The Rusticated Duchess (30 page)

Gloria instinctively settled her hand on his, and he gripped it. The coach immediately jerked forwards, as if the driver was as anxious to be finished with this journey as they were.

Perhaps he was. Gloria sighed, remembering how cold the men must be.

“We drive through Norham before we get to the gates.” Clare frowned, studying the view through the window.

Gloria nodded, sitting up and moving to the other side of the carriage. Clare looked up in surprise but her object was apparent—Astrid was already repairing her hair. “How long since you’ve been here?” she asked.

“Too long,” he admitted. “January. I’d been to White Cross Court—another one of our estates—after escorting Arwyn back to Eton, and I took my time getting to Blackpool. I only meant to spend a week at Killard Castle.”

“You met us instead,” she realised.

He grimaced but nodded.

They drove off the wooden bridge and continued on. Gloria was quiet, wondering what would face her at the castle, and Clare apparently lost in thought as well.

It was just as well.

The Castle walls loomed before them, and the carriages were pulling through. Gloria almost felt the great iron gates when they clanged shut behind her, but she didn’t know if it was relief or the anxiety of entrapment she experienced. Both?

Clare lifted her out of the coach, of course, and held her against his chest a bit too long. But he did stand her on her feet and wait while Mrs Pitcher bustled up with Eynon.

Gloria took him herself. He was asleep, but evening approached and the end of his nap was near. Still, it seemed important to hold him, especially while the household settled. “I’ll keep him. Come get him when you’ve seen the rooms and have settled his cot,” she murmured.

Unsurprisingly, Clare’s arm slipped easily around her waist. The keep itself was a pink and red stone, and it glowed in the night from the torches outside. Inside, nearly all the main level rooms were lit, the doors already thrown open.

People bustled around them, but Clare drew her forwards, headed directly for the welcoming warmth within.

At the door, a man who seemed suspiciously familiar greeted them, alongside two others Gloria immediately identified as the butler and housekeeper. All were sedately dressed, but one of them clasped Clare’s hand and arm warmly.

“My lady Gloria.” Clare smiled, returning the familiar gesture. “Maxwell Seton, the steward here. He’s Jamie’s older brother. Maxwell, Lady Gloria has come to stay with us, and her son, Viscount Eynon.”

“Milady, please permit me to say how delighted I am to see you in Lord Clare’s company.” He smiled, and she returned the expression because it seemed the thing to do, here.

Clare then introduced her to Mr and Mrs Flannery, who were reserved and enthusiastic, in the order of which it was expected. They both tried to bow and curtsy to her, but Gloria shook her head, as she’d already noted they did no more than bob to Clare and he pursed his lips even at that.

The front foyer was merely a narthex to the ancient hall, with a massive fireplace and expected suits of armour. Blades gleamed in the firelight as they hung the walls, and great chandeliers hung unlit.

Gloria tried not to stare and swore she’d be up at dawn to inspect the high, arched ceilings and darkened corners. Clare guided her through, listening as Mrs Flannery catalogued the preparations. “Of course,” she said, “His Grace and Norham arrived a few hours ago. They’re waiting in the drawing room; His Grace thought her ladyship might like tea.”

Beside her, Clare froze then looked to Mrs Flannery.

“The maids are bringing up the cart. Shall I follow you in with it?”

A moment of confusion clouded Gloria’s head. Why was Clare suddenly tense? She’d been under the impression that his family favoured a match?

“Give us ten minutes first, please,” Clare said in a quiet voice. “Seton, will you see to the disposition of the guards and drivers? And Flannery, Uncle Ambrose’s ever-efficient James has travelled with us. They’ll be leaving in the morning; I suspect you should be certain that James returns with a healthy supply of our private stock from the basement.”

They each took their orders and disappeared, leaving Gloria and Eynon with Clare.

“If you’d like me to go up directly?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

“I did not expect them today,” he admitted, meeting her eyes without evasion or deception. “But there’s no help for it. Arwyn is fifteen, impressionable, and I am his father, guardian and example. And you are here with me, travelling without any gentlewoman as chaperone.”

Her eyes widened.

“I’m sorry,” he added, in a low voice, obviously meant not to carry past her ears. “Very sorry, but there’s no help for it.”

