A Duke Never Yields (40 page)

“Oh, that boy. If Roland told him to build a ladder to the moon, he’d do it.”

“I daresay he’s only happy to have a real father at last,” said Abigail.

Lilibet’s face softened. “Yes, of course. Oh, Abigail . . .”

“I must be off. They’re frightfully busy in the kitchen.”

Abigail swept into the kitchen, where Morini stood smiling, humming to herself as she arranged a plate of antipasti. “Morini,” said Abigail, squinting, “is that a locket about your neck?”

Morini put her hand to the hollow of her throat and smiled. “Is nothing, Signora Duchessa. Is a trinket.”

“A trinket from whom?” Abigail leaned in to peer. The locket was small and golden, with some sort of vine motif etched on the case.

“From nobody, signora.”

“It’s from Giacomo, isn’t it? I knew it! You’ve mended fences at last, have you? That’s a lovely locket.”

“
Si
, signora. Is having much meaning. Is the same locket . . .” Morini stilled her active hands and glanced out the window with a wistful smile.

“The same locket . . . ?” Abigail prodded.

Morini drew a deep breath and turned back to Abigail. “Is the same locket Giacomo give me, many years ago. Is the locket I give him back, many years ago, when the sadness come, and he is so much angry. Now he give it back.”

Abigail raised one eyebrow. Undoubtedly there was rather more to the story than that. “I shall have it all out of you, you know,” she said, hoisting a tray.

Morini laughed and returned to her antipasti. “I am expecting you, signora.”

Abigail made her way back into the courtyard. The musicians were tuning up already, the moon was rising. For a moment, the strength left Abigail’s body. She leaned against the wall, holding her tray, looking out across the courtyard to where the terraces dropped away down the hillside. A gentle blue light filled the air, the arrival of dusk. Someone was lighting the torches, and the faint scent of smoke drifted to her nose.

The crowd parted, and there under the torches sat Alexandra and Finn. His arm was still wrapped around her, and the flames lit his ginger hair into gold. He said something in Alexandra’s ear, and she laughed and looked up at him with adoration.

Across the table from them, Lilibet had paused near her husband, stretching one shapely arm to snatch a drink from his glass of wine. Roland caught her wrist in mock outrage, and she bent down and kissed him on the lips, distracting him just enough to free her hand and dart away, laughing, with the wine. He rose to run after her, and Abigail lost them among the throng.

I am so happy for them
, Abigail told herself, deep in her aching throat.

So happy
.

She straightened from the wall and turned her head to wipe her eyes on her shoulder. There was no use in self-pity. She herself had proposed this purgatory; she must bear it without flinching.

She had endured eleven months without Wallingford, eleven months without his dry laugh and his warm body, his bluster and his humor, his rigid strength and his unexpected tenderness. While the others had laughed and loved, throughout the cold Tuscan winter and the blossoming spring, she had waited and prayed. She could endure one more month, four little weeks. He would come back to her then. Surely, in the heat of July, he would return.

She must keep her faith and trust. She must believe in him.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. A torch flickered behind her, and in the next instant, a pair of arms reached around hers and plucked the tray from her hands.

“This looks altogether too heavy for such a delicate little fairy as Your Grace, the Duchess of Wallingford.”

Abigail’s legs gave way. She closed her eyes.

“Good God! You’re back!” someone said, and the tray was lifted away, and the arms wrapped around her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

“He’s back!” It was Philip’s voice, raised with excitement, running past her legs. “He’s back, everybody! I helped him put his horse in the stable.”

“You’re back,” she whispered, eyes still closed. Her back rested against his chest, his solid, impervious Wallingford chest.

“I’m back.”

“There you are, old chap! Thought you were still tramping about Outer Mongolia,” said Finn, and a shudder went through them both as Wallingford’s back was delivered a hearty slap.

“So I was,” said Wallingford, in a rumble against her spine. “But I got fed up, decided enough was enough, and came home to make love to my wife.”

“Very sensible,” said Alexandra, and Abigail opened her eyes at last.

“Good God!” exclaimed Wallingford. “Look at you, Alexandra! How the devil do you get her upstairs at night, Burke?”

