The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Trevor,” the Duchess said after he’d left her bedchamber, “isn’t remotely a fop.”

“No, he’s more the beast in the well, the bloody scavenger.”

23

THE DUCHESS SLAPPED her riding crop against her boot. She felt wonderful, her belly was happy with Badger’s scones and honey, and she’d ridden Birdie without incident all around the St. Swale’s Abbey, to the north this time. She just hadn’t found anything. No oak tree, no dell, no bucket, no well, nothing. Not even a monster of any repute, not even a nine that was just a simple nine, much less a nine that was front-faced and one that was backward.

But she wasn’t cast down, oh no. She couldn’t wait to see Marcus. The past three days he’d not come to her bed, but he hadn’t avoided her; he’d been as assiduous in his attentions to her as a mother superior to the Virgin Mary herself. She wanted to pound him into the ground for not acting remotely like he should act, like he’d always acted since she’d met him when she was nine years old—irritating her until she was raging at him, mocking her, making her want to kill him and kiss him and tease him. No, he was acting like a reasonable man, a man who was calm and deliberate, a passionless man she disliked immensely.

She began to whistle a tune that had popped into her mind and still hadn’t words yet to go with it. She had the idea though. It made her grin just to think of the Congress of Vienna and how Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron should attend. Just imagine what those two could achieve in the way of new boundaries for conquered countries.

She was still whistling when she turned the corner around a huge row of yew bushes that gave onto the front drive. There was a carriage with its four horses blowing and the door was open and there was Marcus helping down a very delicious piece of feminine confection, and this delicious piece was dressed elegantly in a traveling gown of dark green with a matching bonnet tied charmingly beneath her chin. One dainty foot was showing in a soft kid traveling boot of matching dark green.

She watched Marcus raise her gloved hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. She heard a clear, sweet laugh. She saw the woman lightly stroke her gloved fingers over his cheek. She saw her go up on her tiptoes and kiss him right on his mouth.

She saw red.

“How dare you! Get your hands off my husband. Marcus, get your mouth off hers, you rotten sod!”

She skittered to a halt when the lovely creature turned to look at her, clear gray eyes wide with what? Puzzlement? Amusement? She didn’t know.

“Oh,” the woman said sweetly, “and who are you? Do you work perchance in his lordship’s stables?”

“She does anything I tell her to do,” Marcus said, and patted the woman’s hand, “a good thing in a woman. Actually, Celeste, you can call her the Duchess. She’s the wife of mine I wrote to you about.”

Celeste!

The red she saw was turning more crimson by the moment. “You told me you probably lied, you wretched real liar! You didn’t, you wouldn’t dare bring her here, you rarefied lout. Gracious heavens, I’ll kill you!”

She didn’t think, just acted. She’d already struck him with a riding crop. She needed something else. There wasn’t anything else unless she could rip a branch from that time tree, and that damned branch was too high for her to reach. She sat down in the driveway, pulled off her riding boot, leapt back to her feet and headed straight at him, swinging it over her head.

She yelled as she swung, “I told you I would make you sorry. Oh, why don’t I ever have a gun when I need it?”

She struck him hard on his shoulder. He quickly set Celeste away from him. “Now, Duchess, you have been ill, you know. I’ve been a saint these past days, allowing you to rest your fill, but I’m a man, Duchess. Surely you don’t want to be a selfish wife, one who doesn’t see beyond the needs of her own sick belly. Celeste here is really quite congenial. She’ll see to me quite nicely. There’s no reason for you to be upset or to worry.”

“I haven’t been ill in four days. Four days and you’ve acted like a man bent on obtaining sainthood through celibacy! You haven’t even yelled at me once. You haven’t even made me want to hit you a single time. You’ve been a bloodless fool and I’ve hated you.” She swung viciously and the heel hit his forearm hard. Where was that woman? Ah, she was still hiding behind Marcus. No matter that she was a woman, she was a coward and the Duchess despised her for it.

Sampson and two footmen appeared on the top steps. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the footmen take a step forward, only to be brought up by Sampson. Good, that meant Sampson was on her side. She hit him again.

Marcus backed up three steps. “Really, Duchess, your damned boot?”

“How dare you bring her here!” she shrieked. “You could have gone to London on business, like most bloody men, damn you. You could have pretended. You will pay for this perfidy, Marcus!” She struck him two more times with that boot heel, one a very gratifying thud against his right shoulder.

“Duchess, your aim is getting too good. Stop it now.” He rubbed his shoulder and his right arm. “Aren’t you tired now? All that hopping about on one foot—and your stocking is quite ruined—surely you’re getting fatigued.”

“I will remove your head from your neck, Marcus Wyndham! I’ll strangle you with my ruined stocking. I have no intention of getting tired until you’re writhing in death throes on the ground.”

She raised the boot again, so enraged she was pounding with it. Then something got through to her. He wasn’t angry, he was laughing. Laughing!

At her.

She stopped cold and stared at him. The woman was peeping out from behind him. She didn’t appear to be the least bit perturbed or frightened. If the Duchess wasn’t mistaken, the woman looked ready to break into hysterical laughter along with her bloody husband.

She raised the boot again, then very slowly lowered it. She sat back on the ground, pulled the boot on, and rose.

She raised her fist at him, then realized that he was nearly doubled over with laughter.

She jumped at him, flailing at him, hitting him as hard as she could, yanking on his hair. He had his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and still she struggled. He held her there until she quieted.