The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

A very dark eyebrow went up a good inch. “Our name is in disrepute? Why is this? Perhaps you believe, ma’am, that I am the cause of this so-called disrepute since I am merely the son of the second son?”

“Don’t be a nodcock, boy, it doesn’t suit you. No, certainly not. The disrepute we are currently experiencing is the Duchess’s being made legitimate. Add a man valeting a girl and the result is obvious to predict.”

“Ah, well, Aunt,” Marcus said, “I beg you to think, rather, that my uncle and the Duchess’s father, came to see what was right and did it. As for this valeting business—”

The Duchess interrupted him in an unruffled, utterly serene voice. “It is done, dear ma’am, and I fear there is no going back now. I trust the disrepute will die down in time. But this does disturb me. Do you honestly believe Badger’s excellent English to be pernicious?”

“No, she doe

sn’t,” Marcus said, giving Aunt Gweneth a look that shut her mouth quickly. “Particularly when Spears rivals him in elocution and delivery.”

“Marcus, that is all well and good, but you cannot allow him to remain here as her valet.”

“Valet,” Antonia said, lifting her head from her current novel, a hideously ill-written story of a constantly weeping Medieval heroine and a hero who cleaved everyone he met in half with his magic sword. “He is your valet, Duchess? How very interesting. Does he arrange your hair? Does he draw your bath? Will you introduce him to me tomorrow?”

“If you like, Antonia.”

“Badger will remain,” Marcus said firmly. “In exactly what capacity I have yet to determine.”

“I believe,” the Duchess said quietly, “that it will be up to me to determine Badger’s position.”

“Hardly,” Marcus said. “You may now live here at Chase Park, but you are not the master. Directing many servants on a vast estate is quite different from directing one servant in a cottage. However, I will discuss it with you, as well as with Badger. Incidentally, Duchess, I am pleased you came to reason and are now making Chase Park your home. Do you care to tell me why you changed your mind?”

The Duchess evidently didn’t care to tell him anything. Her expression didn’t change. Her white hands remained utterly still in her lap. Then she raised one hand to set her mulled wine on the low table beside her. She was so bloody graceful, he thought, watching her. Every movement she made was smooth and elegant. He suddenly saw her in his mind’s eye on her knees, bent over, gardening, the smudges of dirt on her face, tendrils of hair on her damp forehead. She’d still looked utterly composed and lovely. It was always the same with her. He wondered then if she felt anything deeply, if she ever shouted or cried or sulked, or if the elegant serenity, the utter calm, was all there was to her, that it was her in fact.

Fanny looked longingly at a tray of lemon-seed cakes, caught Aunt Gweneth’s frown, and turned miserably away.

The Duchess said, “Would you like an apple, Fanny? They’re quite delicious. I just finished one myself.”

Fanny shrugged, then caught the apple Marcus tossed to her. She rubbed it on her sleeve, earning her a disapproving look from Aunt Gweneth. Marcus smiled at the Duchess, but she didn’t regard him.

“The hour grows late,” Aunt Gweneth said some minutes later. “I think it is time for you girls to go to bed.”

“All right,” Antonia said, closed her book and yawned deeply. She said to the Duchess, “You’re our half-sister. Marcus told us all about it. You’re no longer our cousin from Holland.”

“That’s right. After your dear mother died, our father married my mother. He made me legitimate.”

“You were a bastard,” Fanny said, no guile showing on her face or sounding in her voice. “How very odd. I remember Antonia and I used to argue whether you were from Italy or Holland. It was difficult because we had never heard you speak either language.”

“Yes, I was a bastard, until last May to be exact.”

“Really, my dear, you needn’t blare it so loudly,” Aunt Gweneth said. “It would make people believe that you weren’t ashamed of your unfortunate birth.”

“Since I had no say whatsoever in my birth, ma’am, why should I ever feel shame about it?”

“Still—” Aunt Gweneth said, but was interrupted by Antonia, who said, “Now you will be able to find a husband. You won’t have to pretend anymore that you’re not a real lady.”

“Just imagine,” Fanny said as she chewed on her apple. “You were a love child. How very romantic.”

“Bosh,” Antonia said. “You’re stupid, Fanny. Now, Duchess, you won’t have to stay here because now you’re all right and tight and legal. You won’t have to stay here for Marcus to order you about.”

“I, order you about, Antonia? Come, if I were such a tyrant, would I allow you to read that nauseating pap that is currently sitting in your lap?”

“Well, perhaps not,” Antonia said, grinning at her cousin, “but still, Marcus, your rules do seem to multiply by the day. It must be that you and Aunt Gweneth make up new ones after Fanny and I have gone to bed. But Fanny and I will continue to bear with you. You haven’t been the earl all that long and we quite understand that you must fit your own boots into it. Now, then, Duchess, will you go to London?”

“It’s possible. Perhaps I shall go to London after Boxing Day. Why not?”

“Will Marcus give you money?” Fanny asked, looking still at the lemon-seed cakes, the chewed-down apple core in her hand. “London is ever so expensive, you know.”