Lady Saves the Duke Read online

  As he reached to wave one of his waiting servants over to fetch his horse, an unexpected, loud, and frightfully familiar voice carried along the street.

  “Give way! Move, please, I cannot stop! Please move!” a woman’s voice cried out in panic. The crowd that had gathered around the cathedral to witness the comings and goings of all the nobles at an aristocratic wedding magically began to shift and part.

  He did not want to look but knew he must. Just as he turned to see if the unseemly vision approaching was his bride, a flying, swirling mass of blue skirts, flowers, brown hair, and hard, solid metal and wood careened into him.

  He barely had a moment to wrap his arms around Abigail before they both went tumbling to the ground. Relief that he’d protected her from the fall barely registered before all of his breath sucked out of him at the same time his head slammed into the paving.

  His poor head.

  His poor aching head.

  “Monfort!”

  Was he underwater? Asleep? Dreaming?

  “Are you alive? Talk to me, Monfort! Alex? Alex! Oh, God help me, I’ve killed you! Monfort?”

  She was talking. He knew she was talking, He wasn’t certain what she was saying and for the life of him couldn’t answer.

  And then soft lips pressed against his. Honeyed kisses feathered about his mouth and eyes as he was gradually able to capture some air into his lungs once again. He should stop her, he knew, but honestly, her lips on his skin truly made the nicest feeling he’d had all day.

  She smelled of lavender and mint and woman. And her lips were supple and tender. He opened his eyes and willed her to look at him.

  “Abigail.” He managed to speak. “Abigail, don’t we have somewhere to be?”

  When she heard him, she pulled back, allowing a sob to escape. “Oh, Monfort, I did not want you to believe I was jilting you. And then when I saw you, I couldn’t make the Accelerator stop. I know it was foolish to ride, but there was no other way! There were no coaches or horses or hackneys! And now my dress is ruined and my hair is a mess. But I didn’t want you to think I was jilting you.”

  Alex forced his aching body to sit forward, setting her slightly to the side of him. “I knew you weren’t jilting me.” His mouth twisted ironically. So much for his heroic gesture. “I was coming to get you. I was going to save you!”

  Danbury and Penelope appeared at the top of the church steps. “What are you two waiting for? An entire congregation is waiting,” Danbury reminded them.

  “My Accelerator!” Penelope stared in horror at the sight of her new contraption twisted and broken, one wheel still rolling several feet down the road.

  The footman intending to fetch Monfort’s mount was already gathering the remaining pieces together. Danbury groused at Penelope. “Really, Miss Crone? Is that your greatest concern at this moment?”

  Requiring all of his strength and all of his resolve, Alex managed nonetheless to rise to his feet. His head pounded and his joints ached, but he had no choice but to enter the church. “Milton will take care of it.” He acknowledged Penelope’s concerns. He did appreciate Abigail’s cousin. “Take it to Cross Hall, Milton,” he ordered, “and have it put to rights.”

  He then winged his arm for Abigail. Her hair was in thorough disarray, and her dress was torn and splattered with mud. But she was here. And she was smiling tremulously. “I believe we have an appointment with the bishop.”

  Chapter 16

  “Abigail, your gown!” Penelope lamented. “And your hair.”

  Abigail glanced down at her torn and muddied skirt. As she did so, several locks of hair fell forward. The beautiful twist Harriette had created earlier had come completely undone. All that remained was the wreath of flowers and a tangled mass of her hair flowing freely.

  She suspected a few drops of mud might have splattered on her face as well.

  Danbury laughed heartily. “She’s a perfect match for you, Monfort.”

  A perfect match?

  How? What? Abigail forgot about her dress and hair and glanced toward her bridegroom.

  Who was, quite possibly, in worse condition than she.

  His left eye was blackened, streaks of purple reaching toward the bridge of his nose and temple, and his bottom lip was scabbed and swollen as well. Behind the colorful patchwork of bruises, his skin looked…yellowish? Was that green? Regardless, he wore a pallor, unusual for his normal impeccable self.

