Barbara Metzger (21 page)

Although St. Sevrin felt small and young, dwarfed in size by the massive boles and soaring branches, a heartbeat in the life span of this ancient place, he also felt protected and sheltered. He couldn’t understand why the locals had such fear of this expanse, but he was glad they did, for Lisanne’s sake.

He wandered all morning and into the afternoon, watching the direction of the sun when he could spot it through the leaves. He never found his wife and, oddly enough, he never found the route to the Priory. He did find streams to hurdle, huge fallen logs to clamber over, and endless prickly vines to catch on his clothing. By three o’clock, according to his pocket watch, he was filthy, sweaty, and hungry, having shared his snack with squirrels, deer, and even a curious badger. He was also hoarse, having spent most of the time calling for Lisanne.

He gave it up. Even if he found her, he was in no condition or frame of mind to address his lady wife. It took Sloane two hours to find his way back to Neville Hall.

There was no need to bother the relics in the house, he decided. They’d most likely already forgotten he’d called. He headed directly for the stable to collect Diablo. Becka came charging out of the stable, growling.

“Stubble it, fleabag, I’m in no mood for your nonsense.” The dog—and his wife—had likely been hiding out in the stable all day, laughing at him. St. Sevrin strode into the building. He needed a few moments for his eyes to adjust from the bright daylight before he saw her, but there she was, as heart-stoppingly beautiful as ever. She was wearing a pretty sprigged muslin gown and a silly hat on her head—and she was in Diablo’s stall.

The duke reached for the pistol that should have been at his side. Hell and thunderation, of course he hadn’t thought he needed a weapon to call on his own wife. No matter, he’d kill the stallion with his bare hands if the devil harmed her. Guilt washed over him that he hadn’t destroyed the vicious animal weeks ago, but had brought him here, of all places.

Sloane knew not to make any sudden moves and doubted if his feet could have done so anyway, having been glued with panic to the packed dirt floor. He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his dry mouth. He swallowed stable dust and enough saliva to be able to croak out, “Come away, Duchess.”

Lisanne looked up—yes, her blue eyes could still pierce him to the core with their disappointment and distrust—but she didn’t move.

“Please, sweetings, please get out of there. Slowly. I should have told the grooms, but I never thought anyone would even try to get near the stallion. He’s mean, Lisanne, mean and dangerous.” He took a slow, desperate step closer. “Please come to me now.”

“He’s not mean, just lonely. I was introducing him to Nana.”

St. Sevrin took another snail-step nearer to the stall, where he could see the lame goat in there with Diablo and Lisanne. Sloane didn’t care if the goat ended up in the stallion’s water trough or his stomach, he wanted his wife away from those metal-shod hooves and bone-crushing teeth. He held his arms open, willing her just once to do what any reasonable person would. He’d never ask anything of her again. If she wanted to stay in Devon, he’d drag the damned prince here to meet her. “Please, Duchess.”

Lisanne fed Diablo the last sugar cube from her pocket and kissed the velvet patch on his nose. St. Sevrin groaned. Then she bent and kissed the goat. “Lisanne, now!”

Telling the animals that she’d be back soon, Lisanne finally turned and opened the stall door. St. Sevrin rushed over, snatched her up, and slammed the gate behind her. He ran outside with Lisanne in his arms to Old Billy’s—or Young Billy’s—vacant stool, where he just sat, clutching her to him, his eyes closed on the nightmare he’d see for the rest of his days. They stayed like that while his heart pounded so loudly and rapidly he thought it must be using up two years of his life. At last he managed to gasp, “Don’t ever…do that…to me again.”

Lisanne didn’t try to struggle in his arms. She felt the hard muscle, the solid chest, and knew it would be useless, but she felt no need to break loose. Actually she was amazed. St. Sevrin might be suffocating her, he might even be breaking every bone in her body, but he really seemed to care. She freed one arm and reached up to touch his cheek. “There was no danger, truly. Animals like me.”

His eyes snapped open. “Confound it, girl, I wonder you haven’t been eaten alive by the wolves in Sevrin Woods with that attitude.”

She flashed a quicksilver smile. “There are no wolves in England. But if there were…”

He shook her gently, still not letting her off his lap. “Don’t tell me. I haven’t recovered yet.” Then he held her away a bit. “Here, let’s have a look at the fearless Amazon I married.” The uncertain look on her face made him add, “Perhaps not altogether fearless, then. I won’t bite, you know.”