Roland’s voice: “Look here, my prodigal brother, I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but have you perhaps noticed your wife is turning rather blue?”

Instantly Wallingford’s arms loosened, and everybody began talking and laughing at once. Abigail found herself half dragged, half carried to one of the trestle tables, and settled on a bench in the crook of Wallingford’s arm. Lord Roland swept up the tray of food. “I’ll play serving maid tonight,” he said gallantly.

Wallingford was plied with food and drink, which he ate with one hand, keeping the other arm firmly around Abigail while he answered a volley of rapid-fire questions from young Philip, who had popped up on the opposite knee. Yes, he had drunk the fermented mare’s milk; no, it had not made him sick. Yes, he had helped with the Ukrainian harvest, and yes, he had ridden Lucifer most of the way, except when offered rides in friendly hay carts. No, he had not climbed the Himalaya Mountains, but he
had
seen a tiger.

“A real tiger?” Philip asked in awe.

“Yes, a real one,” said Wallingford, “though thankfully an elderly one, who was quite as happy to let me go about my business as I was to let him.”

“You should have written to let me know you were coming,” Abigail said quietly, near his ear, when Philip at last slipped off his knee. She still couldn’t look at his face.

“I couldn’t stop to write. I had to see you, to speak to you, not to write words on a page. Look at me, Abigail.”

“I can’t. I shall lose control altogether.”

“Now then,” he said gently, taking her chin in his fingers, “that’s not the Abigail I know.”

He turned her face toward him, and there he was: hair a little shorter, navy eyes glowing in the torchlight, stubble dusting his square jaw, thick eyebrows narrowed in concentration. He smelled of dust and horses, of smoke and perspiration. She wanted to lie against his bare skin and drink him in.

“Come upstairs,” she said.

“With all my heart.” He stood up and held out his hand. “For one thing, I believe I hear that blasted tuba starting up.”

She threaded him back through the crowd. The door stood ajar, allowing a draft from the kitchen, fragrant with baking cakes. Wallingford’s hand curled warm and invincible around hers.

The corridor was empty. They turned the corner into the great hall, where Wallingford pressed her up against the wall and kissed her without mercy.

“Oh,” she said, gasping for air, “oh, God, I’ve missed you so! Every minute you were gone. Every second.” She took his face in her hands and stroked it with her thumbs. “Is it you? Is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me, dash it. I hope you haven’t taken to kissing dark-haired strangers in hallways as a matter of habit.”

She laughed. “It
is
you.”

“It
is
me.” He kissed her again, his hands at her waist. “Your faithful husband, Abigail, in thought and deed. I swear it.”

“I never doubted you.”

“Liar.”

She laughed. She could not stop stroking him, could not stop running her thumbs along the high arc of his cheekbones, rubbing the short silk of his hair at the back of his neck. He was real. He was here. “Though I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

“Well, I was going to stay the full year, just to prove I could. And then I thought, why the devil? I’d done what I meant to do. Why spend another month away from you?”

“I’m glad you came back.” She slid her hands down his arms and grasped his fingers. “Come. I’ve something to show you.”

“The sooner the better,” he growled.

Abigail led him up the great staircase, past the women’s rooms, through the passage into the west wing.

“We’re going to
my
room?” he asked.

“Yes. Only it’s not your room any longer.”

“Isn’t it?”

She pushed open the door and led him in.

“Oh, God.”

Wallingford went still, his feet rooted to the floor. Abigail stood next to him, holding his hand, letting him take it all in: the soft furnishings, the clothes laid out on the drying rack, the two cradles sitting side by side.

The waves of noise radiating outward from one of them.

A woman rose up from the corner. “You are in the perfect time. Someone is hungry.”

Abigail gave Wallingford’s stricken hand a tug. When he didn’t budge, she went forward by herself. “Look, I’ve brought Papa,” she said.

“
Two
of them?” he gasped out. He put his hand on the wall.

“Don’t worry. Only one of them is yours.”

“
What?
”

“No, no. I mean Lilibet and Roland had a baby, too. A little girl. Poor Philip, he was so hoping for a brother.”

