The Rusticated Duchess (43 page)

“Open your eyes, damn it!”

Abigail’s body jerked at the impatient, commanding words, even as her eyes flew open obediently.

The voice barking at her from above was not gentle or indulgent. Nor was it the voice of a servant. It was a deep, unfamiliar rasp and Abigail automatically—instinctively—drew back farther against the wooden frame of the carriage. The body to which this voice belonged hadn’t even tried to block the rain from pelting in. “Where’s John?” she asked anxiously.

The man didn’t seem to hear the tremor in her voice.

“John?” he bellowed. “Who the hell is John?”

“The coachman!” she returned bitingly, reaching up to bat away the water before it dripped onto Betsy’s cheek. “You’re making this worse than it was,” she added indignantly.

“I don’t have time for your hysterics,” he grunted. “We’ve got to get you out of there and up to the house.”

“I’m not hysterical. I’m never hysterical,” Abigail returned acidly. Taking a deep breath, she explained, “Aunt Betsy is on top of me. And she’s unconscious. I can’t move her—and there’s nowhere to put her if I could. We’ve slid down against the door. Besides, her head is injured. I’m putting pressure to stem the bleeding but she needs a doctor, and quickly.”

“Damn!” The man bit off another curse. He leaned over, his head through the window, trying to see inside, and then drew his head back out. Abigail listened to him issuing orders, and, with a dawning sense of uneasiness, she squinted to get a better view.

A lamp quickly arrived, and the man bent down into the coach with it, partly lighting the interior, Betsy, Abigail and his own face.

Abigail swallowed. The scar for which he was famous was unrelieved by the light bouncing from the inner carriage walls. It traced the edge of his jaw from ear to chin, giving his face a harsh profile.

When her gaze uncertainly drifted from the edge of his face to his eyes, he promptly scowled. “We don’t have time for proper introductions or foolish objections now,” he growled. “You’re both hurt, so save the kind-hearted sympathy for the drawing room tomorrow.”

Abigail’s mouth opened with indignation. “Why, what are you—?”

She couldn’t finish the question because he interrupted, abruptly instructing, “We’re going to tip you back upright, so hold on!”

Abigail wrapped her arms around Betsy and braced her uninjured foot against the bench, anticipating that they would slide downwards onto the floor of the coach as it was tipped upward. When they had finished, Abigail realised that at least one of the wheels had broken, because the two women remained slumped against the door, though Abigail was now upright with Betsy on her lap.

Within a moment, the door behind her opened and the chill and wetness came rushing in, followed by a formidable presence in a leather greatcoat, which flapped against the carriage frame.

“Just hold on to her for another minute,” the rough voice of the sixteenth Earl of Meriden boomed against her ear.

Abigail shivered at his proximity. She couldn’t see much of him in the dim blackness of night, but even drenched and diligently focused on her rescue, he seemed to take over the empty space around her, as if he was larger than life in his black greatcoat. She wished she knew if the heat that suddenly surrounded her came from him.

“Don’t let go of her,” he ordered, reaching his long arms around her and steadying the limp form.

She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the comment that was rising to her lips, but she couldn’t help it. The acerbic words tumbled from her, and he was close enough to hear them. “What else could you possibly have imagined I would do?”

* * * *

Charles glared at the back of her head. The girl wasn’t supposed to be impertinent. She was supposed to be at least terrified, as any other innocent miss in this situation would have been.

The irony did quirk his lips, though. All other young innocents would have been passed out as thoroughly as the estimable Aunt Betsy. It was unfortunate they weren’t in a position where he could address—indeed, enjoy—that impudence.

It wasn’t that he wanted a ninny as a bride. Truth be told, her cheekiness held infinitely more potential than shy, retiring misses could ever promise. Knowing his own reputation and family history, he had given up his search for his English maiden years ago and retreated to the ancestral rural landscape to brood out his days. Now, though, he was grateful for those past discouragements. If he had married a shy, young, English miss nine years ago, he would now likely be bored to tears.

He didn’t cry easily.