Lisanne trusted animals, not men. She stared down at her gloves, soiled now with the stallion’s licking. She turned her hands over, so he wouldn’t see.

The duke didn’t notice. He was taking inventory elsewhere. Lisanne’s blond hair was bundled in some kind of net at the back of her neck, and her healthy golden glow had almost faded to insipid ivory. “You’re much too pale.”

“Lady Comstock said tanned skin was to be avoided at every cost. She told me to wear a hat at all times.”

He untied the strings and tossed the bonnet aside. “The hell with hats. You need the sunshine. And your clothes still don’t fit. What the deuce was that Frenchwoman doing anyway?”

Fingering the neckline of her gown, which did have excess material, Lisanne defended the modiste. “I’ve lost a bit of weight recently, that’s all. The gowns Madame Delacroix made were lovely. And this one was clean this morning.” She wrinkled her nose at the smudges coming from proximity to him. The earthy scent of him, all horse and sweat and soap, was fascinating, disturbing, and not to be mentioned aloud, she was sure. “I usually wear a smock when I am gardening or with the animals.”

He didn’t care about her clean clothes. “How could you lose anything? You never weighed more than a handful of feathers.” He was undoing the net holding her hair and spreading it out with his fingers so that long golden curls fell across her shoulders. “There, that’s more like it. I hardly recognized the stylish lady.” Sloane pulled her skirts up an inch or two. “Too bad, shoes. They’ve made you into one of those uppity debutante creatures, haven’t they?”

Lisanne had to smile. Truly he was outrageous. “Your aunt worked so hard at it, too.” The duke turned serious. “Not hard enough, it seems, if you’re hiding out here, not eating, not visiting your friends. Did someone insult you? Threaten you?”

She looked away. “There is nothing wrong, no problem.”

“Even a dolt like me can see that something is desperately wrong. Otherwise you would have come to London with Aunt Hattie or stayed at the Priory, which has never looked better, incidentally. I thank you for your efforts there.”

“Your aunt did most of it, along with the staff. They take great pride in it, you know.”

“So why did you run away?”

He was going to persist until she told him, Lisanne could tell. She got up and walked away from him. It might be easier to explain if she didn’t see the pity in his eyes. “I have made mice feet of everything. I made you so unhappy you wouldn’t come home.”

“I was giving you time to get used to the idea of marriage,” he lied. “And then I had to go help my friend Trevor home from the Peninsula.”

She didn’t bother turning to face his excuses. “You didn’t come and that made me unhappy, thinking I had stolen your comfort, your choices. You couldn’t come home, and you couldn’t find a wife to please you more because we were already married. And then I realized I would never know love, either. To spend the rest of my life among strangers and servants…”

He rose and started massaging the back of her neck. “I didn’t know love was part of our bargain, sweetings. You were such a pragmatic little negotiator, I never suspected you harbored dreams of romance. As I recall, you wanted the woods and financial security. The forest is intact, every confounded inch of it, I made sure today. You’re not lacking for funds, are you?”

She shook her head, no.

“We did agree on children, I remember. We’ll get to that in time. And you did offer me a long tether if I didn’t embarrass you. You’ve read the
on dits
columns. I guess I’ve failed you there, Duchess, but not in the way you meant.”

Lisanne turned to face him again, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “No, I failed you, with all that gossip. I knew you wouldn’t want your wife’s name a byword. I should have known that they would—”

Sloane put a finger over her lips. “Sh. There was another stipulation that I didn’t fully understand at the time. You didn’t want to be locked up. But what have you done here, Duchess, except make your own prison? Do you like this life you’ve chosen?”

“No. Do you like yours?”

“No, and I am even more responsible for my own bars and shackles. Both of us can do better.”

“We can’t do much worse, can we?”

He smiled, but only for a second. “I am more sorry than you can imagine that I’ve made you so miserable, Duchess. My only excuse is that I am not in the habit of thinking of anyone’s feelings but my own. I cannot promise love, for I doubt that I am capable of the poet’s emotion, but I will try to be a better friend if you’ll let me. And as for no one else loving you, Aunt Hattie will have my liver and lights if I don’t restore you to happiness, and Kelly will resign. Your Mary almost carved me for Christmas dinner, and my friend Trevor already swears he adores you like a sister. He tells all and sundry that you saved his life with your medicine.”

