Dair Devil (42 page)

Her awkwardness, rather than abating, grew more acute with his tactical interruptions. To think he had gone to the trouble of arranging her clothes, knowing she would want to bathe. But of course he would know that. This wasn’t the first time he had made love. For some ridiculous reason only known to her heart, she felt suddenly awkward and stupidly gauche in his presence, which was far from how she had been when they were naked in each other’s arms.

She recalled how, when they had finished playing hide-and-go-seek in the bathing pool they had dried off and then together gone about setting out the nuncheon things. They were both hungry, and after a leisurely nuncheon and a bottle of wine between them, had lain replete on the picnic rug and stared up at the sky, at the clouds. She wasn’t sure of the precise sequence of how they ended up making love. Some moments were more vivid than others… How he had gently removed her stockings, tugging the little silk bows undone that held her garters in place and her stockings up over her knees. Rolling each damp stocking down her leg and off her foot, he had kissed her instep, favoring both feet equally, all the while telling her how much he loved and desired her; and she had not flinched. He had been so patient, so gentle when required. She trusted him utterly.

He loved her as much as she did him, and it was a wondrous thing. She had learned things, extraordinary things about herself and her own body, and his. Oh! His body was so gloriously masculine, his reaction to her kisses and caresses of exploration most extraordinary of all. She was still in awe of what had just occurred between them. And having shared the most intimate experience in the world with the man she loved above all others, she had crossed a bridge from which there was no turning back. She was now spiritually bound to him forevermore, and she couldn’t be happier. All that remained was to celebrate the legal union for their happiness to be complete.

So why, with her body cooled and her mind at rest, did she feel there was still a shadow cast over their happiness. Her heart told her making love with her beloved was the most natural thing in the world. Yet, there was a small niggle of doubt, of guilt, that pressed against her heart and troubled her greatly. She could not help it. From girlhood she had known that a female’s maidenhead was her most prized possession. It was not to be given away lightly, and not to just any man, and never,
ever
, before marriage; to do so would be the beginning of the end of her moral decay. And while she believed this, she never seriously thought she would marry, least of all make love in a magical grotto with the handsomest man in England.

He had given her a ring pledging his commitment before they had made love… And he said they would be married by special license by the end of the week… That was all the reassurance she needed—wasn’t it…?

Dair sensed Rory’s uneasiness and noticed how her fingers unconsciously fiddled with the unfamiliar pale lavender sapphire ring, turning it back and forth on her ring finger. But he had no idea what was troubling her or the extent of her inner turmoil. He thought perhaps the presence of Farrier was making her uncomfortable, so he put an arm about her shoulders and led her to the bathing pool and away from his batman, who stood staring at the ground as if it had all his attention.

When he returned, leaving Rory to bathe in private, Farrier had moved inside the little temple and was making himself useful by dousing the fire, and tidying the room. Dair tugged on his breeches and threw on his shirt and waistcoat, but had yet to do up the buttons. He held his jockey boots and stockings.

“Mr. Farrier! A hand, if you please.”

“As it so happens, I do have one of those I can offer your lordship.”

Dair smiled. “One is all I require.”

Comfortable again with each other, Farrier felt free to ask,

“May I cut short m’anglin’ holiday and return to your service, m’lord?”

Dair looked up from securing a breeches buckle.

“Are you sure? It’s not necessary… On second thought, yes! Please do. I need to shave, and this afternoon. Reynolds is a fine valet in most respects, but he can’t shave me, or take proper care of my razors, and he hasn’t the foggiest notion of how to prepare a whetstone.”

Farrier shook his head with grave concern.

“’Tis no wonder you’re wearing a woolly face then, m’lord. I’d not want Reynolds slittin’ me throat! And he has two good hands with which to do it, too. Leave it to me… There!” he added with satisfaction, now his Major was booted and dressed. “If you don’t have need of me, I’ll head back to the cottage to collect m’kit. My skiff is moored in the cove, too.”