  And then she glanced at his beautiful embroidered ivory coat, now scuffed and torn, thanks to her.

  He winced as he reached up and ran a hand through his hair. When he rubbed along his arm, a streak of crimson smeared across the cuff.

  “Monfort, you are bleeding!” Worried now, she inspected him from all angles and noted a small but dark and glistening spot on the back of his head.

  But he was pulling away from her. “I’m fine, Abigail.” His eyes looked so very tired, but his voice sounded as determined as ever.

  “Danbury and I will enter first. When the music begins, follow Miss Crone down the aisle. Do not worry about your dress, Abigail. You are going to become a duchess this morning. Remember that. Nothing else matters.” He paused and looked into her eyes intently. “A duchess, Abigail. Do not forget that.”

  Then, leaving her alone with Penelope and limping slightly, he and the viscount reentered the church. Abigail blinked.

  A duchess.

  In a torn dress, muddied.

  Her wedding day…

  A burst of giggles erupted from Penelope. Abigail wanted to hush her cousin, chastise her for laughing at this predicament, had it not been for the absolute absurdity of her situation. Abigail held back her own gurgling laughter, fearful that if she lost control, she herself might go into hysterics.

  A most ludicrous situation indeed! Even she could not have imagined this.

  Scandal was not to be hers alone now. She and her duke would share it.

  The memory of his face, bruised, battered, and pale, did something odd to her heart. A duke, but really, just a man.

  Deep sounds of the organ escaping from the front of the church brought Penelope up short. Both sober now, they stared at one another and then crept toward the opening of the large, intimidating cathedral. Upon entering the vestibule, Penelope smoothed her own gown and then met Abigail’s gaze with a tight smile.

  And then, ignoring the expectant eyes watching them, she gave Abigail a long and tight hug. “You are the most amazing person I know, Abby. Always remember that. Monfort is the luckiest man alive!” And then, wiping her eyes, she turned, lifted her chin and began walking slowly down the long carpeted aisle as though nothing untoward had occurred.

  Abigail, feeling more than a little emotional, watched as her cousin took long, even steps toward the alter.

  Where Monfort and Danbury stood waiting.

  Her groom was almost even more handsome disheveled and bruised. It showed his humanness. She hoped those who saw him now might understand that he was not made of ice. He possessed feelings. He bruised. He bled. And he bore the scars of having lost two small children and a wife in a tragic accident.

  But he did not wear his emotions on his sleeve for all to gape at. He merely exercised a great deal of discipline over himself. Even now he stood tall and proud. Ever the duke.

  His expression might have looked grim, but his eyes gave her courage. You are becoming a duchess, he’d said, remember that. Nothing else matters.

  She brushed at her skirts, futilely, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and marched toward her future. She did not look to the left or the right, at the censuring stares she knew she’d see. She ignored the whispers, swallowed hard, and continued moving. Where was her father? Was not her father supposed to escort her on this long, torturous walk?

  Oh, yes, he’d forgotten her.

  She swallowed another lump, which again formed in her throat. She could not imagine how nice it would have been to have leaned upon her father at this time. She focused her gaze upon M
onfort. She could almost imagine herself floating. Her hands and feet tingled, but she was almost there. Breathe, Abigail, breathe. A loud gushing sound roared in her head, and darkness encroached upon her vision.

  Monfort stepped forward to meet her, placing her hand upon his sleeve. Although his expression did not soften, she knew an odd sense of comfort when he placed his other hand atop hers and squeezed slightly. Her heartbeat slowed to its normal pace, and air once again filled her lungs.

  Later, Abigail would not remember a word the bishop said, she was so focused on the warmth emanating from the man standing beside her. She barely managed to answer in the affirmative when both the duke and the bishop looked to her expectantly. The ceremony took no time at all, and yet it went on forever.

  And then the bishop declared the two husband and wife.

