An Ideal Duchess (38 page)

             
He looked preoccupied and thoughtful, and she stepped further into the drawing room, intrigued by his expression. It turned wary, but the lack of coolness was encouraging, and she ventured a smile.

             
“And where are you off to today, Malvern?” She asked as she took in his tweed Norfolk suit.

             
“With Matthews to visit a few tenant farms,” He replied neutrally.

             
“Is that all?” She couldn’t help asking, her hands clasped behind her back as he approached.

             
“Where else would I go?” He lifted an arrogant brow.

             
She lifted her shoulders. “I only ask because you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time with your tenants.”

             
“I am the duke,” He said, moving towards her—no, moving towards the door, she realized with a sigh of frustration. “Now if you will excuse me…”

             
“I should like to accompany you,” She shifted to stand in front of him.

             
He paused, head tilted slightly as he frowned at her. Then he shook his head with an ironic curve to his lips. “I doubt you would enjoy riding about the estate, visiting my farmers, inspecting drains, and whatnot.”

             
“I would,” Amanda lifted her brow.

             
“You couldn’t possibly be interested, I’m sure,” His eyes held a hint of derisive amusement as his gaze shifted to the top of her head and then slowly down to the tips of her booted feet. “We travel to each farm by horse or on foot, not in my mother’s carriage, and you look much too frivolous and pretty to tramp about muddy fields after me.”

             
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin beneath his contempt.

             
“I’m going to change into my riding habit, and shall join you in ten minutes.” She swept up her skirts to give the illusion of confidence, but as she walked out of the drawing room and back to her bedroom, her heart beating rapidly with excitement.

             
She rang the servants’ bell to call Maggie back to her bedroom, and began to unbutton, to loosen, and to unfasten her walking suit as she walked to her wardrobe to fetch her riding habit. Malvern would wait for her, she hoped, her spirits lifted by his inexplicable shift in mood.

             
He had not precisely invited her to accompany him, but he had not rejected her either, and she was curious and grateful for whatever caused this moment. She would seize it, hold it tightly, and pray that it would spark a return of the Malvern—Bron—she had fallen in love with one starry evening in Newport.

*          *          *

              She rode a gentle brown mare beside her husband as she ably kept the pace with Malvern and Robert Matthews, his estate manager. Malvern had tossed her more than one glance of surprise as she maintained an effortless seat—no doubt reminded of her dreadful introduction to fox hunting.

             
She shuddered at the memory of her first blooding; he had given her permission to excuse herself from the following hunting seasons, but after the scandal of Rawson House, she wanted to make him proud of her and prove his trust in her was sound. The means to this end was the swallowing of her pride to ask Ursula for riding lessons. Her mother-in-law was pleased, but Amanda soon regretted this impulse, for Ursula was as relentless and exacting in her education as Beryl’s former Fraulein.

             
However, though three months later the smell of tack and leather nauseated her,  she could ride to hounds almost as though she had been born in the saddle. 

             
It was cold and windy that morning, and she was grateful for the leather gloves covering her hands as she held the reins tightly to keep the inquisitive mare from going off on her own course. Amanda met the next swift glance Malvern threw her way with a bright smile and leaned in closer to catch his conversation with Mr. Matthews as they traveled across the estate.

             
“We haven’t had much trouble with the Summerills,” Mr. Matthews was saying. “Though they fare be bursting from their cottage, what with the new baby and Mrs. Summerill’s eldest son hoping to marry Rose Baxter from the village.”

             
“We haven’t any spare cottages for Lewis Summerill, have we?” Malvern replied, sounding genuinely concerned. “When I looked at the farms and the listing of tenants, there didn’t seem to be any place for new people.”

             
“Your late father, His Grace, had approved plans to draw more allotments on the estate, but…” Mr. Matthews looked uncomfortable as he trailed off.

             
“We shall implement those plans,” Malvern said evenly. “We have the funds, do we not, Duchess?”

             
Her mare, Theodosia, stumbled to the side, and Amanda tightened her grip on the reins she had nearly loosened from her dismay at Malvern’s words. A painful breath caught in her throat; it was as though he had kicked her square in the solar plexus. But he appeared not to notice her reaction to his words, looking as he was, off into the rolling green distance.

             
Perhaps he had not meant to wound, she reasoned warily, tucking her chin into her chest as she stared at the silky mane cascading across her mare’s neck. It was a mere statement of the truth, and she should not be so sensitive as to look for slights in his every word. She lifted her chin and nudged the horse to catch up with her husband and the estate manager.

             
“I too see little wrong with delaying those plans now that Bledington can afford to do so,” She said cautiously.

             
“Quite so, Your Grace,” Mr. Matthews looked pleased.

             
Amanda smiled welcoming at the estate manager. “I’ve not visited the estate since the early days of my marriage. How large is Bledington Park?”

             
“A little over sixty-five hundred acres, I believe,” The estate manager said hurriedly. “Not including the deer park, which adds three hundred acres…is that correct, Your Grace?”

             
“Yes,” Malvern said tersely.

             
Amanda raised her brows, suitably impressed. She glanced about the frost-tipped rolling hills and valleys, and unbidden, the memory of Malvern’s confession about his brother’s suicide returned to her mind. What it must have been like to search these extensive grounds for his brother…she glanced at Malvern from the corner of her eye and blinked away the stinging of tears in her eyes.