Wallingford took a step forward, and another, until he stood next to her, looking over the cradles: at the cherubic infant fast asleep in one, golden curls catching the light in a halo; and the squalling little black-haired baby occupying the other, hands fisted and legs kicking.

Wallingford looked back and forth, and a deep sigh heaved from his chest. “Let me guess which one is ours.”

Abigail lifted out the crying child, clucking and soothing. “He’s only hungry. And he’s four months younger, which makes a difference. There, now, my love.” She put him up against her shoulder and turned her head to inhale the sweet baby scent of his hair.

“He?” Wallingford whispered.

“I named him Arthur.”

“Why the devil did you do that?”

“Would you stop scowling at him, please? He’s your son. He’s very sensitive.”

Wallingford swallowed. “My son.”

“You can touch him.” She shifted the baby in her arms. He gave a little sobbing heave and looked up into his father’s face.

“Where do I touch him?”

“Anywhere you like. Put your finger in his hand.”

Wallingford held out a hesitant finger and placed it against Arthur’s tiny palm, which closed around him instantly.

“My God, what a grip!”

Arthur’s red face crumpled.

“Oh, there,” Abigail said. “Poor love. I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

“For what?”

“For his milk, darling. Babies drink milk; it’s a known fact. Do you mind waiting? I know you must be exhausted.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, despite the devastation in her center, the wreckage in her breast at the sight of tiny Arthur clutching his father’s finger at last. Of Wallingford standing there in awe and terror and—yes, she was certain—love, looking into his son’s eyes.

“Waiting?”

“While I nurse him.” Abigail settled into the rocking chair by the window and lowered her serving maid’s bodice, which was a fairly straightforward matter, since there was very little bodice to speak of.

In the corner, the woman smiled and rose. “I will bring some tea.”

“Thank you, Leonora,” Abigail said softly, as Arthur’s little mouth latched onto her breast.

Wallingford seemed not to notice her words. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching his wife and son in silence. Abigail’s heart lurched. She had forgotten how enormous he was, how he filled a room simply by standing in it. He had lost a little weight in his travels, she thought. He looked rangy, lean, his cheekbones standing out from his head. His travel-stained jacket hung from his sturdy shoulders. Abigail wanted to take it off, to enfold him in her arms, to enclose all his beloved, lean, travel-stained body with hers.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “I would have written after he was born, if I had had any way of reaching you.”

Wallingford shook his head without speaking.

“It’s not the most romantic homecoming, I know, but he’s a fast eater. Rather like his father, in fact.”

Wallingford turned his head into his arm against the wall, and his back shook with sobs in the quiet room.

Leonora returned with tea, pouring it into the cups as if she had been bred all her days in England. “He’s nearly done,” Abigail said, switching breasts. Wallingford had gone to the window, staring out into the moonlit darkness.

Arthur slowed and stopped, his head drooping sleepily against her skin, smelling sweetly of milk. Abigail rose and snatched a cloth from the drying rack. She laid it over Wallingford’s shoulder.

“Here,” she said, and handed him the baby before he could object.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“Pat him on the back,” said Abigail. “Harder, for goodness’ sake. He’s not a butterfly.”

Wallingford stood next to the purple-skied window, patting his son’s back with one large hand and holding him in place with the other. His fingers were clean and calloused and deeply tanned, a laborer’s fingers. He looked up and met Abigail’s gaze, engulfing her whole, making her knees buckle. His face was tanned, too, she thought, as if he held the sun beneath his skin.

He spoke hoarsely. “Are you certain he’s getting enough to eat? He’s very light.”

“For God’s sake,
look
at me. Do you think he’s missing any meals? He was twelve pounds nine ounces yesterday, which is quite enough for a two-month-old, I assure you.”

As if to punctuate her words, Arthur opened his mouth and let out a resonant belch.

Wallingford nearly dropped the bundle in his arms. “Good God! Was that
him
?” He looked anxiously at his shoulder.

“There we are.” Abigail lifted the baby from her husband’s chest, trying to keep her hands from shaking. She took the cloth and dabbed at Wallingford’s worn jacket. “Now we simply swaddle him up and put him back to bed.”