“Mr. Farrier—Bill…”

The batman stopped in the doorway of the temple and turned back into the room.

“Yes, m’lord?”

Dair looked him in the eye.

“My life has taken an unexpected but welcome turn since you were locked up in the Tower.”

Farrier couldn’t have agreed more. To his mind, the Major’s confession was a colossal understatement. When Dair did not elaborate, Farrier nodded and left. He was confident they were headed into interesting times… By nightfall, even he could not have predicted just how interesting.

T
WENTY-SIX

A 
NTONIA
SLOWLY
ROSE
up off the tapestry cushions on the chaise longue and put her stockinged feet to the carpet. She did this without opening her eyes. And with her eyes still closed, her toes searched out her embroidered turquoise silk mules, which she had kicked off earlier. Despite it being late afternoon, she had yet to change out of her morning
déshabillé
, a soft brown silk gown
a la Turque
, loose-fitting but for the wide sash of turquoise silk around her waist. And given the way she was feeling, she had no inclination to dress for dinner, and this despite having her cousin to dine. How she would get through the meal, she knew not. Food was of no interest to her.

Her body did not crave sustenance and, for some reason also known only to her body, it was easier to cope with the waves of nausea with her eyes shut to the light. Michelle had offered to close the curtains, but she wanted—no, she
needed
—to feel the light breeze that came in off the lake. And with the sun behind the dower house, the windows were thrown wide, the view of jetty, lake and Swan Island bathed in a glorious golden glow of late afternoon light.

It just so happened that an hour earlier she had been standing at the window as two boats glided in to moor at the jetty. They were met by half a dozen men, some of whom had been out on the lake earlier as part of a search party. Her first reaction was one of relief, that her goddaughter was safe and well. The second was one of extreme interest in the company Rory was keeping. Her interest intensified to discover the young woman had been out boating on the lake with her cousin the Major.

She watched the men offload the cargo from both boats and go about their business, one handing Rory her walking stick. The Major and Rory then slowly made their way up the sloping lawn towards a pony trap waiting to return Rory to the Gatehouse Lodge. It was at the trap, more precisely, what happened behind it, that made Antonia sway and grip the window sill with two hands, her maid thinking her about to faint. Did the couple seriously think no one would see them kissing with an Elizabethan manor house looming large over them? But by the manner of their kiss, Antonia recognized that the couple were not thinking at all. They were so wrapped up in each other they were oblivious to all else, particularly their surroundings. There was only one conclusion to reach about her goddaughter and her cousin the Major, one that was met with mixed emotion. For while their kiss curved her mouth into a smile, it also filled her with a disquiet she could not shake.

She was reminded of that kiss when Michelle interrupted her thoughts with the announcement that the private dining room was ready and only awaited her guest for the dishes to be brought up from the kitchen. Did Mme la Duchesse now wish to change for dinner? Antonia shook her head, and in a rare fit of impatience grabbed the end of the sash about her waist, opened her eyes and blurted out,

“If all I need do is change out of this and into a new gown and different shoes, to change the way I-I
feel
, do you not think me I would do so?
Mon Dieu
,” she muttered to herself, “what is wrong with me?”

Michelle could have told her mistress but she kept her opinion to herself. With a jerk of her head at the curtained opening that led deeper into the Duchess’s private rooms, she sent away the two personal maids, who knew by the look on the lady-in-waiting’s face that the clothes they had selected and set out for their mistress were to be pegged and boxed for another day.