             
He suddenly looked so stern and withdrawn, his eyes as pale and distant as the overcast sky above them, and it was only Mr. Matthews’ presence that checked her impulse to touch him in sympathy.

             
“And the tenants,” She said to fill the silence and change the subject. “How many farms are on the estate?”

             
“One hundred and seventy-five—and all filled, thank Providence.” Mr. Matthews wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Many large estates aren’t as fortunate.”

             
“I think I’ve read something about that in the newspaper…a ‘rural exodus’ they call it?”

             
“Yes,” Mr. Matthews nodded. “The young would rather work in the cities than pick up where their fathers left off. Yes, we are quite fortunate.”

             
“And fortunate in the rents, I should say,” Amanda said half to herself as her eye alighted on a middling-sized farm of the now-familiar Cotswold slate and stone. “Oh, may we stop there?”

             
“Was intending to, Your Grace,” Mr. Matthews lifted his hat at the woman who stepped outside the door. “The Wilcoxes.”

             
Maggie’s family
, Amanda realized with a start, and suddenly felt a flutter of nervousness in her belly. A tall, fair-haired young man ducked out of the cottage as they drew near, and took the reins Malvern and Mr. Matthews tossed to him after they dismounted. She held Theodosia tightly, for the mare decided to show off in front of strangers by sidestepping and tossing her head.

             
The young man approached to take the reins and Theodosia quieted down—the shameless flirt—as Malvern came around to help her dismount. The fluttering in her stomach intensified, though she attempted to banish it as she unhooked her leg from the side-saddle and placed her hands on his shoulders as his hands moved to her waist.

             
Her riding habit was thick and warm, but she could feel the heat from Malvern’s hands—even through his riding gloves!—as though he had placed them directly on her bare flesh. She flushed with mortification when she slid from the saddle and against him, meeting his cool gray eyes from beneath the brim of her bowler. She stepped away quickly, lowering her hands from his shoulders to straighten her safety skirt over her breeches.

             
“Thank you, Malvern,” She said quickly, and turned towards the farm, where Mr. Matthews was chatting amiably with the woman who met them at the door.

             
“Mrs. Wilcox, Your Grace,” The estate farmer gestured towards the woman.

             
“I am so pleased to finally meet you,” She smiled happily and extended a hand to Maggie’s mother. “Maggie mentions you quite often.”

             
“Oh!” Mrs. Wilcox appeared rather startled by Amanda’s informality, but shook her hand. “I do hope my girl doesn’t give you any trouble at the Big House.”

             
“Maggie is a treasure, Mrs. Wilcox,” She smiled. “I don’t know what I would do without her.”

             
Mrs. Wilcox hesitantly returned her smile and gestured shyly towards the door. “Would you like tea, Your Grace?”

             
“If it isn’t an inconvenience,”

             
“Oh no,” Mrs. Wilcox smiled, this time less shyly. “Tisn’t every day we get to take our tea with a duchess.”

             
“Then I would be more than glad to,” Amanda said reassuringly, and followed Maggie’s mother inside of the cottage.

              His wife was as gracious as though Wilcox Farm were Buckingham Palace and not a mid-sized tenant’s cottage. Bron stared at Amanda as she sat on the large, slightly worn chair Mrs. Wilcox gestured for her to take, which was obviously considered the best chair in the small sitting room. He was slightly surprised by her ease and grudgingly proud. When their eyes met briefly, he nodded his approval with a small smile before leaving her to her chat with Mrs. Wilcox in order to follow Matthews and Lucas Wilcox out of the cottage to inspect the building and the drains.

             
“And you’ve not experienced any more illness?” Matthews was saying.

             
“Aye,” Lucas Wilcox nodded. “This has been a good year for us at Wilcox Farm, my da’s injury notwithstanding.”

             
“How is Wilcox, by the way?” Bron entered the conversation. He squinted up at the tall blonde farmer.

             
“Fair to middling, Your Grace,” Lucas tugged his forelock. “He’s grateful for your concern.”

             
“The least I can do for a good tenant,” Bron lifted his shoulders. “My father had a deep respect for Wilcox.”

             
“Aye,” Lucas replied calmly.

             
“Shall we take a look at the farm?” said Matthews.

             
Lucas Wilcox ambled towards the farm, where the other Wilcox brother, Paul, was hitching a plough to a cart horse. Paul stopped what he was doing to tug his forelock.

             
“The planting good this season?” Matthews bent to touch the soil.

             
“Just turned over the corn to plant the grains for next year’s harvest.” Lucas grunted. “We haven’t had much luck with turnips, but it hasn’t hurt our crop.”

             
Bron followed the two men as they went over the Wilcox’s farm, interjecting when he could, but mostly listening and learning. The noonday sun crept up high above them, its rays piercing through the hazy, gray mist of the overcast sky, and the three of them paused inside the barn, where his, Matthews, and Amanda’s horses were hitched beside the Wilcox cows and goats.

             
The horses munched contentedly on oats, and he paused beside his horse, Thor, to give the great silver gelding a pat on his soft nose. Paul joined them as well, and Bron turned to accept the bottle of beer Matthews handed to him as the Wilcox brothers reclined on bales of hay to eat their luncheon. He declined their offer to share the simple repast of cheese and bread, and leaned in the doorway of the barn, drinking the foamy, crisp locally brewed beer.