My Fair Duchess (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel Book 1) (10 page)

“Of course. You told her you were not interested in marrying and never would be.”

He glanced up to find her scrutinizing him. “And you find that disturbing, I’m sure.”

“Not particularly,” she said breezily. “Rather, I think it’s well done of you to know your heart and not give false hope to the women who find themselves in the unfortunate position of being enamored with you.”

“I believe you just complimented me.” He could hear the shock in his own voice and realized he could not remember the last time a woman had shocked him in a good way. Lady Amelia was the first woman who had ever seemed to understand that it was better to be upfront than to play the liar.

“I did,” she chirped, dashing past him. “I’ll bid you good night now, before my mother or Philip discovers us alone down here. That wouldn’t do at all.”

Holding back a smile, he said. “Really? Come now, don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to be married to a duke.”

She paused at the door and turned back with a frown. “Your conceited nature is coming out again, Your Grace. Good night.” With that, she dashed out the door, the edges of her white night rail fluttering behind her.

A reluctant smile of admiration pulled at his lips. Lady Amelia had no qualms about putting him in his place. It was refreshingly honest of her. Or was it? Every part of him rebelled against trusting her.

Early the next morning, Amelia woke and rushed to get ready for the picnic at Lady Georgiana’s. The woman was a continued―and bothersome―rival for Charles’s affection. The Prichard’s ball was in two day’s time, and she refused to endure one more ball watching Charles dance with everyone but her. She was going to make him realize he loved her if it was the last thing she did.

After struggling with her riding habit, she forced herself to face the looking glass and grimaced. If resembling a man dressed in a dull brown doublet buttoned snugly across his too-flat chest to right under his chin was the look she had been going for, then she had accomplished her goal in spades. Groaning, she grasped the full skirt in her hands and turned side to side to judge if it was really as bad as she thought. Unfortunately, it was.

If it wasn’t for her petticoat dragging under the longer coat no one would be able to tell she was a woman. Women were not supposed to be as tall as she was.
Tree Trunk.
The old nickname the other children used to tease her with rang in her head. Stubbornly forcing the memory away, she glanced over her shoulder and eyed the offensive hat that went with the riding costume. She didn’t give a fig what custom demanded, she was not putting that thing on
and
wearing a riding habit two years out of fashion.

Pausing, she giggled. She had just worried about fashion instead of when she could get back to reading her latest novel. That had to be a first. Books had been her way to escape all her life. It was far easier to worry about what was going to happen to some poor character than what was going to happen to her.

Grabbing her hairpins and her mother’s ribbon off the dresser, she marched out of her bedchamber and to her mother’s door. The house was especially quiet this morning. No doubt, the men were still sleeping after all the spirits they had consumed. When she felt a smile pulling on her lips and her thoughts drifting to the way the Duke of Aversley had looked last night, minus his coat and cravat, she shook her head and forced his image away. The duke was nothing like Charles. He was a conceited scoundrel, even if he had done good deeds for Philip and Constance. They were probably executed to ease his guilty mind.

She tapped lightly on her mother’s door, not wanting to wake anyone else. “May I come in?”

“I’m still abed,” came her mother’s muffled reply.

Amelia frowned. Her mother was sleeping later and later with each week that passed. Making a decision, she opened the door and went in without an invitation. A sweet stench assaulted her at once and caused her to wrinkle her nose. The room, oddly dark for the hour because of the tightly drawn curtains, contained an oppressive, almost smothering feel. As she made her way to her mother’s raised bed, she eyed the bottle of laudanum on the bedside stand and forced herself not to snatch it away and throw the thing down with enough force to break it. Lately, Mother acted like the bottle of laudanum was her most prized possession.

Keeping herself under control made her stomach clench in protest. The sleeping aid was but one more thing her mother had started doing that was not at all like her. Amelia pushed the covers down enough to place a hand on her mother’s forehead. It was cool to the touch―not clammy, simply normal. Sickness was not the thing keeping her in bed. Still, accusing Mother of hiding from something would not help matters. She gently brushed back her mother’s hair. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I am worried about you.”

“I’ve a megrim, dearest. That’s all. I’ll be up shortly and join you for brunch.”

“Did you take laudanum for your megrim?”

“Goodness, yes, but it does not seem to be working as well lately. I need to speak with the doctor about that.”

“Perhaps you are taking it so much your body is getting used to it.”

“What nonsense,” her mother rallied enough to exclaim. “One cannot get used to laudanum just as one cannot get used to being a widow or having a daughter who says disrespectful things.”

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from arguing further. “I’ve the picnic, remember? You promised to do my hair with your ribbon.” Amelia waited, her shoulders tensing with the hope that her mother would rouse herself from bed…and from the melancholy that had taken hold of her.

She did not even stir. “I’d forgotten,” she murmured, her voice muffled from the coverlet that was pulled up to her eyebrows. “It must be all the laudanum I’m taking.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” Amelia said, meaning it.

“That’s better, dear. I feel my megrim retreating just a tad with your kindness.”

At least her mother had not lost her sense of drama. So much of the old her was gone that Amelia was pleased to cling to any familiar ways Mother acted. “Will you help me with  my hair, please?”

“I’m not accustomed to you giving one fig about your hair.”

Amelia raised a hand to her head, her fingers grazing silky strands and then what felt like a tangle. She frowned. “Neither am I.”

A throaty chuckle came from the petite cocoon that was her mother’s shape. “Where is the picnic?”