Gloria stared at him, her mind racing. She clutched Eynon to her chest, forcing herself not to squeeze him too tightly.

“Father?”

The voice was young and hesitant. Gloria turned to see him in the doorway, staring at them.

“Son.” Clare turned, the intimate affection in his voice obvious. “You haven’t been sent down, have you?” His arm still around Gloria, he strolled forwards and clasped the young man on the shoulder, the sting of the words driven away by his tone.

Not a lad, not yet a man
, Gloria thought, suddenly understanding.

“Of course not, Father,” he rebutted, his eyes resting on Gloria for a moment and the bundle in her arms.

“Gloria, let me introduce you to my son Arwyn, more properly called Norham by his mates.” The words drifted to her ears, knowing the fatal moment was upon them, knowing she couldn’t stop it. “Arwyn, it is my pleasure to make you known to Countess March, my soon-to-be bride, and her son, Viscount Eynon.”

If she’d expected the boy to cut up, to lose his temper, to sulk, to object to replacing his mother, Gloria would have been disappointed. Instead, she was relieved to hear him announce, “Grandfather and I are happy to welcome you to the family, ma’am.” He gestured behind him. “Welcome to Norham Castle.”

Clare trailed his son and Gloria into the room. His father sat slumped tiredly in a chair by the fire, half-snoozing, and Arwyn was leading Gloria to the settee near it. “Will you hold him, or put him on a blanket on the floor?” Arwyn asked, but Clare still couldn’t think.

He wouldn’t have, for the world, set this sort of example for his son. Bringing home a lady of Gloria’s age and standing was the height of scandal. It might have been the ethical decision, but it didn’t mean his son should be exposed to the improperness of it. She should have met Arwyn after they married.

“Why are you not at school again?” he asked instead, sitting down on the rug near the settee where Gloria had carefully laid the baby.

“Grandfather arrived two days ago and insisted we had to leave at once for the Castle. He said you’d be getting married PDQ and if I wanted to see it, I’d best be packing. So here we are.”

Arwyn settled onto the floor opposite Clare, and the father inside him felt a rush of pride in the boy. He couldn’t ask difficult questions of him, not yet, not in front of Gloria. “You’ll want to join me at the river in the morning, then?” Clare asked casually. “It appears as though His Grace will be abed and the young lordling here is rather too young yet.”

A chuckle escaped his son, a laugh that sounded so like Clare that he nearly started. Gloria’s quick motion, concealed by a shift, assured him that she’d recognised it too. “Of course, you know I’m always full of joy at rising in the early dawn for a round of fishing.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Clare returned dryly, then looked at his father, still asleep in the chair. “Should we wake him?”

Arwyn’s face sobered. “The journey was difficult on him, sir. I suggested we spend another night on the road to make it easier, but he was adamant we arrive as quickly as possible.”

Behind him, Gloria’s voice was soft. “Let him sleep. If he doesn’t wake on his own, his manservant can come and wake him after I’ve gone up. Don’t embarrass him by waking him now.”

“A voice of reason,” Arwyn agreed with her. “Thank you.”

Mrs Flannery brought in the tea cart then, and Clare moved so that Gloria could prepare and serve the tea. He supposed it was a signal that he was serious, treating her as the mistress of the house instead of a guest in it. Arwyn watched her carefully so Clare watched him carefully, but Arwyn gave no outward sign of discontent. Whether Arwyn understood the significance of Gloria’s role, Clare couldn’t have said, but the thought of explaining the etiquette on the matter made his head ache.

“When is the wedding?” Arwyn asked abruptly. “I don’t mean to rush you, but Grandfather said it would have to be quite soon, and I do have to go back to Eton at least for exams. The Master released me on the strength of Lauderdale’s urgency, but it’s not as though the term has quite finished.”

Clare shifted, wondering how to avoid the question until he could speak privately to Gloria. She didn’t seem angry, but of course she would be. What woman wouldn’t be? She hadn’t actually agreed, and to be introduced as his intended?

“There are a few practicalities to arrange first,” Gloria answered, even as Clare opened his mouth to reply. He breathed a sigh of relief instead. “But Clare has written to the minister at Our Lady Kirk, so no doubt it will commence soon. Your uncle also granted him a special licence, if we decide to marry in the Church of England.”