But he needed an heir. Heirs, preferably. Time had reinforced that reality, too. The Wessex family had ruled, owned and dominated the landscape in this part of England for time immemorial. By legend and maternal bloodlines, his ancestors included the ancient kings and queens of Mercia, and the remarkable Alfred the Great. The Wessex clan had survived innumerable wars, royal abuse, the bloodthirsty Cromwells, charges of treason and any number of importuning women who had tried to discredit the ancient warrior lineage. The remains of his ancestral kingdom might have died out with William the Conqueror, but the survival instinct had percolated in nearly every generation through the centuries. One did not allow a one-thousand-three-hundred-year dynasty to die out without making some effort to preserve its fate.

From the few words he’d exchanged with Abigail so far, it seemed as though she might wear the Meriden coronet quite well.

Besides, both his parents and grandparents would torment him for eternity in the afterlife if Meriden allowed his cousin Milton to inherit. The lying little boy, who had delighted in sabotaging Charles’ animal traps and decimating his childhood forts, had grown into a petty, self-indulgent man who had, quite possibly, degenerated with age. When Charles had seen him last, in London, Milton had been positively smug over the probability of inheriting the earldom. Even living, Charles was fairly certain his mother’s continued residence in Italy was meant to be a constant reminder that he needed a châtelaine for Meriden Park, and that she had no intention of filling the role for him.

Charles sincerely hoped that Milton would one day meet his comeuppance for his own arrogance. Charles equally hoped he would be in a position to witness it, without being caught up in the fiasco that was certain to follow.

As he often did, Charles worked like a demon while he inwardly mused, leaving the rescue of Lady Abigail de Rothesay to her coachman while he focused on the injured aunt. He was able to do so with half a mind, the other half still consumed by the dilemmas he would face over the next days.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch her. It was just that he wanted that first contact to be in more forgiving surrounds. He wanted her to know they were touching, to think about how it felt. He wanted to be able to appreciate the texture of her skin and feel the shudders run up her arm when he kissed her inner wrist.

Charles wanted her to be perfectly and explicitly aware that he had every right to do with her as he pleased.

Of course, he reminded himself, he ultimately wanted her to be happy in that same possession. A bit of nerves was to be expected—even enjoyed—but Charles had no wish to terrify his bride. But as of yet, he truly had no indication, beyond her signature on the marriage contracts, that she had even accepted the fate her father’s spendthrift habits had handed her.

The Earl of Winchester, otherwise named Stuart de Rothesay, had been progressively sinking into massive debt for the last fifteen years, in order to finance a luxurious lifestyle for himself, his wife and four fabulous daughters. To stay afloat, Winchester had drained his entailed property of anything saleable long before, and was left with a mortgaged London home at a highly valued address in Mayfair, country properties that were dilapidated and tenanted, and mounting pressure from the banks after two speculative investments had failed dramatically.

For reasons known only to Meriden’s grandfather, Meriden’s man of affairs, Simon Rutherford, had always kept abreast of Lord and Lady Winchester’s lives. Charles knew of it, of course, and had allowed the regular reports on their finances, politics and social activities to pass into his hands every quarter since his grandfather’s death. It wasn’t as if they were the only family of influence his grandfather had tracked. The previous earl had left Charles with a letter listing those who owed the family favours and those to whom the earl had felt a certain obligation. His grandmother had been able to enlighten him about most of the names, but had no explanation as to why the previous earl believed he was indebted to Lady Winchester, the only female on the list.

When Charles had heard of Winchester’s difficulties from Rutherford, and about the imminent seizure of the peer’s lands, Charles had immediately known that saving Lady Winchester and her daughters from being cast into the street definitely qualified as repaying a debt.

Overruling Rutherford’s sensible financial advice, Charles had quietly approached the bankers and had purchased a significant portion of Winchester’s debt—more of the debt than any mere favour would have required.

It was to be Charles’s opportunity to re-enter popular society, to ask the upstanding and fashionable Countess Winchester to procure for him invitations to events where he might find a bride.

