Lady Saves the Duke Read online

  “I tell them how sorry I am. I tell them I would do anything if I could make things turn out differently. I tell them they were both the most clever children in all of England. I’m proud of what they accomplished in their short lives. I tell them I will see them someday, likely far off in the future. But that I am glad they have each other for now. I tell them that I love them.

  “And I tell them about you. I tell them about how you lost two little children as well. I like to think of them all in heaven, all four of them, playing and laughing together.”

  At this point, Alex brought one hand up to cover his own eyes. They were stinging and hot. Picturing Marigold and Elijah playing with other children in heaven was ridiculous, and yet…

  And yet it was comforting. He gulped and without thinking spoke aloud. “I’m so sorry.” Who was he speaking to? To Abigail? Or was he speaking to Marigold, Elijah, and Hyacinth. He’d tried so desperately hard to save them. He had to swallow hard before going back to his original train of thought.

  “I won’t ask you to have a groom follow you about, but will you tell your maid where you are going?” He didn’t like her traipsing about the estate alone, but did not wish to curtail something that brought her a small measure of peace.

  She sighed deeply as her hand played with the hair on his chest. “I will.”

  Abigail heard the remorse in her husband’s voice. And she knew…She knew he was speaking to Marigold and Elijah, and likely even Hyacinth. He’d not been a cold man because he didn’t care. Rather, he’d made himself appear cold because he’d cared so much. He’d been so wonderfully tender with her, but he still held something of himself back.

  And for a while she hadn’t cared. No, she’d hardly even noticed.

  In those first days she’d spent at Brooke’s Abbey, Abigail experienced a lethargy she’d not known before. She’d nearly taken to her bed—not sick, but unable to force herself to face the world. But she could not allow herself to do such a thing. It reminded her of her mother too much. So instead, she’d found solace in nature. Winter loomed, but the sun still shone brightly. On a few of the warmer days, she’d simply lain down in the meadow and fallen asleep.

  She was exhausted.

  It was as though all the optimism she’d held onto for the past nine years had drained away upon the discovery of Flor and Timothy’s deaths. And without her optimism, she did not know how to face the world. The days blurred into weeks. Or had it been a month? She went through the motions of life but could not remember what joy felt like. She would find herself at times, as she had in the past, wondering what her children were doing in that moment. And then she’d remember quickly. They were dead.

  So she began talking to them.

  Flor and Timothy.

  Marigold and Elijah.

  Monfort had shared his own loss with her that day. He’d cried, even.

  He’d come to her every night since their arrival. At night, under darkness, he found comfort in her and she in him. At first, Abigail thought she ought not to do so. That she ought to refrain from relations just as she’d thought she ought to wear only black. There should be no color in her life.

  It gave her some understanding of her husband. His grief. His fear of finding happiness again. And now he had spoken aloud, with her, to his children.

  “I have to go away before the weather turns.” He spoke softly, almost as though he thought she’d fallen asleep.

  Abigail didn’t want him to leave her, but neither did she want him to feel as though she was so needy she could not live without his presence. “We’re halfway through November. Do you have business in London?” She made her voice sound even. Not a tremble or wobble to be heard.

  “And a few other estates.” He rubbed her arm soothingly. “I don’t want to leave you like this…”

  Abigail stopped him. “I am fine, Alex. I promise you I am fine.” And then unable to stop herself she asked, “How long do you expect to be away?” She did not want for him to go. She almost even allowed herself to ask him to take her with him.

  “Just a few weeks. I’ll make haste.” And then he kissed her on the head again. He did that a lot. Something she never would have predicted in a million years.

  And so she added softly, “I’ll miss you.” God knew, she already did.

  Lying beside her, Alex realized what he must do. For her, for him, for both of them as a married couple.

  She was struggling. She’d always, in the past, been able to pull herself out of her doldrums but discovering the death of her children was something she’d not been prepared for. She had lost weight, but even worse she’d lost something else.

  She’d lost hope.

  And so he was going to take matters into his own hands. He would not allow her to shut down as he had. He’d allow her some time alone for grief, but they were going to face their future together. When she said she spoke to the children he’d gotten an idea…

  But first he needed to see if it were even possible. It would be. He would make certain that it was. Relieved to have a plan, he closed his eyes and slept.

  Chapter 22

  Ten days later, when Alex returned, he didn’t tell Abigail what he’d done. He’d arrived home late. She’d already retired for the evening. He’d been surprisingly pleased to find her sleeping in his bed.

  He was home. He’d made the journey, completed the arrangements, and overseen the execution of his plan. For now, he was glad to be home.

  This morning, he held her. She’d awoken and greeted him warmly. Passion was something they didn’t need to work on. It was the loving that needed work.

  They would work on that together.

  She curled against his side. The fire had burned out sometime during the night leaving the air in the room to cool. Alex pulled the coverlet over her shoulder and nuzzled her forehead. He knew she was awake as her hand was playing with the hairs on his chest. The sun was just beginning to rise. “I have something to show you,” he told her, finally. “I’d like to take you there this morning.”