  Monfort turned and took both of her hands in his. Rigid and tall, he leaned forward. What was it about this man? Why had he chosen to save her? Abigail closed her eyes and tilted her head up slightly. He was going to kiss her. In front of a church full of society’s loftiest citizens.

  The warmth of his breath reached her in the instant before his lips landed softly upon the corner of her mouth. It lasted no more than three seconds, but the jolt of his touch travelled to the bottom of her toes.

  And into her heart.

  For the kiss was soft and tender and sweet. She opened her eyes and stared up at him in wonder as he drew back. He was not smiling, but his silver gaze conveyed an unfamiliar warmth.

  With shaking hands, she signed the papers set before her, noting Monfort’s bold scrawl just above her own smaller flourish.

  The loud music echoed in her ears even as she allowed herself to be led out of the church by her husband.

  Her husband.

  The ceremony had passed in a blur. Had it been a minute? Had it been an hour? Cheers rose to greet them as she and Monfort emerged from the cool of the ancient church. Those same onlookers who’d watched her come barreling down the street on Penelope’s Lady Accelerator now gazed at her in awe.

  In fact, the enthusiastic crowd barely opened up enough to allow her and Monfort to tunnel through to the landau awaiting them. Amidst a flurry of flower petals raining down, Abigail wondered vaguely if this lovely vehicle were the one meant to have carried her to the church earlier.

  It didn’t matter now. She’d arrived in time. She had not jilted him.

  Monfort, looking even more exhausted than he had earlier, hurried to help her climb up before flinging himself in and falling onto a seat. “Drive!” he ordered, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

  The carriage rocked slightly as it pulled away.

  She’d thought he would stand and toss some coin to the crowd, but he was not moving. Those who’d come hoping for a bit of fortune would be disappointed. As though reading her mind, Monfort reached a hand into his coat and pulled out a small purse. Setting the jingling pouch on the seat beside him, he looked to be asleep. “Will you do the honors?” His eyes remained closed as he murmured.

  Her newlywed husband was not well at all. Concerned, Abigail snatched the bag and poured the coins into one of her hands. In a hurry to fuss over Monfort, she hastily stood and threw the coins in one bountiful toss. The crowd cheered some more, a few racing to run along beside them.

  “Faster,” she said to the driver. She wished them away from curious eyes.

  What had he done to himself?

  Dropping back into the seat, she dared to reach up and tenderly brush her fingers along his brow. “You are in no condition to attend the breakfast.” Margaret had planned a large meal to be served, with only relatives invited, but that was still going to be close to fifty or so people. Both her maid and Monfort’s valet would be at Cross House to attend them, but somehow she did not think a change of clothes could revive her husband enough to appear publicly again.

  He opened his eyes and slanted them in her direction. “I am thinking a storm is hovering, and it might be best to depart for Rock Point posthaste. If we are quick enough, perhaps we can be gone before the guests arrive at Cross Hall.”

  Abigail’s brows shot up.

  Was he suggesting they forgo their wedding breakfast? Oh, that would be marvelous! “If you are expecting an argument from me, then you shall be sorely disappointed, Monfort.” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning.

  Monfort studied her intently before speaking again. His complexion was not only pale, but slightly…green. “Very well. Do not take time to change, but have your maid pack you an overnight bag and then meet me in the mews. I’ll instruct Villiars to follow us at a more leisurely pace with your maid and our luggage. I shall leave a message for Margaret, and if we don’t dawdle, we can forgo any arguments.”

  A breeze lifted her hair, and the cool air soothed the skin at her nape. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She only knew a great sense of relief.

  “I will take but only a moment.” And then she could not help adding, “This is brilliant.”

  Monfort chuckled dryly as the carriage rocked to a halt in front of Cross Hall.

  ****

  Alex was not looking forward to several hours riding inside of his traveling coach. Far better, though, than spending the next couple of hours making inane conversation, eating, drinking, and acting the part of host and bridegroom. It took all of his will to remain upright and conscious.

