Moonstruck Madness (7 page)

Sir Jeremy shook his head in bemused exasperation and pouring
himself
another drink sat down for further contemplation of the situation, grateful that it was
not
he who was meeting the Duke tomorrow morning at dawn.

It was quiet under the avenue of oaks as
the first
light of daybreak summoned the crow of a
rooster and the
answering chirpings of awakening birds.
Crystal-like dew still
clung to the leaves of the trees and the tall
grasses in the
fields. Sir Jeremy stood
silent,
Lucien's coat,
waistcoat and
stock across his arm as he waited along
with those of the
other guests who'd managed to rise so early.
Most were
still slumbering back in their rooms after the late night's revelry. Lucien's throat was bare and
vulnerable,
his shirt opened halfway to his waist, revealing the dark, golden hair on his chest. He'd shunned a wig and his thick, golden hair curled back from his temples and ears, gleaming richly under the sunlight.

Lucien flexed his sword experimentally,
then
turned to face his opponent, his face expressionless.

"On guard!"

Sir Frederick Jensen lunged wildly and the Duke parried the thrust of Sir Frederick's rapier expertly as he sidestepped. His wrist was firm, his hand steady, his feet agile as he lunged, meeting Sir Frederick's sword point at each thrust.

Sir Frederick was fighting offensively, constantly on the attack, using brute strength to beat down his foe, but Lucien's quickness and finesse withstood the assault and gradually reversed the positions and began to tire the stockier Sir Frederick, who was by now breathing heavily, his face red and perspiring from his exertions. Summoning what little reserves he had left, he charged the Duke like a mad bull, his sword swinging wildly as he tried to penetrate Lucien's guard and pierce the smooth column of his throat, just tantalizingly out of reach of sword point. But Lucien easily parried Sir Frederick's lunge and drove the point of his sword into the exposed shoulder of his aggressive opponent. Sir Frederick grunted in pain and fell back, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the profusely bleeding wound.

Lucien stood back as the surgeon who'd stood readily available on the edge of the crowd ran forward and knelt down beside the fallen swordsman.

"Why didn't you kill him?" Sir Jeremy asked, as he held Lucien's waistcoat for him as he shrugged into it.

"No sense in it," the Duke answered matter of factly, his breathing coming quickly as he wiped his sword clean of Sir Frederick's blood with a white handkerchief. "He'll suffer enough with that shoulder wound.
I
don't want a fool's death on my conscience."

The Duke walked over to his coach and handed his valet his crumpled stock and accepted a freshly starched one in its stead, carelessly knotting it about his neck.

"I
regret taking my leave of you so hastily, Jeremy, but
I
've business to see to, and"—he paused, casting an amused glance at Sir Frederick who was being led away, surrounded by a group of commiserating friends—"Sir Frederick should be allowed to enjoy his convalescence to the fullest without my presence to distress him."

"He's lucky to be alive," Sir Jeremy replied disgustedly. "Not many are given a second chance as he has been. Now look at him. Lud, but
I
think he's fainted."

The Duke laughed.
"I
'll keep in touch, Jeremy." He disappeared into his carriage. A footman closed the door with a flourish and then jumped aboard quickly as the coachman whipped up the team of horses and they pulled out with a splashing of mud beneath the hooves and heavy wheels.

They had traveled for several hours, stopping for luncheon at a small inn and then continuing as a thunderstorm broke above and poured down upon the quickly moving team, slowing them down as the rain muddied the roads and created a quagmire out of the potted surface.

Lucien shifted lazily. Pulling back the hangings over the window he looked out in disgust at the muddy road and dismal countryside. The carriage wheel hit a deep hole and, lurching through it, threw the Duke against the side of the coach.

"Damn!" he mumbled, cursing the coachman atop, and was about to send some select phrases to him when the carriage slowed and he heard the coachman commanding the horses to a halt.

"What the devil?" Lucien demanded as he opened the carriage door and leaned out, the rain falling lightly on his face.

Ahead, halfway in a ditch on the other side of the road, lay an overturned carriage. The horses had been unharnessed and were being quieted by a couple of outriders. The coachman was rubbing his shoulder while he and another servant struggled to open the carriage door, behind which
came
a wailing moan that rose hysterically until a resounding slap was heard, then muffled sobbing.

"Dio mio!"
someone spoke in exasperation.

The Duke's lips twitched with a grin as he heard the feminine voice. "See what you can do for them," he commanded his coachman, who was surveying the scene of chaos with contempt.

"Aye, Sandy, Davey, hop to it," he called to the young grooms who'd run to the Duke's lead horses to hold them and were standing gawking at the commotion.

The Duke reluctantly climbed down from his coach and walked through the mud to the overturned carriage. He could have sent his coachman, but he was curious about the inhabitants of the coach, especially if there was an Italian beauty to match the voice he'd heard. He was not disappointed, for as he approached the carriage a dark head adorned with a red silk hat appeared from the confines of the coach. Lucien's eyes traveled slowly, and appreciatively, over her well-rounded figure. The décolletage of her dress was low and wide, the scarlet damask a perfect contrast for the four rows of pearls clasped about her smooth, white neck. His eyes returned to her face and the reddened lips that were parted in a wide smile as she stared at her gentlemanly rescuer, her dark brown eyes full of surprised pleasure.

