Lady Adventuress 01 - His Wayward Duchess (8 page)

She was neither a beauty nor an original, after all. Passingly pretty at best, surely. The rest was just imagination, and the inevitable consequence of being cooped up in the country.

She would never turn heads at Almack’s, or gather an army of loyal followers at her side. And yet there was something…

This really wasn’t the time for such nonsense, he told himself firmly.

He ordered his valet to pack his things and for his carriage to be brought out immediately. Nichols only raised a single eyebrow when informed that they would be departing for London within the next two hours.

“
Very well. Then I must arrange your wardrobe, Your Grace,” he said, conveying volumes of disapproval with those simple words, and promptly proceeded to do just that.

The duke watched him a moment. “I’ve said it many times, but I shall say it again – you’re wasted
in this profession, Nichols. You would have done much better arranging troops than cravats.”

“Thank you, Your G
race. But I do not like to consider the state of your silk shirts if I were not here to oversee them.”

The duke sent up a quick note to Holly, apologising for his sudden departure. She was a practical girl –
she would not think anything of it.

The
Pontridge grooms dressed the horses and stopped their feet with surprising briskness. Before he knew it, the duke was on his way to London, stubbornly ignoring the peculiar sense of loss that inexplicably shrouded his heart.

If he felt a little like a coward for fleeing h
is own seat in this manner, then he made a point of reminding himself that he was on his way to help a cousin, and that distance was his only salvation from the malaise of the heart. Distance, and London with its many amusements, would surely keep his mind elsewhere.

Sylvester
arrived at his townhouse on St James Street in a great confusion of spirits and, for the first time in years, could not fall asleep. Was his bed larger and colder than it had been before? He had even checked that it was the same bed, which it was, of course. But then what could possibly have been the matter with him?

The next
morning, while awaiting word from his cousin, he proceeded to write necessary letters pertaining to the repair of the roads through Pontridge Brook. Next, he instructed his valet to bring in any invitations or calling cards which may have been left at the house in his absence. The necessity of a busy social calendar would keep him well occupied.

And a good bout at the Fencing Academy on
Piccadilly would not go amiss.

Truly, he could not understand his sudden fascination with his new duchess.
He was flattered, gratified and even obliged at the gentle affection with which she regarded him. And yet he knew that he was not in love with her: he would never permit himself to be in love with anyone.

But what was it about her that drew his attention every time she happened to enter a room? A plain girl, made more so by that deplorable lace cap of hers. How had she succeeded in capturing his imagination?

And how could he explain to her
that he could never return her love, or anyone’s? He felt ashamed, because he did owe her something.

Even the greatest passion will turn to nothing in the end,
the Duke reminded himself firmly.
Nothing
.

The sky was drained of all traces of colour, and that was just vexingly fitting, the Duchess of Strathavon thought grimly, as she raised her face heavenward, wondering if it would rain.

Her petticoats would be muddy again, if it d
id, which would be a pity. But that would not keep her indoors.

Holly pulled her warm woollen shawl tighter around herself.
It had not taken her any time at all to conclude that, like all stately houses of its pedigree, Pontridge Abbey was perpetually cold in the summer, no matter the weather outside. It would be chilling in the winter.

She
was very fortunate that His Grace could afford to have the fires lit all year round.

She sighed and trudged on, wondering if there was anything new or interesting left for her in the world, or if life would always g
o on as it had done these past weeks.

“L
ike being buried alive, surely,” she murmured to herself.

The nature of
Holly’s malady was a very simple one, but all the more painful for this: she suffered from a love entirely unreciprocated, and a loneliness that seemed to eat away at her spirit.

Probably, Strathavon was
to blame, for being what he was; for making it so easy to love him and so difficult to stop. And for being wholly unable to return her love.

Hers
was an impossible, hopeless passion, Holly knew with a mad sort of clarity. It was like being pulled down by the tide – there was no escape, no real choice. And if she were perfectly honest, she hadn’t the least desire to escape. That was the very worst of it.

Perhaps
she was to blame, too. Had she been too meek, too quiet? Ought she to have thrown a fuss, waxed wild at him until she broke through, to catch even a glimpse of what was hidden beneath his stony façade?

But the moment she
managed to get even a step closer to him, he would cut her off completely, become cold and reticent.

And she had not a friend in the world to talk to. Loneliness was not a state she had ever known before.

