Patricia Rice (13 page)

“What makes you think I’m not interested?” he demanded, wiping off the rest of the soap before reaching for the hooks of her bodice while debating the wisdom of fastening them. He pressed a kiss to her nape and was rewarded with her shiver.

“Because you’re still treating me the same as your horse or the chair you sit in. Now stop that, Harry, or I’ll have to call Matilda. She’s had a trying day.”

“And I haven’t?” Outraged, but wanting to laugh at her strange priorities, Harry gallantly resisted temptation and began fastening her bodice. He ought to earn gold stars in heaven for his forbearance.

“Matilda fell and twisted her ankle in the courtyard,” Christina explained. “If the purple ghost hadn’t led me through the gallery to find her, she might have languished there all day. From his robes, I think this one might be a priest. Were your ancestors Catholic, Harry?”

“My ancestors were whatever was politically expedient,” he grumbled. “We’re not a religious lot.” He refused to ask why she thought a priest might haunt these halls. His family tree contained its fair share of rogues and scoundrels, as well as the usual number of younger sons given to the church. She could imagine a priest if she liked.

“I really do need to find out more about the spirits living here, Harry,” Christina insisted. “I think there is more than one, and some of them might be malevolent.”

To hell with gold stars in heaven. He wanted reward for his patience here on earth. Not finishing her hooks, Harry slid his hands beneath her boned bodice, circling his arms around her shift and pulling her back against his chest. She gasped, but when he cupped her breasts in both palms, she melted against him. She engaged him on so many levels, he couldn’t keep track, but the physical one was the least complicated.

“If you had been outside planning a garden or walking your horse or any of half a dozen normal activities, you wouldn’t have needed a ghost to tell you that your maid needed help. You would have seen her,” he murmured against her ear as he nibbled it. Her nipples puckered against his palm. He pressed his aching loins against her buttocks. Her skirt and petticoat prevented his feeling her supple curves.

“Harry, don’t,” she protested breathlessly. “I deserve a man who loves me, and you deserve the same.”

“A man who loves me? No, thank you,” he said wryly, although he knew what she meant. “Right now, I’d be content with a wife who gives me heirs. I never expected you to love me.”

“You didn’t?” Wide-eyed, she pulled from his grasp, holding up her bodice so she could turn and face him. “You didn’t think I would love you?”

He shrugged and focused his gaze on the way her bosom rose and fell rather than her enchantingly surprised expression. “Love is a romantic fantasy, like Sleeping Beauty tales. Marriage is a legal, practical state for the protection of the woman and the children she bears. We suit each other very well, Christina. What more can you ask?”

At her silence, he looked up to catch tears in her eyes before she turned her back on him again. Reaching over her shoulder, she began fastening her own hooks. “If that is what you believe, we do not suit at all, Harry. I’m very sorry you don’t believe you are lovable. I know I am difficult, but I still like to believe someone could love me.”

He brushed away her hands and finished hooking her up. “You’re adorable, Christina, and I want to take care of you. Isn’t that enough?”

She held her hair out of his way, but as soon as her bodice was fastened, he helped himself to her silky tresses, sliding his fingers through them to massage her scalp, not letting her go.

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t fall into his arms either. “If you cannot believe in malevolent spirits, Harry, then you cannot protect me. I shall have to find out more on my own.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw to prevent roaring his wrath. Yelling at Christina would be akin to yelling at his horse. She would just skitter out of reach and run like hell in the opposite direction.

“I’ll have the whole damned building pulled down before I’ll let you endanger yourself. Wait until I’ve settled estate matters, and we’ll explore together. In the meantime, do something about Cook’s vegetable garden. That should be safe enough.”

She drew away with that hurt look still in her eyes, but she nodded without argument, and Harry had to be satisfied with that.

“Fish? You think I should put fish in the garden?” Standing in the courtyard behind the castle walls after Sunday services, Christina studied the ornamental fishpond, the long-abandoned vegetable garden, then the page of the journal.