"Buon

giorno
."

"Good afternoon," the Duke replied. "You seem to be in some difficulty. May I be of some service?"

"Oh,
grazie,
we would be so grateful," she sighed with relief.

"We?"
Lucien inquired politely.

"Si, aspetti
un
momento, per favore."
She disappeared into the carriage while the Duke waited as she'd requested, until another figure appeared through the window. Lucien hid his disappointment as a well-dressed man stared down at him from his perch on the side of the carriage.

"Can't you get your men to move any faster and turn us upright?" the man demanded peevishly as he took in the scene. Then as his eyes saw the ducal crest emblazoned on the side of Lucien's coach, his demeanor swiftly underwent a change and he looked closer at their rescuer.

"I say, don't I know you?"

"I seriously doubt that," the Duke answered coldly, regretting his impulse to stop.

"Of course!
You're the Duke of Camareigh," the man spoke triumphantly. "We met in Vienna. I'm James Verrick, the Marquis of Wrainton. Of course, I've been out of the country for quite a few years now." He looked into the dark interior of the coach, saying something in Italian,
then
glanced at the Duke gratefully. "We were on our way to London when this disaster happened and nearly cost us our lives. We've just arrived from France, the seat of civilization, I'm beginning to believe. I'd forgotten how surly these English servants can be," he complained spitefully.

"Per
favore,
but I grow much fatigued sitting here upside down while you make conversation, James," a fretful voice echoed from the coach.

"My dear, of course, I beg your pardon," Lord Wrainton answered quickly as though afraid of possible hysterics. "Will you be able to help us, Your Grace?"

Lucien nodded reluctantly. "Naturally, I couldn't leave you and the lady—?" He paused delicately, waiting to be enlightened.

"Lady Wrainton, my wife; but living in Italy as we have, she is used to being addressed as the Contessa."

"Of course," the Duke sighed, "I'll escort you to the nearest inn, where you may hire conveyance to London. I am afraid that we are traveling in opposite directions after that"

"We shall be most grateful just to get out of this cursed ditch."

Lord Wrainton jumped down from the side of the coach, splattering his pumps as he did so and nearly slipping in the slick mud as he regained his balance. He was a middle-aged man in his forties, slight of build, and almost too handsome to be masculine, with his thickly lashed, violet eyes.

"Luciana," Lord Wrainton called to his wife. The Con-tessa looked down from the carriage doubtfully as Lord Wrainton told her, "Jump and I'll catch you, my dear."

"If you will allow me?"
The Duke interrupted. "I would be pleased
to
assist the Contessa."

Lord Wrainton frowned,
then
nodded his head. "Yes, I am rather shaken up from the
accident,
otherwise I could easily carry my wife."

The Duke hid his smile, not wanting to offend Lord Wrainton's pride, but as he stepped forward and lifted the Contessa from the carriage he doubted seriously if the older man could have managed. He followed Lord Wrainton
to
the carriage, the Contessa's scarlet silk stockings and white silk shoes with their high, slender heels revealed to the gaping grooms as Lucien swung her into a firmer grip in his arms.

He carefully traversed the muddy road, his foot slipping once in the slime, causing the Contessa
to
grasp his neck tightly with her arms. Her heady perfume drifted to Lucien and he grinned as she allowed herself
to
press closer.

"Grazie,"
she
murmured,
her breath warm against his throat.

"My pleasure, Contessa."

He lifted her into the coach, tucking her fur-trimmed pelisse snugly about her and then placing a sable rug over her lap. Lucien was about to follow when a frightened wail drifted to them from the overturned coach, followed by a scream and a flow of excited Italian.

"Dio mio,
I'm afraid
1
forgot poor Maria, my maid," the Contessa confessed. "And I really can't leave her
stranded here; she speaks no English," she explained apologetically, her big brown eyes full of wishful pleading.

Lucien shrugged. "By all means, you must have your maid, Contessa." He looked around and seeing one of the grooms standing idle ordered him to see to the other occupant of the overturned coach. At the sound of an outraged scream, the Duke glanced back and laughed as Sandy staggered across the road carrying a large, struggling woman, her face red and puffed from crying and issuing a tirade on the flushed Sandy's blond head. As they neared the carriage Sandy's foot disappeared in a large hole filled with water, and, losing his balance, he fell backwards and disappeared beneath the bulky figure of the Contessa's maid.

Laughing, Lucien assisted the flustered woman to her feet and hefted her into the carriage from which she called forth a volley of abuses on the unfortunate Sandy, who'd quickly struggled to his feet and was hastily making his way some distance from the carriage, his face as red as a beet and his backside covered with clinging mud.

"Maria,
silenzio!"
the Contessa
ordered,
a quiver of laughter still in her voice.

After a moment's consultation with his coachman, Lucien climbed into the coach, the door closing behind him as he settled himself comfortably beside Lord Wrainton.

"You've a broken axle, so there is no question of using your coach."