The Duchess (Montgomery/Taggert 16)

She sneezed, and Harry turned a furious face toward her. “Claire, if you can’t keep quiet you’ll have to return. Your noise frightens the birds.”

“How can a sneeze frighten them if a thousand shotgun blasts don’t?” she said before she thought.

She saw Harry and his loader exchange looks that told what they thought of taking women on a hunt.

It was nearly dusk when Harry finally said they were going to return to the house. Claire would have cried with relief if the thought of adding more water, even tears, to her soaking body hadn’t horrified her. She was so cold she had difficulty in standing and her wool dress, soaked as it was, must have weighed fifty pounds. Also, it smelled like a wet dog.

“I didn’t think you’d enjoy this,” Harry said. “Ladies never—”

“I’ve had a marvelous time,” Claire said, trying not to wiggle her nose as she suppressed a sneeze. “It has truly been an enlightening experience.”

Harry put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her companionably. “Some English girls like to hunt, but I’ve never met an American girl who did. I liked having you here today. You’re good company. Tomorrow we’re going north after partridge and in a few weeks we’ll stalk deer. But you have to be quiet when we go after the deer, not like today.” He hugged her shoulders again. “Claire, I think you and I are going to make a perfect couple. I’ve always wanted a woman who would hunt with me. I’ve been a little concerned that you were too bookish, but after today I can see I was wrong. After we’re married we can spend many days together. Days just like this one.”

Claire gave a sneeze and he patted her shoulder. “Let’s get you home and into some dry clothes. Tomorrow we go for partridge.”

Harry’s face suddenly brightened and he put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “I have a marvelous idea! For a wedding present I’ll buy you a pair of shotguns. Your very own. Engraved silver. I’ll write to London today and have someone come up and fit you. The stocks will be perfectly sized for you.” He smiled happily. “I’m looking forward to marriage more and more.”

Claire tried her best to smile back at him but her teeth were chattering too hard.

“Come on,” Harry said. “We’ll fix you up with a nice, hot pot of tea.”

Claire thought with longing of MacTarvit’s cozy, warm cottage and his even more warming whisky. “Yes,” she said. “Tea would be lovely.”

Thirty minutes later Claire was back in her room and Miss Rogers was complaining nonstop about how wet Claire’s clothes were.

“I hope you don’t expect me to salvage that,” the little gray woman sniffed as she looked at Claire’s riding habit. “Fine quality it was, even if it was a Frenchified design, but it’s ruined now. Of course we English and even these Scots aren’t used to having the money to waste that you Americans have. For all I know you Americans can afford to throw away good clothing after one wearing. I can’t say. I have my duty and that’s all. It’s not for me to judge my betters, so to speak. Although it’s hard to think of someone from a country that was mostly savages so few years ago as being better than an Englishwoman, but who am I to say? I just—”

“Miss Rogers!” Claire said as firmly as her chattering teeth would allow. “Would you call the footmen and have a bath brought up here?”

“At this time of day?”

“Yes, at this time of day.”

Miss Rogers sniffed. “I’m sure that to the likes of someone in your station in life it means nothing for the extra work to the servants. We’re nothing to the likes of you. We—”

“Go!” Claire ordered, as her frozen fingers began to try to unbutton the front of her habit.

There was a knock on the door and the butler appeared, carrying a silver tray. On it was a tea cozy. Something warm to drink, Claire thought, but she didn’t feel too enthusiastic because she knew that the kitchens were so far from the main rooms of the house that by the time the food reached the people it was usually cold. But tepid tea was better than nothing at all.

“Rogers,” the butler said sternly, “you are wanted downstairs.”

Claire was very happy to see that the odious little woman didn’t argue with the butler, but left the room without any argument. When she was alone with the butler, Claire stretched out a frozen, trembling hand to lift the cozy.

On the silver tray was not a pot of tea but a short, wide glass full of what she knew was whisky. She looked up at the butler in astonishment and he gave her the barest hint of a smile. “MacTarvit?” she asked.

“His finest. Twenty-five years old.”

Claire’s hand was shaking as she picked up the glass. As she raised it to her lips she looked up at the butler. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Many young ladies have,” he said and gave her a small smile.

Claire tried to sip the whisky, but as the welcome warmth hit her stomach she was greedy for more. She put the glass to her lips and drained it. Then she had to step backward and catch the post of the bed to steady herself. She looked up at the butler and he was staring at her in astonishment.

“I had heard you were a Scot,” he said, and there was admiration in his voice. “You are indeed.”

At that moment, the door opened and an angry Miss Rogers walked in. “No one wanted me downstairs,” she said.

Calmly, the butler covered the empty glass on his tray with the cozy and turned to the woman. “Then perhaps I was in error. Ring for a bath for your mistress.” There was command in the last order and Miss Rogers went obediently to the bellpull and gave a tug.