She’d found this new book open on her bed this morning after they'd returned from church. Although it had a similar binding to the journals in the archival room, it wasn’t the same one she’d been studying the other day. The handwriting was different, and this one wasn’t extremely interesting, tending to describe such things as “the potatoe of Virginia being knobbie roots fastened into the stalkes with an infinite number of threddie strings.” But it did seem to indicate that some early Winchester had used fish from the pond as a type of manure.

“I wish Ninian were here. Or even Leila. They know far more about gardening than I do. Show me where the potatoes grow,” she said to the blue aura who stayed near the castle wall where Christina could see her.

“Who are you talking to?” Meg stepped around the yew in the corner and, finding only Christina, looked puzzled.

“As far as I can tell, Lady Anne Winchester. I haven’t studied the family tree well enough to pin her on it, but I think she may have helped develop the courtyard and kitchen gardens when the manor was new.”

Christina handed the old journal to Meg, knowing Harry’s cousin would assume she referred to the journal. She didn’t think Meg likely to understand that Lady Anne’s ghost had just disappeared into the remains of the herbal knot garden behind the hedge.

She had only just come to the conclusion of the ghost’s identity after learning the writer of the journal she’d read yesterday was a Lady Anne who was well-known for her spinning and gardening. Upon seeing the blue aura at the spinning wheel, Christina had addressed her as Lady Anne, and the aura shimmered in delight. That was sufficient acknowledgment for her.

Meg glanced at the ancient ledger she’d been handed, flipped a few pages of incomprehensible handwriting, and shrugged. “I’d be talking to myself, too, after reading this. Why don’t you simply hire a gardener?”

“Because I don’t know a gardener to hire, and Harry seemed to think this was something I ought to do. I know more about trees than vegetables.” Christina wandered over to a gnarled fruit tree covered in flowers and small green fruits. “Look at this. The journal tells how cherry and peach branches were grafted onto an old hawthorn. There’s a whole orchard of fruit beyond the wall, but I know nothing of caring for them.”

“You spoke of Leila and Ninian. Are they family?”

Feeling frumpy in an old skirt she’d changed into, with her apron muddied from climbing the terraced mound in the back of the garden and digging about in the herbs, Christina regarded Meg’s quiet elegance with suspicion. She didn’t believe in perfection, although Meg did her best to convey it. Meg’s aura seemed perfectly content, but there was an occasional hint of brown to show that all was not as well as she pretended. She supposed that could just be grief for the uncle and cousin whom Meg had known all her life.

“Ninian is my cousin, and Leila is my older sister,” Christina explained. “Leila’s husband is well-known in agricultural circles for his advanced thinking and scientific knowledge. Perhaps I could write to him for advice, although he’s not much on letter writing.”

“Why don’t we fix up a few of the guest rooms and invite them to visit?” Meg asked, trying to hide her eagerness. “It’s been ever so long since we entertained.”

“Ninian just had a baby this past winter and may not be ready for travel. Besides, her husband is an earl who likes to dabble in government, and Parliament opens shortly. But Leila might come.” Thinking of actually entertaining family in her own home, Christina caught the contagion of Meg’s excitement. “And Harry might like to talk with an agronomist. He seems worried about the estate.”

“My father is experienced at farming,” Meg reminded her, “and has not said anything that would give reason for concern, but men like to talk about new things. If it would make Harry happy, why don’t you invite them?”

She’d much rather write an invitation to Leila and Dunstan than figure out how to garden. Hugging the journal to her chest, Christina started briskly for the house with Meg on her heels. “I’ll write today. Do you know of someone who can begin tilling the dirt? I’ll read up on vegetables and herbs. Once the dirt is dug and I have seeds, it can’t be too dreadfully difficult.”

“I don’t think anyone saved seeds,” Meg said doubtfully. “You’ll have to buy them.”

Another thing she didn’t know how to do. She hadn’t realized how abysmally ignorant she was. Perhaps she could find a better means of communicating with Lady Anne. Or she could ride out and meet Harry’s tenants by herself—except Meg had indicated her title would intimidate them.

