The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

Trevor was just mounting Clancy, laughing at the stallion’s efforts to remove him from his broad back, patting his glossy neck, enjoying himself and the horse’s performance thoroughly. He saw her and called out, “Come with me, Duchess. I would like to ride to Reeth, an errand for my mother.”

“That is a two-hour ride, Trevor.”

“Yes, I know. Sampson gave me excellent directions. Come with me, Duchess.”

“Just a moment, both of you.” It was Marcus striding toward them, flicking the riding crop against his thigh. “I feel like riding and Reeth is a fine place to ride to. You would doubtless get lost, Trevor, and God knows the Duchess couldn’t find her way to the next dale without me to show her the path.”

Trevor arched his dark eyebrow a good half-inch. He said in such a pronounced drawl that she wondered how he could say everything he wanted to say before an hour passed, but he did, “Regardless of all the problems that would doubtless plague us, Marcus, we could have managed. However, it appears that you are set upon being the third in our party. Come along, my dear fellow, before Clancy here becomes enamored with the Duchess’s mare and we find ourselves in the soup.”

The three of them rode out of the stable grounds, through the park and down the long driveway lined with giant oak and lime trees. They turned their horses onto the small winding country road that led southwest. There was a good deal of silence, black silence. She breathed in the clean summer air, not caring that Marcus was in a snit. She even grinned when Marcus managed to insert Stanley between Birdie and Clancy. He was acting jealous, that was it. She was astounded and absurdly heartened. She smiled between Birdie’s twitching ears, wondering how long he could contain himself.

It wasn’t long.

“I don’t like you going off with strange men, Duchess, without my permission.”

16

SHE TURNED IN her saddle. “Strange? You believe Trevor is strange, Marcus? Exotic? Peculiar? Surely you just think his name is strange, don’t you?”

“You know very well what I mean, madam. Don’t bandy words with me, particularly not in this mongrel’s presence. It gives him too much satisfaction.”

“So I’m a mongrel, not just a strange man. That makes me feel more acceptable, cousin.”

Marcus realized in that moment that he was being an ass. He managed to hold his tongue to bland topics until they neared Richmond.

Richmond lay just four miles to the east of the small hillside village of Reeth. They stopped at the Black Bull Inn for a glass of cider.

“Since I am with you, Duchess,” the earl of Chase informed his wife as he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her from Birdie’s back, “it will be acceptable for you to come into the taproom with us. If, however, you had accompanied this mangy hound by yourself, you would have had to wait out here in the stable yard so that everyone could see that you understood the decorum demanded by your station, and good sense.”

“He is a considerate husband,” Trevor said, grinning. “No, Marcus, keep your verbal darts to yourself. I’m thirsty.” He said to the Duchess, “Does he always concern himself with what people think of you?”

“No,” she said, “this is the first time. I rather like it. It makes him appear masterful.”

“Masterful? Ah, that has a fine ring to it, doesn’t it? What do you think, Marcus?”

Whatever Marcus thought he kept to himself. He strode ahead of them into the inn.

To her surprise, once there were two ales in front of the men and a ladylike lemonade in front of her, they began to discuss the war between England and America. It was as if now they were the best of friends. They spoke as would two soldiers concerned with strategy and tactics, not with politics or principles. They were perfectly amiable to each other as long as she kept quiet, which she did, content to look at Marcus, to listen to his voice, crisp and certain.

As they rode toward the spacious village green of Reeth, she said to Trevor, “This is one of the more charming of the Swaledale villages. See all the black and white houses? Are they not unusual? And there are many pottery shops. Reeth is known for its fine pottery.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. “The shop I must visit is on High Row.”

Marcus frowned, but held his tongue.

“High Row is just on the western side of the green. Ah, yes, lead is mined in the nearby hills,” she added, grinning at him now.

“More educational bits, Duchess?” Marcus said.

“I am pleased to be educated,” Trevor said. “There is propriety in education. Such education a husband can’t possibly object to.”

“Well, let me see. If we had time, we would ride to Muker, it’s the most rugged and remote of the Yorkshire dales. It’s really quite savage. I picture the Scottish Highlands as looking something like Muker.”

“A charming name—Muker.”

She realized then that she was telling all this nonsense to Trevor just to enrage Marcus. She was surprised, somewhat disappointed actually, at his restraint. Had they been alone, by now he would be cursing, telling her to cease being a nitwit, an

y number of utterly Marcus-like things. She could picture his scowl, hear him muttering. But his face was set and cold. He did look disgusted, but he was admirably silent. She swallowed and looked away for a moment. Had he really been jealous?