Now she knew it all too well: there was no state more grim and intolerable than loneliness, as the days dragged on.

And lonely she was, in a house full of servants and a village full of ladies with whom she had not a thing in common except the ability to run a hou
sehold with skill and economy.

T
hat hardly served as the foundation for a friendship.

She felt angry at herself as tears threatened, blurring her vision and making her sniffle. This
whole arrangement was unbearable.

She felt a little as if she were drownin
g and this was an entirely new feeling for Holly too. She was generally not given to melancholy and she had never really had any true cause for it before now.

All alone
at Pontridge, Holly felt deserted.

This
must be what it was like for all those Tudor nuns, banished from the glorious world of the court.

She had been reading history books to pass the ti
me, because novels left her sadder still, longing for a world that was better, kinder and fairer than her own.

There were
many books yet to read, which was a comfort, and the house still wanted a lot of work. There was even a piano in the front parlour, but Holly did not really play and it held no attraction for her.

I
t only served to make her miss Cassandra, who was wonderful at music. She would always let Holly sit on the piano bench next to her, and watch as her hands fluttered over the ivory keys like birds.

Bu
t pianos, books and houses were all
things
, and it was
people
she missed. People with whom she could freely talk, joke, and laugh. People in general, and one person in particular, though he did not really deserve to be missed.

No doubt she had never belonged in the duke’s fast
, glamorous world – but was she such a disgrace that he’d felt he had to leave her behind while he returned to London?

Would a wife have
been merely a nuisance to him? She had heard of the Duke of Strathavon long before she’d met him. She’d read a little about his exploits in the society journals to which her mama subscribed: the races which he had embarked upon, the light o’ loves and the many parties which he had attended.

A likeness of his handsome f
ace had even graced one piece – the sketch had depicted a man of inexplicable charisma, and unexpected gravity. His life had been so removed and different from hers that she had already been half in love with him because of that.

It might have been
fate, or just a very lucky turn that led her into the village that day. She had made a habit of her daily gambols in that direction, because it was the only entertainment to be had away from the house.

But that morning was to present her with an entirely unexpected treat.

A lady in her early sixties stood in the middle of the path that led down past the vicarage and towards the village. She looked greatly perplexed by all the mud.

She looked up at Holly’s approach and regarded he
r out of very amused blue eyes.

The lady
was dressed in the most marvellous ensemble Holly had ever seen, though she had always been an ardent peruser of her mother’s fashion plates.

Holly
had had no idea so glamorous a creature could even exist in the dreary emptiness of Gloucestershire. Surely she was just an illusion: or had she been swept in from Paris or London on some sort of magical breeze?

Her hat alone was nothing less than a dashing work of art. Holly
was still lost in admiration of the lady’s daringly floral satin bonnet when the lady issued a friendly greeting.

“Good morning. Deplorable, isn’t it? It’s been nothing but mud all the way from my front door, but this is the absolute worst of it, I declare. My maid will give notice when she sees the state of my gown. I think I have taken up the whole path, too. I must apologise – but I find I am rather lost. Would you be so kind as to direct me to Woodley Court?”

Woodley Court had recently
been let, Holly remembered. Not long after she had come to Pontridge. The vicar’s wife had been all aflutter about no less than
two
new arrivals in the space of as many weeks.

But she had never imagined it could have been taken
by anyone this interesting.

“C
ertainly,” said Holly, with her friendliest smile. “If you prefer, I should be glad to show you it myself – it is not very far out of my way.”

“I should be
most grateful. But are you not on your way to the village?”

“It’s nothing, I assure you. I was merely walking.”

“Then you are a brave and hardy soul. I am Lady Louisa Somerville.” The lady paused to give Holly a considering look.

The name was
oddly familiar.

Then it dawned on her. Even an isolated country
squire’s daughter like herself had heard of the scandalous and scandalously wealthy Lady Louisa. The infamous woman was the daughter of an earl and his beautiful, shocking wife, who had formerly been a fine London actress.

Even now that she was well off the marriage mart, L
ady Louisa was known for her rebellious streak and her absolute refusal to play by the rules – a liberty she was allowed because of her astonishing wealth.

Holly knew that
Lady Louisa had been a member of the Devonshire Set in her youth and there was a popular rumour that she was one of the illustrious former
amours
of Prince George. Holly remembered reading that Lady Louisa had even presented him with a miniature of herself draped in lace and wearing nothing more than carmine rouge. The miniature was apparently much treasured by the Prince.

