The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

The Duchess rose from her winged chair and walked from the room, whistling one of the military ditties she’d heard Spears singing. He could but stare. What had happened? He wondered where the hell Marcus was.

“What were you speaking to that little trollop about, Trevor?”

He raised his eyes to his mother’s face as she walked briskly into the room. “She isn’t a trollop. She’s the countess of Chase. She is a lady and she has a kindness I’ve never before seen in another person.” He paused a moment at his mother’s loud hrmmph, then added, “Indeed, if you don’t find some conciliatory remark to flit out of your mouth, it’s possible that she will simply order us out of here.”

“She wouldn’t dare. She’s a bastard and the earl doesn’t even like her. She has no power here. She is nothing. Besides the ea

rl finds me quite to his liking.”

Trevor could only stare at his fond parent. She was actually patting the tight sausage curls over her left ear. He sighed, saying, “I assure you that Marcus is quite fond of the Duchess.” He wished he could add that Marcus’s fondness had quite likely extended itself to very physical demonstrations a short time ago, but he held his tongue. If Marcus had done the job even adequately, why was there such a transformation in her now? There was an unleashed power in her that she couldn’t hide. It was controlled, but now it would be loosed when she chose. He found it fascinating. But what had happened to bring about this change in her? Surely Marcus couldn’t have bungled his lovemaking all that badly. Maybe, he thought, just maybe it was that Marcus hadn’t bungled anything. Maybe she was a pleasured woman and that had made all the difference in her, for her.

Trevor eyed his mother. He realized that he didn’t know his mother all that well. Since his eighteenth year, he’d not lived at his parents’ home in Baltimore. He’d made his home in Washington. Indeed, he’d fought like the devil himself when the British had landed and stormed the capital. He’d turned twenty-two during those blood-soaked weary days, then when it was all over, he’d gone back to Baltimore and married the richest most beautiful girl Baltimorean society had to offer a hungry young man. Her name was Helen and she was more lovely than her legendary namesake. He saw her in his mind’s eye—dead, lying there on her back, her eyes open, her flesh like gray wax.

“I’m going to be twenty-five next Tuesday,” he said to no one in particular.

“I thought you were only twenty-three, Trevor. Mayhap twenty-two.”

“No, Mother.”

“I have told my friends that you are younger.”

He grinned, realizing that his age made her too ancient and she suffered for it. “I won’t tell anyone back home,” he said. “Now, have you seen James?”

“He’s off somewhere, doubtless by himself. The boy is driving me quite distracted. He is silent. He is withdrawn. I wish he would do something.”

Actually, Trevor knew the source of his younger brother’s discontent. He’d finally spilled the beans to his older brother. It seems he’d fallen in love only three days before they’d sailed to England. He missed Miss Mullens and blamed his family for forcing him to leave her.

“I will speak to him, Mother.”

“Good. Now, tell me again everything Mr. Burgess told you. Then I will formulate a plan. I will get the treasure away from here, you’ll see, and none of them will be the wiser. Oh why, Trevor, did you tell the two of them about the treasure? You’re an unnatural son. But I will win, you will see, my son who is too old, surely, I will win.”

The Duchess sat by her window, staring down on the drive. There was nothing to see, for the storm had blackened the summer sky and bloated black clouds hung low overhead. It still drizzled. She thought it a beautiful sight. She shivered with the beauty of it. She looked up when the adjoining door opened and Marcus strode into her room, all healthy and big and looking like a lord, which, of course, he was. She’d wondered where he’d been, if he had a splitting headache, if he’d been on his face, moaning with the pain she’d brought down on his head. Goodness, that made her smile, and she did now, watching him come forward, wondering what he would do. Would he scream at her? No, Marcus didn’t scream, he bellowed, he roared.

She couldn’t wait. Never again would she let him reduce her to a silent mass of nothing at all. Perhaps he’d brought a pistol with him and he would shoot her. She waited now to see what he would do, excited, her eyes narrowed, her pulse quickening. She would fetch a gun. She still wanted to shoot him, in his right arm.

It was as if he knew what she was thinking. “No,” he said easily, “my head only hurts in a dull sort of way, lucky for you, madam. I woke up and lay there on the tack-room floor for a few moments, just thinking about what you’d done. Now, it is time for dinner. You look quite adequate. The gown is still too revealing, but it is better than the other one.”

“Thank you,” she said, and looked away from him, back out onto the drive. “I don’t suppose you puked up your guts. I hoped you’d have a headache and a goodly dose of nausea from that blow I struck you. Did I manage to slash through your clothing to your flesh, Marcus? Did I mark you? A nice angry welt perhaps? I wanted to mark you, very badly.”

He thought of the two welts she’d struck him with that riding crop and said, “You’re wearing no jewelry. There is the Wyndham collection, you know. I have no idea of the individual pieces in it, but it’s bound to be something spectacular. I will have them fetched from the safe in the estate room. You may select what you wish.”

“Thank you, Marcus. Not even a single red slash mark on your strong man’s flesh? I’m disappointed. I must become stronger. I do want to mark you. I want to mark you forever and whenever you see that mark, you’ll know I was the one who did it and perhaps you’ll even remember the pain of it.” She rose and shook out her skirts.

“I don’t want your bloody jewelry.” Evidently he wasn’t going to speak of what had happened in the tack room. He walked to her now, stopping within inches from her face. He cupped her chin in his palm and forced her to look up at him. “The Wyndham jewelry is also yours. If you don’t want your jewelry, I really don’t care.” He looked down at her silently now, brooding, then said, “I will never think of the tack room in quite the same way again. I will picture you lying on your back, your hands caressing me, drawing me closer, your legs parted for me. I will see your head thrown back, arched up, moaning and crying out.”

She merely smiled, cocking her head to one side, a coquettish cocking, she hoped as she said, “It is probably in my blood, my harlot’s blood. Perhaps it would be the same with any man. Perhaps I did you a great disservice by forcing you to marry me. Who knows? Perhaps if another man touches me, I will immediately toss up my skirts and moan for him as well. I am sorry that is all you remember from that encounter. I would prefer that you remember pain, Marcus, a lot of pain. A bit of humiliation as well. Bested by a woman. I do hope it grates and rubs.”

“Don’t try to bait me, Duchess. Now, I haven’t forgotten what happened after you turned into a wild woman for me. You took offense at nothing at all, struck me with that riding crop, then knocked me out with that damned bridle. Yes, I felt pain from your unprovoked attack. I simply haven’t yet decided what you deserve in return.”

“Doubtless I will be the first to know, once you’ve made up your mind.” She smiled at him again, a full, wide, white-toothed smile. “I will do it again when you behave like a damnable bastard. Don’t think I won’t. No more will I be a placid cow. You try to hurt me in return and I swear to you, Marcus, that I will make you very, very sorry. Believe me.”

He whistled. “So, the serene, silent princess is no more. What has been spawned in her place?”

“Most certainly you will see, being who and what you are.”

He stared at her, and she would have sworn that there was a flame of interest, no, more than interest, it was puzzlement and it was fascination. The damned man, what did he want from her? He said now, obviously dismissing her and what she might be, “What did you do with the sketches of the drawings in the monk’s book?”

So be it. She’d meant it. No more would she simply take the verbal pain he piled on her head. No more. She actually felt quite good at this moment. She fetched them from the marquetry table drawer and gave them to him, smiling all the while. He smoothed them out and stared silently down at them. “This scene in the village square. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Kirby Malham. See the stone cottages in the background and that little hump-backed bridge across the water? That could be the River Aire.”