  She didn’t speak right away. “Now?” she finally asked.

  “If you don’t mind.” Now that all was completed, he urgently desired to share it with her.

  She sat up in the bed and looked down at him. “Are we going riding?”

  For the first time in weeks, he saw something of anticipation on her face. He ought to have insisted she ride sooner. She’d enjoyed their lessons while in London. He’d enjoyed them more than he’d been willing to admit.

  “We will ride to our destination. Do you need breakfast before we go?” He realized he was holding her wrist. The cover had fallen away from her, and she was naked from the waist up. Seeing her unclothed never failed to arouse him. He ran his hand up her arm for the sake of simply touching her.

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh.

  “I don’t need any breakfast, but…” Her breathing hitched, and she licked her lips. She was a gift from heaven indeed.

  But they could be together later. He needed to get this over with first. Oh, hell, he hoped it had not all been a mistake. “Awaken your maid, my lady, and don one of those delightful new riding habits Margaret chose for you. Wear one of the warmer ones.” And with those words, he forced himself to climb out of bed and find his valet.

  ****

  Not half an hour later, atop Lady Page, Abigail followed Alex’s lead across the fog-covered fields surrounding the estate. The haze was just beginning to burn off as the sun rose, but the frost of winter hovered in the air.

  Abigail had wandered the grounds extensively but had not ventured nearly so far on her own. She was curious and pleased to realize that she actually felt something…some life…inside of her today. The listlessness she’d come to expect each morning had faded.

  And then she realized their destination. They climbed a hill, and at the top, an iron fence surrounded several gray and black stone monuments protruding from the ground. Only a few trees grew nearby, so the markers stood out starkly against
the moss and grass on the ground.

  This must be the family plot—Monfort burial ground.

  Monfort dismounted when they were still several hundred feet away and then assisted her from Lady Page. He must be taking her to see the plots of his children. Of Marigold and Elijah…and of Hyacinth.

  Without speaking, he clasped her hand, and they walked together toward the fenced-in cemetery. When they reached the gate, he released her to swing it open.

  And then she knew.

  Two fresh burial plots stood out against the grass, off to the left. So fresh that they had obviously been dug and filled in recently. The scent of overturned earth permeated the air.

  The two graves were identical in size, and they were very small.

  Abigail dropped his hand and approached them tentatively. The grass dampened her hem, wet with dew, but she didn’t care.

  Placed at the head of the plots was one marker, newly carved, decorated simply with two angels flying near a crescent moon. One angel was a girl and the other a boy. It read Here lie Flor and Timothy Cross. Beloved children of the Duchess of Monfort. Wanted and loved, cherished forever.

  Abigail blinked back tears for as long as she could. And then she could hold them back no longer.

  So perfect.

  Her children were home.

  Alex stepped up behind her. And then gestured to the next plots over. “I thought they ought to all be together.”

  Another marker for two plots, also decorated with angels and the moon. Marigold and Elijah. Abigail raised her fist to her mouth. “Oh, Alex.” She could barely speak. Her voice clogged with tears.

  Alex’s arms wrapped around her tightly as he pulled her body close to his. “It didn’t feel right, leaving them in Cornwall. I thought they needed to be here, where you could visit them occasionally and assure your heart that you could never forget. They are children of your body. Although they never knew you, they were loved by you.”

  A sob shook her, and she turned to bury her face in his chest. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Alex. I never thought…No one has ever…” But she could not complete her words. Alex had dipped his head down and was pressing his mouth against her neck. He held her for minutes, hours, days? They stood together as the sun rose over the hill until a gentle peace settled over them both.

  “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Abigail.” Alex began tentatively.

  Abigail dropped her arms and took a half step back. Looking up at him she tilted her head in question. “Oh?”

  He reached forward and grasped both of her hands in his and then squeezed them reassuringly. “I realize you believe that when I proposed to you, I only did so because I had to, but that was not the case. Something inside of me—I know it’s makes no sense—but something inside of me wanted to make you a part of my life… needed to make you a part of my life.”

  Abigail wanted to smile at him, but he was quite serious. And so she nodded solemnly and allowed him to continue.

  “You intrigued me. I was attracted to you. The more I’ve come to know you, I find myself respecting and admiring you.” He dropped one of her hands and lifted his own to wipe it across his forehead. His hand was shaking.

  “Until I met you, I didn’t realize…I have been so damned judgmental…And of course, making love to you is…well…” He held her eyes then, and there was just a hint of devilment there. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I didn’t plan any of this, but I’ve come to realize that I…I—well, I need you, Abigail. But even more than that.” He swallowed hard and stared at her with a gaze filled with warmth.

  “I love you.”

  At which point, Abigail’s heart took flight.

  Because she’d hoped for this, suspected it even, but not been sure he would ever admit it to himself, let alone her. She herself figured she’d fallen in love with him the moment he’d tossed her that blasted shawl that she’d dropped while she’d been lying on the bottom of the boat.

  “When?” she asked. If he said that day on the boat, she would strangle him.

