Lady Saves the Duke Read online

  She’d never expected to be given such insight into his previous marriage. Lady Hyacinth was nearly as guilty as Damien Farley when it came to violating another person’s body. “She made you do it even though she didn’t want to. And when she didn’t want to, it made you not want to. So you did it even though you didn’t want to.”

  Alex chuckled. “You’re insane.” But he didn’t say anything after that. Abigail did, however, feel a brief kiss on top of her head.

  Imagining what she must have looked like riding Penelope’s contraption to the church in her wedding finery, Abigail chuckled. “Well, that’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  And then his hands were sliding down her sides and his mouth was forging a path all its own. “Alex!” she said in some surprise. What on earth was he doing? Except—oh my!

  Neither of them did much talking for a while after that…

  ****

  By the following morning, the rain had abated, and the driver declared it safe to travel. The going would be muddy, but Alex agreed that if they took it slowly, there was no immediate danger in resuming their journey.

  His more pressing need was to reestablish separation between himself and his new duchess. For if he were to allow himself to spend another day making lo—no, having relations with her, he would find himself spouting poetry, for God’s sake.

  Yes, he definitely needed boundaries to fall back into place between the two of them. For God’s sake, between bouts of sex, he’d talked of his childhood with her. He’d talked about Hyacinth. Good Lord, what was the matter with him?

  He’d also delved into her own past.

  She’d been an only child. Perhaps if she’d had a brother, her life might have turned out differently.

  But after she’d left London that first time, she had not wallowed in self-pity. She’d made friends, developed a skill, and embraced any goodness she could find in life.

  Whereas after the tragedies of his life, he had…what? He had barely gone through the motions of living since Marigold’s and Elijah’s deaths, focusing only upon his horses and his estates. He’d ignored how his abandonment of hope affected his aunt and sister. Was he such a cynical self-indulgent bastard as all that?

  Alex dismissed these thoughts as he climbed into the carriage behind Abigail. On this day, he chose to sit across from her with his back facing front. He would not spend the day cuddling and fondling her like some lovesick fool.

  Her questioning gaze irritated him. He’d yet to speak to her today except when he’d informed her they would be leaving after breakfast. He’d not touched her. He’d not looked her in the eyes. And she had not pushed him for further affection nor an explanation.

  Yet.

  As they pulled away from the inn, she sat with her lips slightly parted and fixed her gaze outside the window.

  Alex resisted the urge to cross to sit beside her and take up where they’d left off just before dawn. The air was damp and cool. She pulled her shawl around her delicate shoulders and leaned against the side of the vehicle.

  Her lips looked soft and swollen. Her neck was red, rubbed nearly raw by his beard, no doubt. Alex reached up and touched the two days’ growth on his face. No razor, no starched cravat, and no valet, damn it. No wonder he was so overly engulfed in feelings of affection and sexual desire. He’d become most uncivilized.

  He glanced outside to see what was so fascinating as to hold her attention. Children. Running wildly about in a field by a nearby farmhouse. Abigail reached up a hand and touched the window pane.

  “Do you wonder about your child ever?” he asked despite his resolve.

  Abigail turned and looked at him in surprise. She didn’t answer right away. It had been an impertinent question to ask. He would have been angry if she’d asked him the same of his own children.

  “I used to think it would have been easier had they simply died.” She spoke after a full minute of silence. “Because of the not knowing. Not knowing if they were well—or cared for—or loved. Are they sick? Are they lonely?” She paused and returned her attention to outside the window. “Had they simply died at birth, I would not listen for them now. Every single day. But neither, then, would I have any hope. Hope that they are happy, hope that they bring joy to somebody else’s life. Hope that they will love and be loved. Had they not lived, there would be no hope.” She looked back at him and shrugged.

  Wait a moment.

  “They?” More than one?

  Abigail dropped her lashes to study her gloved hands. “Twins—a boy and a girl.”

  You do not wish to have any little boys to chase after? No little girls’ hair to braid? His arrogant words taunted him again.

  “They will be all of nine years old on Boxing Day.” Of course, she thought of them. “I gave birth to them the day after Christmas.” They were but a few months older than Marigold would have been. But two of them?

  “They were born safely?” Why should he care? They were another man’s children. Farley’s bastards, no less.

  But they were not Farley’s.

  They were Abigail’s.

  Abigail nodded, pinching her lips together into a straight line. Her knuckles had turned white as she gripped her reticule tightly. “I experienced pains all throughout Christmas Eve and Christmas. They were early, but the midwife assured me it was normal for twins. She had guessed that there were two babies. She could feel them from the outside, she’d said.” Abigail stared outside again, seemingly lost in her memories. “They were tiny, the girl first and then the boy. Two perfect miniature humans came out of my body.”

  She’d stunned Alex with her words. She ought not to speak so openly with him, and yet he found himself craving such details. Hyacinth had banned him from the birthing room. She’d insisted he stay away.

  “But they were healthy.” More a statement than a question.