“Mme la Duchesse, would you prefer I sent word to his lordship you are unwell, and—”

Antonia shook her fair hair. “No.” She looked up at Michelle, who had come to stand before the chaise longue. “That, too, it will not change how I feel. Perhaps first bring him here. And me, you can fetch a pot of tea. No milk. And perhaps a slice of bread. No butter. That may help settle the queasiness…”

Her gaze flickered over the expanse of deep carpet between her and the fireplace, littered with documents, tidied into neat piles and from left to right, in order of importance. There were legal papers, boundary maps, house plans, bills and receipts, the trade cards of a multitude of tradesmen and merchants, and correspondence from the same. As well as piles of well-ordered papers, there was a cabinet maker’s director bookmarked at various pages, textile swatches, paint color swatches and numerous wallpaper samples. There were even several detailed drawings from a carriage maker for a new traveling coach and a town carriage. And at the end of the chaise longue, on top of a pile of books she had brought down from the house in Hanover Square to read at her leisure, her appointment diary. It was open, and told her the painter, Mr. Joseph Wright, would be arriving in the next week or so, traveling down from Derby at her request, to spend a fortnight making preliminary sketches for a new portrait. When completed it would be sent up to Leven Castle, to hang beside Wright’s commissioned portrait of the newly elevated Duke of Kinross.

All of it, from the smallest tradesmen’s account to her appointment diary, was connected with her new life as Duchess of Kinross, and the four houses of which she was now mistress: The dower house, now part of the newly-formed Strang-Leven estate; the Hanover Square mansion, to be renamed Kinross House; Leven Castle, the sixteenth century French chateau on the shores of Loch Leven in Scotland; and a townhouse in Edinburgh. Her duke had given her dominion over them all, because he trusted her judgment implicitly, and, she suspected, to keep her occupied during his absence north of Hadrian’s Wall.

But how could she think of taking charge of one house, least of all four, as well as order two new carriages and provide guidance to the Duke’s new man of business on a number of administrative matters pertaining to his estates, when she could barely concentrate to read the most recent newssheet, least of all make critical decisions. And without Jonathon to share the decisions with her it was all rather strangely unimportant. But she would do her duty by him, and, though she had yet to come to terms with it herself, the tiny life now growing inside her, heir to his estates and wealth, and the Scottish ducal coronet.

I
T
WAS
WHILE
Antonia was sipping from her cup of black tea and nibbling on a slice of soft plain white bread, that Dair was admitted into her cluttered pretty sitting room with its view of the lake. He was dressed formally, which was a surprise. And even more so when he was usually seen in a frock coat made for comfort, the habitual jockey boots, and with his thick black hair indifferently tied back off his face. Today he wore an elegant midnight blue linen frock coat, embroidered on short skirts, tight upturned cuffs and pocket flaps with silver sprays of flowers and spangles, and a pair of matching thigh-tight knitted breeches. Both were adorned with shiny silver buttons that matched those of a cream silk waistcoat. And for the first time in many years, his large feet were encased in plain black, low-heeled leather shoes with unadorned silver buckles. His shoulder length hair was neatly dressed and combed off his face, tied at the nape with a cream silk ribbon.

Most surprising of all, he no longer wore the close-cropped black beard Antonia had seen him with just that afternoon. In fact, his heavy chin and jaw was the smoothest it had been in many years. He had always carried some stubble, even to the most formal of occasions, as if he couldn’t be bothered or didn’t have the time for an exacting shave. Antonia always assumed this an affectation, like the untidy hair and the jockey boots. Props taken from his performer’s bag for the benefit of his admiring female audience and, she suspected, to annoy his mother; the Countess was a stickler for convention in form and correct dress.

It was not the calculated devil-may-care cousin with the arrogant swagger who bowed over her outstretched hand in greeting but an affable young gentleman with a smile that bordered on shyness. It had Antonia sitting up and peering at him keenly. She said to tease him,

“A month in the Tower and you are a changed man, Alisdair.”

He put up an eyebrow.

“You and I both know, your Grace, I spent that month in Portugal.”

“Ah, so not incarceration but sunstroke sees you forsake your boots,
hein
?” She put aside her teacup. “This cousin you present to me looks a good deal more serious than the other one. But you should go without jockey boots more often. White stockings they show off your large calves to better advantage. And the beard, it had a certain appeal, but you are far more handsome without it.”

“Thank you, your Grace—”

“Your Grace? I compliment you and you go all formal on me? And now me I have you blushing! Who would have thought it possible. But I am not telling you anything you do not already know.”