  Alex lifted one elegant shoulder and shrugged ruefully. “I don’t even know.” He touched the side of her cheek. “When I first met you, you planted a seed of love inside of me. Each time I saw you after that, it took root and has grown stronger every day.”

  “Oh, Alex,” she said, placing her hands over his and chuckling softly. “I think I’ve known all along.”

  At which words, he took her by the shoulders and leaned her back so that she had to look into his eyes. “You knew?” he repeated incredulously. “You knew?”

  Abigail allowed one side of her mouth to lift into a rueful smile. She stared lovingly into his dear face as a breeze stirred his hair. “Well, I suspected as much, but you have certainly made it difficult.”

  “But…how on earth?” He did not appear arrogant to her. He was strong and safe and real. He was loving and honorable and all those things she ever could have dreamed of. He was not made of ice. Oh, no, her duke was made of flesh and blood and feelings and emotions. He did not wear them on the sleeve for all to see, but he would show them to her. And now she’d made him smile.

  “Well, Alex, you were kissing me after I’d fainted, and even I know that you needn’t have married me just to uphold your honor. You could have asked me to be your mistress. You could have offered me money so that I would disappear. But you did neither of those things. But I didn’t know for certain until you made love to me. When we made love, you told me with your eyes. You told me with your hands. You told me with every part of your body. How could you love me so wonderfully if you didn’t actually love me?”

  “I could not,” he said solemnly, pulling her into his arms once again.

  She reached up and touched his face. “And is it so very hard? Is it so very hard to love me?”

  “It scares the hell out of me, Abigail,” he admitted, even as his hands caressed her back. “Even now, I’m terrified that I will make a mistake…that I will lose you…That I will do something stupid and…”

  “And?” she urged him.

  “That you will come to hate me.” He touched the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

  “I love you, Alex. I cannot promise that something will not ever happen to me, but you will never lose my love. You will never do anything that could make me hate you.”

  “You are stronger than I. It’s what drew me to you from the first time we met. How could anybody who’d lost so much continue searching for joy? I’m afraid of it, you know.”

  “Joy?” Such foolishness, her poor, dear duke.

  Alex slid his thumb along her lower lip. “I fear it is an explosion that will eventually burn itself out.”

  “That is why, my love”—Abigail leaned into his mouth—“we must constantly find ways to feed the fire.”

  “I have wondered if you would want to be left alone by me, but could not help but come to you each night. Do you need more time to grieve them? Would you wish I had left you alone?”

  “I’ve spent a good deal of my life mourning the loss of them. Just as you have mourned. Too long, perhaps, for both of us.” She looked away and blinked a few times as new tears threatened to overflow for the second time that day. “But we must celebrate life, in death, I think. There is a verse of the Bible that I’ve held onto over the past few years. It is part of what has allowed me to hope. Would you like to hear it?”

  She knew he was not particularly religious; she herself had questioned some teachings of the church. But there were truths in the Bible that had given her great comfort.

  “I would,” he said softly.

  “It says that there is a time for everything; to everything there is a season. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away, and a time to love and a time to hate. There is more of it than I remember, but I love those verses. They always gave me hope s
omehow…that my life was not made up of one long season to weep, or just to mourn. There would be a season to love and to dance as well.”

  Alex leaned forward and kissed her lips softly. “It is your time to be loved.”

  “And yours,” she said.

  And they did.

  Epilogue

  “We’re ready, Papa.” Four-year-old Nicholas Cross, the Marquess of Hunter, could barely make out his father’s face from behind the scarf, woolen cap, winter coat, and newly knitted mittens that nurse had insisted he wear. He carried two small skates in his arms and was bouncing up and down in excitement. This was to be the first time skating this year, and he’d waited all year for the ice to be frozen solid enough for them to venture onto the lake.

  “Where is your mama, Nicky? And Fiona? You didn’t leave them alone in the nursery, did you? Your mama might need help.”

  “No, we’re here, Alex. And quite prepared to endure the cold.”

  Nicolas looked over to where his mama had appeared holding baby Fiona. Mama was almost always smiling, except when Nicolas pranked Nurse Spencer. No, Mama had not been smiling when she’d been told that he’d released all of his frogs into Nurse’s room.

  Neither had Nurse.

  But today she was smiling and looking at Papa.

  Papa took baby Fiona from Mama’s arms and picked up his and Mama’s skates as well. Papa could do things like that. He was even carrying Fiona’s skates!

  “Nurse will be grateful for the afternoon off,” Mama was telling Papa before she looked sternly down at Nicholas.

  Nicolas grimaced and then grinned. “Can we go outside now, pleeeeze?”

  Mama grinned back. “Very well, then.” And as good as her word, she led them all outside and marched down the path that would take them to the lake. The sun was shining, but the air was freezing cold! Colder even then it had been on New Year’s Day. Nicholas pushed down his scarf and blew air out his mouth. Yep, smoke, just like when Grandfather lit his pipe.

  “Look, Papa! I’m making smoke.”