Silver Splendor (37 page)

His declaration thrilled her as much as the feel of his fingers sliding up to her calf, continuing their soft, arousing friction. Through the tangle of trees, she caught a flash of blue livery. “Nicholas, please,” she said breathlessly. “The footmen…”

“Pickering and Dobson aren’t watching us. They’re keeping their eyes peeled for intruders.”

“What if they come this way to report something?”

“All right, love, have it your way,” he said in a silken grumble. “But I can certainly tell you what I’d do if we were alone.”

Settling against a pillar dark with leaf mold, he rested an elbow on his bent knee. “First I’d dispense with that lovely gown.” He proceeded to describe in explicit detail how and where he wanted to kiss and caress her. Desire lapped at her composure until she felt as sultry as the summer day. His quiet words washed over her in warm waves; his smoldering silver eyes beckoned to her in ardent invitation.

“Nicholas, have mercy,” she said in a voice breathy with laughter. “How am I to finish this drawing?”

“Don’t.” A wicked grin slanted his mouth. “My desire for you doesn’t end with the light of day, Countess.”

“You demonstrated
that
on the train.” A flicker of white rounded a bend in the lake. Her back straightened. “Oh, look at the swans!”

Nicholas turned. The sleek snowy pair glided gracefully through a patchwork of lily pads, pausing now and again to bend their long necks below the surface of the water, seeking the succulent weeds. In their wake, ever widening ripples spread over the still pond. Seizing her pad, Elizabeth quickly sketched the two onto a corner of the page.

“I thought only one swan was your trademark,” he said. “Dare I hope you’re planning to change that since we’ve married?

With the end of her pencil, she traced the strong line of his jaw. “Would that please you, m’lord?”

“Perhaps it would make you think of me while you’ve locked yourself in the conservatory.”

“Are you already jealous of the hours I’ll spend sculpting?”

Lifting her hand, he kissed the back. “Only if you can’t find time for me.”

Despite the lightness of his words, she sensed an underlying tension. Would he understand if she was awarded the commission from Lord Buckstone?

Leaning closer, she kissed him. “I’ll always find time for you, Nicholas.”

With leashed power, his hand enfolded her wrist. “You’d better,” he said softly. “You’re the Sterling swan. And swans mate for life.”

“The Sterling swan.” Elizabeth felt the relentless tug of reality. “The duke said he used to call me that. I wish
I could remember him back then.”

“How could you, love? You were only two years old when you left here.”

“I know.” She sighed, using her pencil to nudge a bit of fallen plaster. “Still, I had the half formed hope that some childish affection for him would awaken inside me, or at least a few happy memories. Instead he seems like a stranger.”

“Perhaps because Owen was the man who nurtured you.”

“Oh, Nicholas, I treated Owen so badly. The moment we return to London, I’ll make amends.”

“I’m glad.”

His softly spoken approval galvanized her. Suddenly she yearned for Hawkesford House, for her sculpting and her new life with Nicholas. Getting up, she brushed the dried leaves from her skirts, then picked up her sketch pad. “I shouldn’t have dragged you out here. We’ll never solve this mystery if we lollygag all afternoon.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, pocketing the derringer and falling into step beside her. “I’d like to speak to the duchess. She scarcely uttered a word at dinner last night, even when the duke baited her.”

“I’m curious about her, too. More than anyone else here, she seems to keep her feelings close to the heart.”

As they rounded a bend, Elizabeth spied the manor house in the distance. Her contentment withered. How much more pleasant to laze by the lake with Nicholas than to navigate the undercurrents of hatred within those walls.

“There’s the duchess,” he said, “in the paddock.”

Shading her eyes, Elizabeth studied the quadrangle of red brick buildings. Situated on rising ground beyond the house and half concealed by a thicket of untrimmed yews, the stables formed a substantial complex, like a miniature village. In a fenced meadow nearby, the duchess stood beside a cream colored horse. She looked more like a groom than a lady; as yesterday, she wore trousers and a baggy white shirt, with a dark cap hiding her hair.

She must have seen their approach, for she straightened as they neared the fence. Her features were as plain and unrevealing as a slab of granite. She gave the horse a light slap on the rump and he trotted off, mane and tail swinging like fine floss, haunches rippling with powerful muscles.

“What a beautiful animal,” Elizabeth said, leaning against the weathered gray slats, the sketch pad tucked under her arm.