Holly was not at all sure she credited the story with much truth
, for no lady of blood and breeding could ever be so fast as that, but she still knew that Lady Louisa was not a suitable connection for a young duchess of good repute.

Which was why she would be the perfect connection to cultivate.
There could be no one more removed from the tiresome circle of gentlewomen to be found at Pontridge Brook.

Holly wondered how the lady had managed to keep her beauty so very well.
No one was entirely certain of the exact date of Lady Louisa’s birth for not a single one of her confidantes or paramours had ever been privy to this great secret.

The other woman was watching Holly
with obvious amusement, clearly waiting for some polite excuse with which the duchess would take her leave.

She had to
have seen the recognition on Holly’s face.

Holly
believed that she had done rather well in regard to propriety up to then. She had followed every tenant of respectable behaviour and she had done her best to be an exemplary wife.

Out on the Season, s
he had avoided the scandal of mésalliance and married well – though that last had been incidental. But all that had left her with was a ramshackle manor and a husband who had chosen London over her.

She
felt bored and abandoned, and she did not think she could bear another visit to the village.

Being good seemed to get one nowhere.

Lady Louisa then was just the antidote she needed, she decided rebelliously.

And
the devil take proper connections.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Louisa
. Though it be in all this dreadful mud. I am new to Gloucestershire also, and I would be delighted if you were to call on me some time at your convenience. It could be much better if we endure the endless grey together.”

Fumbling in her reticule, she produced one of her newly-printed calling cards
. It felt strange to see her title, which was printed in tasteful dark ink.

Holly handed the card to her new acquaintance.

Lady Louisa was visibly surprised. She appeared to reassess Holly a moment. Holly wondered if she too had written her off as a dull, uninspiring mouse. Lady Louisa glanced at the card, and raised an elegantly arched eyebrow.

“Why, I should be delighted…Ah.
Lady Strathavon,” she said. “I own I am not at all familiar with the environs – I am here for my health, you see. My physician has insisted that I take the fresh air, else he will wash his hands of me. He insisted on the country also, over Bath or Brighton, or some other civilised place, which seems to me rather excessive. A very ratchety man. I must say, I do not see the least benefit of stumbling about in the mud and rain. And missing the end of the Season, too.”

Holly could empathise with that. She had
also been forced to miss the end of the Season, on account of her hasty matrimony.

She
remembered how the journals had chalked the haste down to the ardour of the groom.

Ardour, indeed! I
f she had then supposed him simply to be a person of private affections – well, she had no explanations for the fact that he had deposited her at Strathavon and left her to the dust with nothing but a hasty note.

It would be impossible to imagine a man who felt less ardour for his new bride.

Alas, her sheltered upbringing and over-active imagination had played her false.

“Since you are the new Lady Strathavon, I must offer my felici
tations on your recent nuptials,” said Holly’s new acquaintance, thankfully cutting into her bitter speculation.

“Thank you, that is very
kind,” Holly replied automatically.

“Is it?
If you say so, my dear.” Lady Louisa did not look convinced, and Holly remembered that she had always refused any offer of marriage, no matter how worthwhile.

If onl
y Holly had had that much sense! But she had walked merrily to her own doom.

She could still remember the exact moment she had promised to love Strathavon forever: she had bee
n so nervous that she had stumbled terribly over her vows. It was a wonder that she had not tripped over her gown on her way back to the carriage.

She cam
e out of her musings to find her new acquaintance still regarding her curiously. Holly felt her cheeks warm at having trailed off like a silly schoolgirl.

“I am sorry, Lady Louisa – I was just thinking of how right you are
about missing the rest of the Season – it’s a great shame. But perhaps the country really is good for one’s health.”

The lady scoffed
. “For me, possibly, my dear – for I am grown decrepit, you know. I come from a time, if you’ll believe it, when a gentleman was known simply by the lace he wore, and the jewels. So some may say it is only right that I should be sent out of the glamour of modern society like a relic or some old vase at the British Museum. But for yourself, surely, this confinement is neither necessary nor beneficial. Your life is only just unfolding, but you won’t get to live much of it here. I had meant, in my retirement from society, to write the book of my life,” the lady said wryly. “But now that I am here, I find that I am not done with living it yet.”