She dearly wished to explore the estate. She’d seen a ring of rowans that almost certainly meant sacred ground. And she’d like to see if there were more standing stones like the one she’d seen at the edge of the garden. This could be a truly holy place. Perhaps that was why the ghosts lingered.

But she wanted to do it with Harry, who knew every inch of ground and much of its ancient history.

Of course, the ghosts would know the ancient history as well. Struck by a sudden thought, Christina halted and handed the old volume to Meg. “Would you take this back for me? I forgot to look at something. I’ll be back in just a little while.”

Without waiting for Meg to question, she dashed through the garden in the direction of the castle chapel. Leila would
adore
knowing there was a stone circle here, if she could verify it. And if the purple aura was a priest, wouldn’t he know?

***

The tenant cottage door that had been open as Harry rode down the lane was closed tight by the time he rode into the yard.

Sitting on his horse, studying the surrounding landscape, he debated whether to dismount. He was weary of confronting closed doors and cold expressions.

Perhaps he should have worn the attire of a wealthy duke instead of his everyday wool. Maybe he should take up wearing a wig so he looked like his father. Why did his own people hate him so? He couldn’t imagine either his father or brother doing anything so despicable as to generate such disrespect. No one seemed inclined to tell him the problem.

Harry rode on, brooding over the unsatisfactory results of this day. They’d arrived fashionably late at church, so there hadn’t been time to talk with anyone beforehand. And afterward, the parishioners had melted away while he discussed the church roof with the vicar. Reverend Abbot had not been precisely forthcoming about the state of the local economy either.

If he didn’t get to the bottom of the problem soon, he wouldn’t have an estate to worry about.

While that might be desirable from the standpoint of a man trained to maneuver through city aristocracy rather than rural society, losing the estate to a merchant like Carthage would mean the tenant farmers would be out of their homes and relieved of their occupations.

Perhaps that was the problem. Carthage lived about here somewhere. Had the man promised the tenants something Harry couldn’t deliver, and they wanted him to fail?

He wished Peter hadn’t had a prior social engagement in Brighton. His cousin was the only man in the area who was willing to speak with him. Not that Peter had anything sensible to say. He hadn’t even noticed the church had a hole in its roof. Or if he had, he’d assumed someone else would take care of it. Perhaps Peter was better off wooing a wealthy wife.

He’d have to call Jack back from Scotland. Harry hated admitting his ignorance, hated admitting he couldn’t do everything himself. He’d thought he could ride in here, talk to a few people, solve the problem, and return to London and the life he and Christina had always lived. They’d go their separate ways as spouses in their class did, spend the late summer and autumn in Sommersville, and live a life of contentment, if naught else. He’d hoped for more than that, perhaps some adventure, some intellectual challenge, but right now, he’d settle for enough money to live on.

And an heir to inherit the estate he intended to save. If he was fortunate enough to have more than one son, he’d be certain they all knew how to manage the land.

But first, he needed a son.

He wasn’t a rake, and seduction wasn’t his hobby, but Harry thought he understood Christina well enough to overcome her refusals. He knew better than to woo her with jewelry, at least. She had a box full and never wore anything except the ring he’d placed on her left hand.

He wasn’t about to encourage her dangerous obsession with imaginary creatures, but there were other means of courting her. His wife was a romantic, and he didn’t think she was shy about the marital bed. So his task ought to be relatively simple. Once he had his marriage in hand, perhaps solutions to his other problems would present themselves.

He’d certainly feel a lot better. The vision of Christina flitting about their shared chamber wearing next to nothing had filled his mind’s eye all morning, making it damned difficult to concentrate on hymns.

A dog dashed out of the hedgerow, barking and nipping at Caesar’s heels, encouraging the gelding’s restiveness. Clinging to thoughts of Christina in diaphanous gowns, Harry ignored the irritation.

Watching village doors slam as he rode into town, Harry had an urge to go about slamming them open again, but he resisted. As the duke here, he could have the whole village carted off under some pretense or another, but he wasn’t a vengeful sort—just weary and discouraged.