A spark of life flared in the duchess’s brown eyes. “His name’s Starfire,” she said, tucking her riding crop beneath her arm and coming to the fence slowly, almost reluctantly.

“Was that a poultice on his withers?” Nicholas asked.

She nodded. “He had a small ulcer. It’s healing quite nicely.”

“Did you use comfrey?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Adelaide gave him a sharp glance. “Are you a breeder, Hawkesford? I’ve never seen you at any of the auctions.”

“I keep a stable of hunters in Sussex.”

They launched into a discussion of the merits of race horses versus hunters. Unqualified to do much more than distinguish a flank from a forelock, Elizabeth silently studied the duchess. At a glance the broad, flat lines of her face created a dull, almost simple appearance. She must deliberately cultivate an aura of stupidity. But why? To maintain a distance from people she didn’t wish to be bothered with? Or to hide a clever criminal mind?

“Would you care to see my new stables?” she asked Nicholas. “We’ve only just finished putting in the mangers.”

He inclined his head. “It would be a pleasure, Your Grace.”

Clomping to the gate, the riding crop held stiffly under her arm, Adelaide let herself out of the paddock. Nicholas placed a hand at Elizabeth’s waist as they headed toward the carriage entrance. Crowning the archway was a dock tower and a cupola with tiny windows, die cooing of doves drifting through the summer air.

One glance around the stable yard revealed a different world from the manor house. Here the brick buildings were bright and new, the trim painted, the windows sparkling. Even the large, square dirt yard was raked clean.

“Business must be prospering,” Nicholas remarked, as the duchess escorted them past a covered area, where a stable lad wielded a long handled broom to scrub a horse rug.

“If you raise good horseflesh, buyers will come back time and time again.” Adelaide’s pale lips curled into a smile of pride. “It took a long while, Dut I built this place with my own profits.”

Tilting her face, Elizabeth studied the elaborate carving at the top of a rainpipe. “I see you’ve used the swan crest.”

“Of course.
I
am a Sterling.”

The faint chilly inflection of her voice was like unveiling a statue.
So the resentment did run deep,
Elizabeth thought. But deep enough to impel the duchess to murder?

Turning, Adelaide flung open a whitewashed door. “Here’s the harness room,” she said as they entered a tidy area smelling of leather and hung with tack. She marched through another doorway and pointed with her riding crop down a long corridor.

“And the stable block.”

Behind the half doors, Elizabeth saw a row of horses’ rumps, tails swishing lazily. The sweet scent of hay mingled with the odor of sweat and droppings. Farther down, a man forked straw into a stall.

“You’ve an excellent drainage system,” Nicholas said, stopping to examine the grated channel in the bricked floor.

“I’ll permit only the best for my horses — teak for the walls, wrought iron for the mangers. It’s taken months to get things furnished to my specifications.”

The dry discussion of stable architecture made Elizabeth impatient. Perhaps, she thought as they walked
into yet another palatial block of stalls, she could prick
the duchess into revealing something vital._

“Had you no financial help?” Elizabeth asked.

Adelaide gave a sideways look down her long nose. “I’ve never asked a soul for a penny. Perhaps that’s difficult to understand, why a woman would wish to make her own way in the world.”

“Oh, I can understand.” Half smiling, Elizabeth glanced at Adelaide’s mannish garb. “I can understand very well, indeed.”

The duchess snapped the riding crop against her palm. “I suppose you find my choice or clothing vulgar.”

Nicholas roared with laughter. “Don’t let Elizabeth’s appearance fool you, Duchess. She’s as fond of wearing trousers as you are.”

Adelaide stared. “Do you ride, Lady Hawkesford?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I grew up in the city, and I’ve scarcely ever sat a horse. I’m a sculptress. I’ve found trousers give me more freedom of movement while I work.”

“An artist, you say?” Adelaide’s eyes sought the sketch pad beneath Elizabeth’s arm. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised since my grandmother painted.”

“Your grandmother?” Elizabeth said in confusion. “What has she to do with me?”

The duchess’s eyes narrowed to chips of bronze; she slapped the crop against her thigh. “She was your great grandmother. Lucy was my cousin.”

For one long pulse beat everything stopped; the quiet munching of the horses, the shifting of hooves, the rhythm of blood and breath in Elizabeth’s body. Beside her, Nicholas tensed. It was difficult enough to imagine her sweet natured mother having an affair with a married man. To do so with her cousin’s husband was unthinkable.