  He paused only a moment to watch Abigail dash up the stairs for her belongings before he turned toward Walkins to relay his orders. “Have the traveling coach readied immediately. Her Grace and I are leaving for Rock Point before the wedding guests arrive. Tell Lady Clive that, as a storm is approaching, I found it necessary to get an early start on our travels.”

  “Very well, Your Grace,” the elderly retainer said before bowing and then removing himself. Alex had every faith that his butler would see to any other necessary details. Alex then located Villiars, gathered a few items for himself, and headed outside to find Abigail already waiting. Several grooms and liveried footmen were buzzing about the carriage house and stables efficiently readying the coach. Not even a flicker of guilt pricked Alex’s conscience by adding this additional burden just as they were expecting more than fifty guests to arrive.

  And then all was ready. He lifted a basket of what he assumed to be light fare for their journey onto the floor of the plush carriage and then climbed in behind Abigail—his wife now. The reality of his wedding had not yet truly set in.

  The activity and need for haste had temporarily given him a brief spurt of energy, but once he sat down, his body immediately made known to him every slight it had received over the past twelve hours. He hoped Abigail did not expect him to make pleasant conversation as they traveled.

  With a jolt, they were off.

  “We’ve done it, Monfort!” Abigail was peeking out the window, holding the curtain back. “And barely in time. All of the guests are just now arriving.” She was smiling and her eyes shone bright. She’d obviously had a good night’s rest. And she’d ridden to the wedding on that blasted Accelerator no less! He could not help but remember the moment when he’d realized it was his bride storming through the crowds on the metal contraption. Someday, he hoped the oddities of their wedding would be forgotten by all. But it most likely would not. Ah well, it was over.

  Once the driver gained a bit of speed, Alex reached for a handy pillow, placed it on the bench beside him and turned sideways to try to get comfortable. Abigail sat on the bench across from him. She was facing backward, her brows furrowed.

  “What is it?” he asked, sounding gruffer than he’d intended. She shifted her gaze away from him. “Did you forget something? We cannot return. If it’s important, your maid will have it with her when the luggage coach arrives behind us.”

  Abigail hesitated just a moment. “Oh, no, it is just that…I don’t do well traveling with my back facing front. But it is of no matter. I shall be all right.”

  He would not do well in the rear-
facing seat either.

  “Come here, then,” he said, shifting to the side.

  “But you wish to lie down.”

  “Abigail,” he said sternly.

  After a rustling of skirts, she crossed the empty space and then primly sat beside him, hands demurely folded in her lap. Hands, he noted, that bore scratches and scrapes from her earlier fall. She sat ramrod straight leaving several inches between the two of them.

  At a momentary loss, Alex examined the pillow for a moment before tossing it onto the floor as useless.

  Unable to overcome his exhaustion, he gave into the gravity pulling at his weary bones and lay down again along the bench, this time using Abigail’s lap as a cushion. With one foot on the upholstery and the other bracing himself upon the floor, he waited for her to squirm and push him off of her.

  He waited in vain.

  Instead, cool and tender fingers begin combing through his hair, around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.

  His heart raced. For some unknown reason, he wasn’t one for this sort of… affection. He’d give in to it for only a moment. He’d move across to the other bench…and yet he sunk deeper into her at the same time.

  “Monfort?” she asked quietly. It seemed he’d never be allowed a moment’s peace.

  And yet he didn’t mind so much. He mumbled something in order to effect a response while her hands worked magic on his aching head.

  “Why did you fight Damien Farley?” she queried him in a timid voice. Her hands continuing to soothe and comfort and the sweet, clean smell of woman filled his senses.

  He’d feign sleep if his conscience would allow it. “Why do you think?” he mumbled the question and turned onto his side, burying his face into the cotton of her dress. He wondered if she believed, like the rest of the ton likely now did, that he would attack a man for dancing with his ex-mistress at his own betrothal ball.