He wished he was a spiteful man a few minutes later when he met Carthage in his new phaeton. Harry had ordered the family solicitors to find out more about the man after he’d been presented with the mortgage. As far as they could determine, Carthage was a reasonably honest merchant who had invested the profits from his East India trade in land. He’d turned a small farm on the Surrey road out of London into rows of houses for the middling sort of people like physicians and solicitors.

Apparently, Carthage had recently acquired a manor house outside of Sommersville and wasn’t interested in farming. Men like that seldom were. The challenge of turning a profit held more interest than soil.

He didn’t bother reining Caesar to the side of the road but without a nod or a tip of his hat, he raised his chin, and claiming aristocratic privilege, forced the carriage to slow to let him by. He was learning this duke business quickly. Plain old Lord Harry would have halted on the side of the road and doffed his hat in greeting.

“Your Grace,” Carthage called from the open vehicle.

Scowling, Harry arched a questioning eyebrow as he came abreast of the phaeton.

“I’d like to wish you well on your new marriage,” Carthage said in an unctuous tone that set all Harry’s hackles on edge. “I understand Her Grace has already begun hiring and making changes to the manor. I trust she finds our fair county suited to her taste.”

“Christina is enchanted with the area,” Harry responded stiffly. He knew this game well. Men who had grown up in trade, like Carthage, often sought weaknesses in others to twist to their advantage. Women were always a weakness, but he wouldn’t let Christina be his.

“Excellent. I hear she shares some of your father’s peculiarities. Will she be needing help with the construction? I’ve hired some of your father’s workmen to improve my estate, but I’d be happy to share.”

“I believe you’ve heard wrong. We are more likely to tear down the manor than add to it.” Harry refrained from gritting his teeth but acted as if Carthage were merely tying up his valuable time.

“If you sold me the acreage behind the Roman villa, I could put those men to good use developing houses for a better class of people. Then you’d have the cash to do as you saw fit with the rest of the land,” Carthage suggested. “We would all benefit.”

“The estate is entailed, sir. It will not be sold.” Harry kicked Caesar into a canter, but Carthage’s voice rang out behind him.

“You’d better do something about those crumbling towers before someone falls through them! I’ve heard complaints.”

Harry spurred his mount, not acknowledging the insult.
Vulture
, he muttered, but the moment’s peace he’d carved for himself had shattered with the warning that he needed to hire architects and contractors to prevent the damned house from killing anyone else.

He galloped the remainder of the distance home, determined to salvage a portion of the peace of mind he’d achieved earlier. He had a staff now. They’d have dinner waiting. He had a fascinating wife who could bring him joy with just a smile. He could even wonder what entertaining thing she’d done to turn their bedchamber inside out and anticipate the confusion with humor.

As long as he knew he’d have Christina in his bed tonight.

Leaving Caesar to the stable lads, he took the back stairs into the new wing, impatiently hitting his boots with his riding crop as he strode through the back hall, looking for a convenient place to drop his hat. They needed to find old Dalrymple and hire him back. He would have had a footman at the door as soon as Harry rode up.

Except that he couldn’t afford Dalrymple or the footman.

He
could
seduce Christina. Concentrate on what you can accomplish, he told himself.

Shoving his crop in his boot and tucking his hat under his arm, he terrified the kitchen staff by running down the stairs and appearing without warning. “Cook, the duchess and I will dine in our chambers this evening. Do we still have wine in the cellars?”

At an affirmative nod, he ordered a rich burgundy and indulged in a sense of satisfaction. What else would he need?

Flowers. He needed flowers. It was still too early for roses, but he’d seen jonquils in the fields as he rode by. Ignoring the stares of the help, he strode through the kitchen and out the back to the courtyard.

Perhaps he had time to scavenge the library for a pretty poem he could copy out for her. That should please her. Thank the heavens that Christina didn’t require expensive gifts. He’d chosen his wife wisely.