Adelaide swung away, shoulders rigid and regal beneath the white linen shirt. Her departure poured strength back into Elizabeth’s limbs. She hurried after the duchess, Nicholas close behind.

“Your Grace, wait!” Elizabeth said.

As if she hadn’t heard, Adelaide marched down the corridor of stalls, boots clumping on the brick floor.

“Please, I know so little of my mother’s relations. Won’t you at least answer a few questions?”

The duchess paused in the doorway to the yard, sunlight gilding her granite features. “What?”

The word was abrupt, yet not entirely unkind. Elizabeth swallowed. “Why did my mother come here to live? Was she really your companion?”

“Lucy was orphaned at seventeen, left penniless. I was all she had left… she was all
I
had left of my family.”

“So you and Elizabeth are first cousins, once removed,” Nicholas said quietly.

“It would seem so.”

Questions tumbled through Elizabeth’s mind. Knowing she was overstepping the bounds of propriety, yet itching to chisel into that stonelike facade, she said, “Then my mother had an affair… with your husband.”

Adelaide stared, her face etched in unrevealing lines. “Lucy was always the pretty one, more womanly than I.” It was a flat statement of fact, the only betrayal of emotion the way her fingers fiddled with the riding crop. “I can’t blame her for that.”

Could she believe the duchess? Elizabeth wondered. Or was Adelaide the one?

The duchess pursed her lips. “I’ve something of your mother’s,” she said abruptly. “Come with me.’

She walked briskly across the bright stable yard and through the arched carriage entrance. Not once did she look behind. Seeing Nicholas wryly lift his brows, Elizabeth felt an answering tickle of humor; Her Grace of Rockborough was accustomed to obedience.

Elizabeth followed the duchess through the paddock gate, Nicholas at her side. Near the untrimmed yew hedge that formed the far side of the fenced area, several horses grazed. Putting two fingers to her lips, Adelaide gave a shrill whistle. A dappled gray lifted her head, ears pricked. The mare cantered toward them, mane tossing like the rippling of a wave. Elizabeth caught her breath. Sculpture in motion, she thought; marble come to life.

Slowing to a dainty walk, the horse whickered a greeting to the duchess and nuzzled her hand. Adelaide produced a sugar lump from her pant pocket. “There you are, my greedy darling. Now come along and meet someone.”

Beautiful gray head bobbing in rhythm to her steps, the horse followed the duchess. Delighted, Elizabeth glided a hand down the animal’s swan curved neck and admired the well set shoulders and long graceful legs. Dark and liquid, the mare’s eyes studied her.

“She’s lovely,” Elizabeth murmured. “All youth and exuberance.”

“Caprice still thinks she’s a filly even though she’s ten years old.” Affection softening her voice, Adelaide paused. “Her dam belonged to Lucy.”

Elizabeth’s hand froze on the silken mane. “But didn’t you say, Your Grace, that my mother had no money… ?” Her voice trailed off, and she felt an embarrassed flush heat her cheeks.

“Yes, Hugh gave the mare to Lucy,” the duchess said evenly. “Though in all fairness, Lucy did refuse the gift. Nevertheless, Hugh had the papers made out in her name. Her dam is dead now, but Caprice is rightfully yours.”

“I can’t accept her,” Elizabeth protested. “You’ve cared for her all these years. I don’t even ride —”

Adelaide set her chin. “I insist. I’ll fetch her papers from the office.”

With that peculiar royal dignity so at odds with her mannish appearance, the duchess tramped out the paddock gate and disappeared into the stable complex.

Dismayed, Elizabeth turned to Nicholas, who stood on the other side of the horse. “Now how am I to get out of this?”

He shrugged as Caprice tipped her head down to crop the sun-warmed grasses. “You could accept the mare. She certainly is a beauty.”

“Beauty or not, she doesn’t belong to me. I wouldn’t feel right taking her.”

He absently rubbed the animal’s sleek gray flank. “The duchess strikes me as a woman who honors her debts to the letter. But perhaps we could breed Caprice and take her foal.”

It was the perfect solution. Yet she couldn’t resist saying tartly, “Perhaps we could breed her to one of the hunters you keep stabled in Sussex… on your estate, I presume?”