“We don’t need the special licence in Ladykirk of course,” Clare offered. “There are complex legal reasons regarding Gloria’s family that make it best to marry in Scotland, but Gloria will make the final decision on where and when.”

Arwyn considered his father for a moment. “If it were me,” he articulated, “you’d run over the bridge. Our Lady Kirk would be much more the thing.” He nearly swallowed a scone entirely whole, then took another, and Clare winced as his breathing stuttered to a halt. The boy had too little experience in taking tea with ladies, and it was hardly a skill he’d realised Arwyn would need.

“I imagine it will be so,” Gloria returned, noting the boy’s appetite but kindly saying not a word. “But I refuse to be married in a black dress, so a proper gown is an absolute pre-requisite.”

With that simple ambition, Clare found he was able to breathe again.

Chapter Twenty

Later, after tea, Gloria declared she wanted nothing more than a quiet dinner tray in her room. She’d had the promised bath and eaten alone, wondering as she did so what Clare would say to his son and father. But the truth was that she was exhausted, so she’d fallen asleep on the chaise in her sitting room and awoken only when Astrid came looking to prepare her for bed.

Gloria wasn’t surprised to see Clare appear in her bedchamber through a connecting door. He shut it behind him and joined her at the window, where she was looking out over the gardens, and beyond to the Tweed. He stood behind Gloria and slid his arms around her waist, tugging her back against his harder, muscled frame. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“I meant what I said,” she murmured, reaching to stroke his long fingers. “I won’t willingly marry in black.”

“You’re beautiful in black, angel.” Clare bent his head to kiss the gleaming gold hair he admired and he hummed with satisfaction that it was loose and rolling over her shoulders and down her back. “But you should know that. I’ve already spoken to Mrs Flannery and they will be hunting up appropriate fabric tomorrow.”

“Send someone to the warehouses at Berwick-upon-Tweed at first light,” she advised practically. “Silk. I prefer shades of pale blue to turquoise.”

Clare’s arms tightened about her at her acceptance of fate and he kissed her temple. “As soon as your gown is ready, then?” he growled. “We can sign the marriage contracts once the deed is done and the details worked out with Lennox.”

Gloria turned her head so that their eyes met. She stared for long seconds before she nodded slowly. “When my gown is ready,” she agreed, and added a little acerbically, “And after you’ve asked me.”

Clare smiled and took her hands in his. “Come, Glory darling. It’s past your bedtime and you are getting demanding.”

“As you say,” she answered, but she lifted her arms to him.

Picking Gloria up, he cradled her against his chest and carried her across to the bed. A fire burned, warming the room, and the bed was turned down, so Clare sat Gloria on the side of the bed and set about unbuttoning her black flannel gown.

The fabric separated smoothly under his fingers. “From now on,” he murmured, “flannel is nothing more than an invitation to remove it. Especially in nightwear.”

Gloria smiled and shrugged as the material fell around her waist, revealing flushed skin gleaming from the firelight. “It’s a good winter fabric for petticoats,” she objected, more to argue with him than because she cared. In truth, she cared little for flannel aside from its practical economy. If he wished her to gown herself in merino wool, velvet and cashmere, who was she to refuse?

“There are better ways to stay warm in bed,” he growled, pushing her back onto the bed.

Her breath caught in her throat as he separated her knees and stepped between them. Leaning over her, he captured her plump, reddening nipple between his lips. Gloria slid her hands into his hair and clenched against his scalp as pleasure ratcheted through her body and nested in her groin. He nuzzled and tugged on the nipple while her body continued to encourage him. Silence was impossible, though. Gloria couldn’t resist the urge to plead. Her voice a whisper, she moaned, “Please, harder.” She twisted, her body aching to feel his skin against hers. Her mind disagreed, though, and she moved her fingers, encouraging his mouth to continue to worship at her nipple.

Reluctantly, he pulled back and slid his hands into Gloria’s hair, his thumbs catching her jaw and lifting her head so that their eyes met.

Gloria’s eyes widened at whatever she saw in his gaze, but his expression transformed into satisfaction, especially when she licked her lips. Clare’s reaction was visible in more than just his face. He spread his legs to shoulder width and waited until she searched out the buttons, her fingers shaking as she slipped the fastenings loose.