“Nonsense, Lady Roehampton wrote a very pretty letter to Aunt Hattie about how you snatched her darling son from the jaws of death with your rescue ship. They were schoolgirls together, did you know?”

“Aunt Hattie went to school with every female in creation. Nevertheless, Trev has declared himself your knight-errant. We better hope Lady Roehampton doesn’t get wind of his challenging anyone who sullies your name. Luckily most chaps won’t accept a challenge from a one-legged man.”

“And you? What kind of challenges do you accept?”

“Oh, I don’t bother with duels anymore. You must have heard that by now, how I’m an uncivilized lowlife, using my fists instead of my manners. I did enough killing in the war. Now I just bounce the insulting bastards on their heads once or twice. Shuts them up quickly enough.”

“I’ve caused you such trouble.”

“And I’ve caused you pain. We’re even. Now we have to stop hurting each other. Do you think we can?”

“You aren’t just being nice so I’ll go to London with you, are you?”

“I have to admit that I came here with every intention of carrying you off, willy-nilly, just to stop the damnable gossip. I won’t. If you don’t want to go to London, you don’t have to. But I won’t go without you, Duchess. Then, of course, you’ll be worrying that I’m in Prinny’s black books or that I’m missing the gaming hells and horse races, the clubs and balls. I won’t, of course, but you won’t be sure, will you?”

Lisanne scuffed her shoe in the stable-yard dirt. He was being so reasonable, so understanding. “What if I make the gossip worse by going? I could shame you even more, you know.”

“Sweetheart, you are a beautiful, beautiful woman. You’ll have the male half of London at your feet. The women will adore you because you are gentle and intelligent and no threat to their husband-hunting daughters, since you are already taken. Besides that, you are a duchess, a wealthy, wellborn lady in your own right, with a better pedigree than half the patronesses at Almack’s. Aunt Hattie will be there to help, and Trevor, and myself. Just think of the members of the
ton
as yipping lapdogs and scrappy barn cats. If you can tame Diablo, you’ll have those mongrels and mousers eating out of your hand.”

Lisanne wondered how he saw himself, as a pampered pug or a well-fed feline. Most likely as the big bad wolf that ate unsuspecting little girls, couldn’t be domesticated, and wasn’t around anymore. Wolves mated for life.

She had to take the chance. “I will go.”

“Good girl!” He swung her up and onto the stool so their eyes met at the same level. Lisanne was about to protest that she wasn’t a girl, wasn’t to be treated like a child, when he pressed a cool, soft kiss on her lips that deepened to a warm, hard embrace. He knew.

“About those sons…”

“I have to start packing.” Lisanne jumped off the stool and ran toward the house, leaving her hat, her hair net, and her bemused husband. Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment, but her lips were burning with something else altogether.

It wasn’t the packing that slowed them down, or the second carriage necessary to carry the vast amount of trunks Mary insisted Her Grace needed to make the proper splash in London. The third carriage wasn’t a problem, either, once Lisanne saw to the careful packing of her bottles and boxes and buckets of plant cuttings. St. Sevrin simply hired extra horses and drivers and outriders.

It wasn’t even the dog who caused all the delays. Becka liked to ride up with the driver of her mistress’s traveling carriage, her ears and jowls blowing in the breeze, when she wasn’t running alongside or off on her own errands. They didn’t have to wait all that long on lonely stretches of highway for Becka to return.

No, it was the goat that kept them so many extra days on the road, the lame goat that had to come in a slower wagon of her own, with ample straw and sweet rolls. The Duchess of St. Sevrin wasn’t going to make a splash, the duke thought. She was going to create a tidal wave, riding into town with this particular entourage, not the least of which was his own huge roan stallion making sheep eyes at a nanny goat. It was downright humiliating, but made for an easier mount.

When he was done riding, when Diablo had been tied behind the goat’s wagon to play Romeo to Nana’s Juliet, St. Sevrin rode in the carriage with his wife. At first he suggested Mary exchange places outside with Becka for a while so he and Lisanne could get to know each other. That dog in the carriage, however, was not a good idea, even with the windows opened. It was easier to let Mary stay and speak of impersonal matters: the estates, his investments, what sights Lisanne might like to see, his friend Trevor Roe.