  “I was assured that they were.” She swallowed hard. “The baby girl was set beside me as I gave birth to my son—the boy. But after he was born, both were taken out of the room.” She blinked rapidly several times and then flashed him a watery smile. “They didn’t allow me to hold them. They said it would be easier that way. It would make it easier to forget them.”

  Alex could not return her optimistic expression. Instead, he turned his head to watch the passing scenery. Despite being modern and well sprung, the carriage jostled as it hit puddles of mud and newly formed ruts in the road. It was not slipping, however. And the road was rather flat and straight.

  “My property is but a few miles from Cornwall,” he said, staring out the window. “If you would like, perhaps”—he turned to watch her expression—“I can make some inquiries as to the well-being of your children.” He could do nothing for Elijah and Marigold, but Abigail’s children were alive. They were alive. He was uncertain as to how she might feel about his offer.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. “What if they are unhappy?” she surprised him by asking. “What if they are not loved and cared for and healthy?”

  “What if they are? Would it not calm your fears to discover that they are loved, and cared for and healthy?” he asked back. “You do not need to answer now.”

  “But what if they are not? How could I live with myself if I were to discover them living in want…in need?”

  Alex looked at her as though taking a vow. “Then I will set things right,” he answered firmly.

  Abigail searched his eyes and then nodded. “Yes, then. Yes, please.”

  To say that Abigail was shocked by Monfort’s offer would be the height of understatement. Since those empty days so long ago when she’d returned from Cornwall, her mother had been adamant that she never speak of the experience. The only person she’d ever shared any of it with until now had been Penelope.

  And now Monfort was offering to find her babies and look into their well-being?

  Already, today, an awkwardness overcame her. After the shared confidences of yesterday, the heady lovemakin
g, early this morning even, Abigail had been disappointed to awaken alone. Monfort had dressed, apparently, and sent breakfast up for her to eat.

  Alone.

  Every inch of her body remembered his touch from the day before, but when he’d arrived back at their room, Monfort’s face revealed only passive consideration. And when they’d climbed into the carriage, he’d chosen not to sit beside her. As though he no longer desired her touch.

  She did not think she’d done anything wrong. No, she considered to herself, it was perhaps Monfort who was regretting his actions of yesterday.

  He’d been Alex yesterday.

  The man.

  Today he was to be the duke again.

  The duke, that is, who was offering to look in on the bastard children she’d given up for adoption nearly nine years ago.

  Was he regretting their time together yesterday? Did he think it made him appear weak to her? Was it because she was so very common? Did he regret that he had such a strumpet for a wife? Yes, he’d told her then that he liked her that way, while she was in his bed—good God—while he’d been in her body! But today, as the Duke of Monfort, did he regret that he’d taken her to be his duchess?

  And yet he’d offered to find her children for her.

  Which wrought an entirely different set of emotions sweeping through her. And more questions. Suddenly, quite uncertain of herself, she pulled her feet up onto the bench and wrapped her arms around her knees. A chill had settled over the carriage today, and not simply because of the rain.

  Chapter 19

  Monfort’s estate, Rock Point, was aptly named. Located in Southern Cornwall, it perched upon high rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. When they turned onto the road that carved its way up to the ancient castle, the sun was setting and the clouds had moved away.

  Monfort had been exceedingly polite and proper as the miles passed. It was as though he intentionally needed to create distance between them again. Abigail had followed his lead and not pressed him for any affection. But her body had been awakened, and a part of her wondered if he would come to her this night. And if he did, who would he be? Would he come to her as Monfort or Alex?

  Not that it mattered, in truth. Both parts of him were honorable. Both parts of him were genuine.

  Yes, she would receive him tonight. She would even anticipate it.

  She watched out the window quietly, the estate truly a glorious sight to behold. The water in the distance stretched forever a crystalline blue and the hills a verdant green she’d not remembered from when she had traveled south before. As the carriage turned and climbed, Abigail began to feel as though she were in something of a dream. She had a new life. She was married. She would be expected to act like a duchess.

  Abigail glanced away from the ocean to peer out the other window as the carriage rocked to a halt. They had come to a stop below a towering structure that was to be her home for the next several weeks. It was more than a little intimidating. It was a castle, for heaven’s sake. One of the gigantic wooden arched doors swung open and several black- and white-clad servants stepped out in an orderly fashion. Abigail was relieved to see her maid and Monfort’s valet among them. The rest were quite unfamiliar.

  Margaret had warned her about this. She had told her she would be expected to greet and approve the servants upon arriving at any of Monfort’s estates. She was not fearful of this, but instead rather hopeful to make some friendly new acquaintances. They were servants, of course, but first and foremost they were people.

  She smiled for the first time that day as each of them was presented to her. Margaret had instructed her to be restrained. Aunt Cecily advised her to tilt her head back and look down upon them in spite of her own lack of height. But Abigail could not do this.

  No, she found herself clasping their hands and thanking them each for such a kind welcome. Most of the servants warmed to her quickly, except of course the butler and a few rather starchy footmen. The housekeeper and cook were smiling and bobbing by the time Abigail and Monfort entered the castle itself.