At least, that had been his plan.

One visit to Winchester House had revised his intentions. The five beautiful women that graced the portrait behind Winchester’s desk had inspired Charles to ask for a much higher price.

Amazingly, after staring at him for only about twenty silent seconds, Winchester had agreed.

Abigail came to him without a dowry, though Winchester had deeded to Charles the two properties of Lord Aston, Winchester’s minor title, and Charles had written off the mortgages he held on them. Still, Charles was grateful that he hadn’t been forced to circulate among the backstabbing matrons that comprised the proverbial ton, or even to set up housekeeping in the etiquette-strict and overly expensive city. He had not once been called upon to tell the story of the scar to his jaw to a shocked and wide-eyed audience—a boon worth nearly any portion of his personal fortune.

In any event, Charles was thoroughly confident in his ability to make more money to replace that which he had spent to acquire Abigail. And, if the day did come where her parents threw themselves on his mercy, and requested a roof for their heads, he could easily insist Abigail install them at Aston Manor. He’d already ordered the leaking roof to be replaced and measures taken to restore the house and grounds to respectable condition, though turning the land into a profitable farming operation would require more time.

Charles had been certain that Winchester would call his bluff on the marriage demand. Winchester was socially experienced and had an expert for a wife, so Charles could not understand why he had agreed. He’d been sure the man would come back to him and ask him to reconsider, or to offer him some alternative. Arranged marriages, after all, could reflect poorly on the bride as being desirable only for her money. In addition, hastily executed weddings were inevitably perceived to be a symptom of hidden drama, and, with no history between Charles and Abigail, most people would assume money was the cause for hurry. Despite these concerns, Winchester had agreed in principle and had appeared to negotiate faithfully.

Charles could have forced the sale of or seized the valuable London house to satisfy the debts and foreclosed on the Aston mortgages. The other far-flung properties, in Wales and Ireland, were uninhabitable from neglect and old age and deeply mortgaged already, courtesy of various banks.

To evict the countess and her four unmarried daughters from their London house, to publicly reduce them to poorhouse poverty—genteel or not—would have incensed polite society and signed the death certificate on Charles’ welcome among his peers.

Initially, Charles had agreed to accept any of the four well-established and lively beauties as his bride and retired to his room at Brooke’s. During the next few days he’d surreptitiously watched all four on their daily excursions, admiring each for their composure and grace.

However, as the days had passed, he’d formed his own opinion on the matter, and had begun to wish that he’d been more specific in his demand to Winchester. He had wished he’d asked for Abigail.

Charles had been astonished when Winchester produced the contracts, signed and sealed, with Abigail’s name and signature on them. As soon as he had them in hand, Charles had packed his few belongings and returned north. He hadn’t wished to give Winchester or his daughter any simple route for changing their minds.

Fiona, popularly said to be the family bluestocking and the eldest, had been the obvious choice. Twenty-four already, the girl was said to be uninterested in marriage. Charles had expected to have Fiona fobbed unwillingly into his bed, and would have welcomed her in fulfilment of his honourable word, even if she wasn’t part of his deepest fantasies. Either because Fiona was intelligent and known to be sharp-witted as well as sharp-tongued, or as a result of it, she was often left on the outskirts of an outing or by the wall in social settings. He’d have been happy for his children to inherit her intelligence, independence and evident strength of character. He could see no reason why they would not have developed a practical and friendly relationship over time, with her cooperation. He’d already pondered the notion of having to acquire a long-term mistress to attend his everyday needs, as he was quite sure Fiona would have little interest in sharing his bed any more frequently than was required.

He’d not expected anyone to breathe Gloria’s name. Gloria was the eighteen-year-old rage in London, the object of the devoted attentions of at least three earls and one widowed duke twenty years her senior, and, though the rumour mill claimed she had already chosen one, no public announcement had been made. Gloria would have looked down her nose at Charles and waltzed off without a backward glance. The threat of poverty was unlikely to have swayed Gloria in the least—if the rumours could be believed, her future was assured no matter what the state of her father’s finances.