceptive when it comes to emotions."

"Hmmm.” Kathryn began to pick at her own toast again. "What did he say?"

"Hargrove? Not much, but enough to cause my husband concern. Hargrove, is planning to head back to the country. He wants to spend time with Annie and his son."

"That doesn't sound bad."

"Do you really think Annie wishes to see him?"

"Perhaps she does. Perhaps that is why she has been unhappy."

And do you trust him to not make everything worse than it is now? He's never been able to make her happy before."

Kathryn raised her hand and waved for more coffee. Elizabeth was correct. Men seldom managed to make things better – at least not on their own. "I have an idea she said. Let me finish and we can collect Linnette and Annabelle. And we should probably contact Isabella as well. If anybody knows anything, it will be her. I think we must form a plan and then one of us must implement it."

"Oh, I do volunteer," said Elizabeth. "Westhampton is about to leave again and I could use a bit of excitement."

Chapter Five

Six months, five days and two hours since she had last touched her husband. Two months, twenty-six days and nine hours since she had last seen him. And in the time since she'd come to
Harsgate she'd spoken exactly three hundred fifty-six words to him.

Well, that last might not be quite accurate, but it felt right.

Annie knew that Richard had spent most of those months traveling to all of the duchy's properties and inspecting them. She knew that he'd had very little spare time, but still he could have made more effort. Robbie was old enough now to recognize his father. It was important that a boy have a man to model himself after in these tender years.

It was only because of Robbie that she cared.

And now Richard was back.

Reaching down, Annie brushed the soft curls of her sleeping son's hair. A soft sigh whispered through his lips. He turned in his sleep, wrapping the sheet more tightly about himself. Her heart ached with all the love she felt for him, all the love she refused to loose anywhere else.

The sound of carriage wheels and horses leaked through the closed window, but she did not go and look. The knowledge of what she would see was as fast behind her eyes as if she'd spent hours peeking out through the glass.

Richard.

Richard, in all his wind-tousled glory.

He'd have ridden beside the carriage rather than in it.

She once laughed that he didn't need a carriage at all, just a fast steed and rough cart for the luggage. He'd smiled down at her, eyes twinkling and asked, "But what if it rains?"

"You'd still ride. I think the sky would split and the oceans pour down and you'd still sit upon that darn horse's back."

"You're probably right," he'd chuckled, brushing at a curl lying upon her cheek. "But then I will always ride in the carriage if you're there."

A blush darkened her cheek as she remembered exactly what might happen if they were both in the carriage. The thick velvet benches could be most supportive – and most comfortable.

But that was then.

It had been years since they'd been together within the confines of a carriage. Even when Richard had returned home briefly for his brother's funeral he'd managed to avoid her. He'd left for the church early and strode off after the burial, walking from the graveyard as if ghosts had risen and were biting at his heels. His dark cloak had swirled about him, not even a single glance back had he spared.

Robbie tossed again in his sleep as if sensing her unrest. She brushed her hands through his curls again, comforting him, bestowing all a mother's love upon him. He was what was important – not the cold man downstairs.

The clock struck three, the bells chiming through the house as the different clocks joined in. Gentle spring sunshine shone through the glass, slowly making its way towards her slumbering child. The drapes hung half open and she considered drawing them tight closed, allowing Robbie another hour's rest. But then he would never sleep this evening. Nanny explained endlessly how important sleep was to such a young boy.

She should go down. The nursery maid would let her know if she was needed – and in truth she wouldn't be. Robbie loved her, loved her dearly, but he was more than accustomed to waking without her. The time she'd spent in London trying to win back her husband had already cost her – in so many ways.

Enough.

She was a grown woman, not a scared girl.

Brushing back her son's curls one more time, Annie turned and headed down the stairs toward the main hall.

The wide halls were framed with portraits of her husband's family. The dour faces stared down at her, reproaching her for misdeeds, real or imaginary. The stiff faces never found approval for her. At least they looked more like Hargrove than they did like Richard.

Only Richard was Hargrove. Even after all these months it was not a natural thought.

And she'd never feel a duchess. Hosting guests for the burial had been so odd. Distant relatives who'd never even indicated they knew her name had positively fawned over her. Then there was the "your grace.” She still peered about the room looking for someone else whenever the term was used.

Richard didn't seem to have the difficulty. Every time someone called him by his title or nodded a "your grace" his shoulders seemed to grow wider, his chin higher. She'd never thought of her husband as dukely before, but now she couldn't stop thinking about him that way.

Darnation. She'd been actively avoiding thinking about the man and where did her thoughts take her?

Although perhaps that was a good thing given that at any moment she'd be presented with the man in the flesh.

Pasting a soft smile on her face, she paused at the top of the grand stairs. She might not feel like a duchess, but she could certainly act like one. Step by quiet step she descended.

The hall was empty. Richard must already be in his study, glancing over the accounts. It would be just like him to head off to work without even a simple greeting – although perhaps that was her fault. She had not rushed down when she'd heard him arrive, if anything she'd tarried, waiting as long as she possibly could before coming.

The smile began to feel stiff. The study lay at the far end of the south wing, tucked behind the billiard room and overlooking an ivy-covered courtyard. She'd expected Richard to move to the old duke's offices when he'd last been here, but he'd made no move. Not that she blamed him, the book-lined study had always been one of her favorite rooms.

The door stood open just a crack. She knocked lightly and then entered.

It was empty. Not even a paper had been moved to indicate that Richard had been here. The fire lay unlit. Not unusual given the season, but more evidence that her husband had not been here yet.

Still, it must have been him she'd heard arrive. Nobody else was expected.

Turning, she strode back to the front hall, the smile no longer present upon her lips.

There was nobody there, not even a footman.

Holding in her sigh, she turned towards the kitchens – and almost collided with the porter.

"My pardon, your grace."

"Was that not the duke that I heard arrive?" she asked.

The porter slowed. "Why yes. It was."

Then where was he? She held herself back from snapping the question. She must remember that she didn't care. "And where might I find the duke? I have matters to discuss with him."

"I believe he went out riding. He expressed the need for fresh air."