  She’d been left cold by Monfort’s demeanor all day, reminding her of the name he’d achieved with the ton, even though she hated it.

  And then her maid turned to lead her off to her suite, admonishing Abigail over the state of her hair and dress. The duke excused himself to abandon her for some other unknown part of the ancient castle, but Abigail stopped him with her voice.

  “Monfort,” Abigail called out. Noting the servants around them, she leveled her voice slightly. “Your Grace?”

  He turned back to look at her and raised one eyebrow. In spite of having traveled all day, he appeared perfectly elegant. How was it that he could look so fresh and pristine when her own gown must appear as though she’d slept in it, which she might as well have.

  “Thank you.”

  He’d given her something she’d never expected.

  “For…everything,” she added.

  He dropped his eyebrow and searched her eyes but said not one word.

  Nothing.

  Abigail curtsied quickly and left him standing there in his own thoughts. Yes, he had “saved” her. And yes, he had made her a duchess. She did appreciate all that he’d done. To thank him had only been polite. But his distance today hurt.

  More than she wished to admit.

  And a “you’re welcome” would not have been remiss. He was a damned duke, after all. Where were his manners?

  ****

  Alex retired to the study, which he’d always associated with his father. He’d only visited twice since taking over the dukedom himself. But it was tidy. He’d sent word ahead of their pending arrival, and he presumed the castle had been prepared just as he’d ordered.

  A fire burned in the hearth. As he entered the room, the heavy drapes were pulled closed by a nearby footman and another man lit several candles about the room. When Alex took his seat behind the large mahogany desk, the servants discreetly disappeared, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Alone, after being in Abigail’s presence for nearly two entire days, he did not feel the relief he’d expected.

  No, he felt…bereft—which bothered him. It bothered him that her mere existence was somehow changing his life, no, not only his life but his thoughts. He’d not bargained for this—for feelings. He’d entered into this marriage for rational purposes. He’d believed so, anyhow. He needed to marry and beget an heir. He wanted her physically and was in need of a sexual partner. And lastly, he’d harmed her reputation at Ravensdale’s house party.

  But something else had entered into it all.

  Abigail herself.

  Something of her character, her behavior and attitude, affected him emotionally. It was as though she passed judgment upon him with every optimistic thought she voiced. But she did not really. She consisted of something that he wasn’t really used to…goodness…openness…At first, he’d presumed that these traits made her weak and simple, but now he wondered.

  Perhaps they didn’t make her weak so much as they made her vulnerable. That was it. And being with her, being close to her, made him feel vulnerable as well.

  Vulnerability, in any form whatsoever, was something he must squash. Wanting her made him weak. Wanting her was a weakness.

  She had thanked him. For what, he wondered. For losing himself in her body? For taking that which he’d craved since they’d met? For treating her like a polite stranger today after the previous day’s intimacies?

  Alex ran his hand through his hair and sighed heavily. Even now his body came to life at the thought of being with her. Being in her body—no, he would not allow himself to ponder their encounters. Emotions were unsettling. He hated feeling unsettled. All day long, he’d forced himself to harden against Abigail’s allure. It was exhausting. At moments, he even questioned his reasoning for doing so.

  Perhaps she’d thanked him for offering to find her children. Yes, that was quite likely the reason.

  He located a sheet of foolscap and went to
open his inkwell before realizing he was going to require more information from her. What was the name of the midwife? Where had she stayed? He knew the date of the children’s birth, but quite likely that would not be enough.

  He set the pen down and placed the lid back onto the glass container of ink.

  He would speak with her over dinner. The servants would have prepared an elaborate affair for the two of them this evening. He would need to endure Abigail’s company for longer today, after all.

  He rose from the desk and went in search of his valet.

  ****

  Abigail’s maid insisted the evening’s meal would require her to dress formally. The servants had been frantically preparing for it for weeks, they’d told her. And now, having met Abigail, they most certainly would be anxious to please the new duchess.

  And so for this evening’s formal meal, she wore another of her new gowns. This one a delicate peach silk, simple yet sophisticated and flattering to her figure. Abigail nervously fingered the short string of pearls she’d donned for the evening. She’d not worn them often but had owned them most of her life. They’d been left to her by her grandmother.

  The only other jewelry she owned was her wedding ring and the sapphire pendant Monfort had gifted her. The sapphire was far too glamorous to wear for an evening at home.

  If only she and her maid could locate her slippers! They’d been dyed the exact shade of the dress and had inexplicably gone missing. As her maid returned to search for them in the dressing room, Abigail dropped to her hands and knees and crawled around peering under the furniture. Catching sight of them under a table, she ducked her head down farther and was just barely able to reach them. “They’re right here, Harriette! I’ve found them—” She turned her head to alert her maid, but in doing so instead found herself staring into her husband’s astonished gaze.

  Monfort had entered the room and was watching her with something of a dumbfounded expression. Well, of course, she had her bum in the air and her dress pulled up past her knees. Not duchess-like at all.