“Lady Georgiana’s. Remember?” Worry prickled Amelia. She had stated this at least four times. Maybe she shouldn’t go. “If you need me to stay―”

“No,” came her sharp reply. Her mother rolled over and shoved the coverlet down to her chest. She reached out and grasped Amelia by the hands, the strength of the hold startling. “You must go to that picnic and be your most charming. Will Lord Worthington be there?”

“He’s supposed to be,” Amelia replied, unable to take her gaze off her mother’s hands. When had they grown so bony, her skin so paper-thin? The blue lines visible beneath the delicate skin made Amelia’s stomach turn. “Mother―” Her throat tightened and made it impossible to finish the sentence. She pressed her head to her mother’s chest and hugged her. “What’s wrong? Please tell me. Is it our lack of funds? Philip swears things will get better soon.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Sit up, dear, you’re crushing me.”

Amelia immediately complied and stared down at her mother. Her fine-boned face had new lines of age, but even still, she was incredibly beautiful with large, doe-shaped blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lovely smiling lips. Amelia twisted her own lips. If she had even a fraction of her mother’s beauty Charles would have already noticed her.

Shush!
She chided her inner voice, hating when she allowed doubt about herself to assault her. Lately, it had been quite a lot, rather like when she was younger. Despite her best efforts to remain positive that Charles would prefer a smart, not-quite-as-pretty wife to a petite, beautiful one who knew more about fashion than the world around her, Amelia had started to become concerned.

Her mother pushed herself into a sitting position and held out her hand for the hairpins and ribbons. Amelia passed them over and turned to present her hair. Immediately, her head was tugged back as her mother began to pull and twine the strands of hair. “I’m missing your father more than usual, as I always do in April since we were married then. This month is always especially hard. That’s all. I will recover soon, I promise.”

Amelia’s throat tightened further. “I’m sorry, Mother. I should have realized. I’ll stay with you today.”

Firm hands came to Amelia’s shoulders and turned her around. “No, dearest. The best thing you can do for me is go to the picnic and catch Lord Worthington’s eye.”

“Mother―”

Her mother pressed a finger to Amelia’s lips. “Shh. I know what you’re going to say. I have never encouraged you to change who you are. In fact, I was rather glad you cared more for books than gowns and ribbons, especially since your father’s death, but now I want you married and out of this house.”

Amelia’s stomach plummeted. “Am I such a burden?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. If I did not have to support you I could purchase more laudanum.”

Amelia gaped, and her mother flashed a smile that Amelia had not seen in ages.

Mother patted her hand. “See. I still have enough wits about me to tease you. Now as to your being a burden, you are not. Of course you are not, darling. You―” She gulped.

Amelia could have sworn tears were just behind her mother’s dark lashes, but when she blinked, they were gone.

“You are at the age I was when I started to blossom. Soon, you will change and become beautiful no matter whether you care to be beautiful or not.”

Amelia laughed. “I never said I would not like to be beautiful. I just said I thought Lord Worthington was smart enough to see past a pretty face and expensive gown. The laudanum has made you daft.”

“One can hope,” Mother said, smiling again. “But in all seriousness, men sometimes need to be shown what is beyond the outer shell by being enticed to look within, and that is not deception, Amelia dear, it is self-preservation. It’s time you get married and have a house of your own. And soon, before―” She abruptly quit speaking and pressed her hands to her chest. “Never mind. I’m babbling nonsense. Hurry and go before you miss the fun.”

Amelia glanced out the window at the bright blue sky. She did need to be going, but she felt as if she were missing something here and that if she stayed she might uncover what that something was. “I’ll stay.”

“No.” That one word was hard. “You will go, and I will permit no more arguments from you. Get Philip to accompany you.”

Amelia nodded and stood. There was absolutely no point in worrying Mother by telling her Philip was still abed. She would simply take one of the horses and ride it up the road to Constance’s home. No one would see her on the lonely road, and Constance would be more than glad to let her tag along to the picnic with her and her new husband.

After pressing a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek, Amelia made her way out of the house and to the stables to ready one of the horses. Rounding the corner on the pebbled path, she jerked to a halt and stared in amazed wonder. The Duke of Aversley was not in bed nursing an aching head. Well, he might have an aching head, but His Grace was not nursing it. He stood at the edge of the wheat field in a flat plane of bright-green grass, surrounded by blazing-red flowering poppies. The sun shined down on his golden hair and glittered off the sword he was slicing through the air. The metal made a high-pitched sound against the air as it went.

An odd tingling started in the pit of her stomach and spread to her chest. She glanced at the stables. If she slipped behind the row of tall bushes, she could get to the stalls without being noticed. Before she had time to talk sense into herself, she scooted behind one of the bushes and watched him. He moved with the fluid grace of one who had been expertly trained in the sport of fencing or who was simply a natural athlete. Both, she suspected. As he lunged and swung the sword high above his head, his white shirt pulled tight across his broad chest and his tan buckskins hugged the curves of his chiseled leg muscles.

She allowed her gaze to travel slowly up his long legs and powerful chest to his neck where he was once again without his cravat and showing more skin than was descent. She smiled. He was a rule breaker, and, Society had turned a blind eye because he was a duke, no doubt. She needed to turn a blind eye, as well, and quit ogling him. He was not the hero in one of her books, but a man of flesh and blood and very near. Gathering her skirts so she would not show up to the picnic with a soiled habit on top of looking like a boy, she hurried away toward the stables.

Once there, she panted from her mad dash and drew a deep breath to gather the strength to yank the heavy stable door open. It creaked on the hinges, and to her ears, filled the mostly silent morning with deafening noise. Hurrying, she made her way inside, the smell of horses and fresh hay filling her nose. Sun flooded into the stables and made her squint as she prepared to feed and water the horses.