The Wyndham Legacy (17 page)

“What are they?”

“Horatio Bernard Butts.”

“Good God,” Marcus said blankly. “Butts?”

“Yes, Butts was my mother's maiden name. Awful, isn't it?” Trevor Wyndham stuck out a strong black-gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally, cousin.”

Suddenly, Marcus began to laugh. He threw back his
head and laughed louder. His cousin was content to watch him. Finally, Marcus wiped his eyes, then took his cousin's proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “The image I've had of you ever since Mr. Wicks told me about the American Wyndhams—good God. I've referred to you as a mincing fop and damned coxcomb, and much worse. Forgive me, cousin. If you like, you can smash me in the stomach. Just not my ribs, they're still sore from a small contretemps I had in Paris.”

“A contretemps? I would say you're a dirty fighter, Marcus. Perhaps we can find some ruffians and see which of us is the dirtiest. No, I don't believe the Duchess would like that. Nor would she like me to strike you. I daresay since you've been married such a short while, she still believes you the most handsome, the most noble, the most exquisite of all God's creatures.”

Marcus grunted, looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Trevor raised a thick black eyebrow.

“I would also say that the Duchess is quite the most beautiful woman I've even seen.”

“Have you been to London? To Paris?”

“No, but I am a man and I'm not blind. You don't think your wife is immensely lovely?”

Marcus grunted again, saying nothing, his anger at her simmering and bubbling like a witch's caldron just beneath the surface. He'd just met his bloody cousin, who, it turned out was a man and not a fop, but he'd be damned if he would spill his guts to him. How dare he carry on about the Duchess as if she were even remotely available to him?

“Needless to say, my mother was rather perturbed when our Aunt Gweneth informed her upon our arrival that you had married—before the magical date of June sixteenth. She was prostrate with a headache for a good four hours. She quite contemplated the topic until I took over her headache from her.”

“I did not know you were here at Chase until three days ago. The Duchess had left me a message and I followed.”

“The Duchess said you were in Paris, seeing to the restoration of the Bourbon.”

“Yes, consider him restored. As for the rest of it, there will be a congress convened in Vienna this fall. It will probably be as entertaining as the shows at Astley's Amphitheater.”

His cousin cocked his head.

“Ah, Astley's is a theater of sorts where you will find men and women doing tricks on horseback, girls going into the audience selling oranges and themselves, men harassing bears to make them dance, that sort of thing. The children love it and the young men go there to ogle the scantily clad females.”

“In Baltimore we have a similar sort of entertainment. It's called
The Fat Man's Chins.”

Marcus laughed.

“It's odd,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “You look a lot like me. Except for the eyes.”

“Yes. You're as dark as a sinister midnight. Our uncle, the former earl, called me the devil's own son. Does that apply to you as well, cousin?”

“Perhaps. Recently, at least.” Trevor shrugged, then shook his head at him, dismissing unpleasant thoughts, Marcus thought. He continued, “Your lands are impressive. I borrowed Clancy, though I thought your stable lad, Lambkin, would explode with fear believing this nice fellow would dash me beneath his hooves.”

Trevor leaned over to pat Clancy's chestnut neck. Clancy, the perverted bugger, snorted and nodded his great head.

Marcus wished he could punch the damned horse in his nose. He said, eyeing the stallion with disfavor, “He isn't known for his sweet temperament. Let him near a mare and he turns into Attila the Hun ready for an orgy. However, you seem to have him well in hand.”

“I have a way with horses, actually I have a way with most animals. A gift, I suppose. Sometimes an embarrassment, particularly when a lady's little lapdog bites her mistress to free herself and comes leaping up on my leg, barking her head off. Incidentally, Lambkin seems to worship your every footstep.”

“Lamb's a good lad and excellent with the horses. My uncle didn't like him. Why, I don't know.”

“Probably because he's lame,” Trevor said. “I've seen it before.”

“I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you're right.”

“My brother, James, has my mother's fair coloring and very green eyes. My father's eyes were a much darker blue, like the Duchess's. Ah, forgive me. It makes sense since the earl was her father.”

“Yes,” Marcus said curtly. “You appear to know most of the machinations that have landed upon my head.”

“Yes. My mother is excellent at badgering people into telling her everything she wants to know. Your Mr. Wicks was no exception. He scarce presented her a challenge. She told me this morning that after everyone had gone to bed, she went to his bedchamber last night, and he was so flustered, he spilled every scape of information he had. Don't worry yourself, cousin—”

“Call me Marcus.”

“Marcus, don't worry. I will convince her that there is absolutely nothing here for her and remove her as quickly as possible. I've a mind to see London again and I think Ursula and James would enjoy themselves, perhaps even at this Astley's of yours.”

Marcus pulled on his earlobe, a habit that Badger had. “I don't mean to pry, Trevor—Good God, that name still curdles my tongue!—but there is no financial problem with your family, is there?”

“None whatsoever,” Trevor said, his voice becoming quite cool, odd considering that the drawl was still in full force. “My mother simply came without considering that it
would be highly probable that you and the Duchess would marry. I tried to make her wait, but she refused. I had no choice, really, but to accompany her here.”

“Why did she wish to come to Chase Park? Even if the Duchess and I hadn't married, the Park is entailed, and thus it wouldn't have been part of our uncle's legacy.”

“I don't know. But she insisted. Father spoke so longingly of Chase Park, perhaps he created this myth in her mind and she had to come. Perhaps she is just nosy. Who knows?”

Marcus laughed.

“There is also the Wyndham legacy.”

“The what?”

“My father spoke of the Wyndham legacy, his voice always low and whispery, as if he feared someone would overhear, as if it were some sort of dark secret and no one else could know about it. He said that someday he would come back and find it and we would be richer than the mandarins in China.”

“I have never heard of it. My father never mentioned such a thing nor did the former earl, at least not that I know of. This is very curious. Did your father give you any clues as to what kind of treasure?”

“I don't think he knew, even though he spoke of jewels and gold pieces, that sort of thing. But he told my mother of the clues he'd pieced together before our grandfather kicked him out. It was old, he'd say, buried long ago, buried back in the reign of Henry the Seventh, just before Prince Arthur died, when the future Henry the Eighth was just a lad, a golden little boy, he'd whisper, riches beyond belief and all belonging to the Wyndhams. And you'd lean toward him, half-afraid and utterly held by his voice and his words. Then he'd change it the next week and claim it was buried during Henry the Eighth's time or Queen Elizabeth's. Who knows?”

Marcus found that he had to shake himself. Trevor continued in his cool, drawling voice, “You know, of course,
that Aunt Gweneth and my father corresponded until his death, then it continued with my mother.”

“No, I had no idea. However, I haven't been back here the five years since Charlie and Mark died. I came back only after our uncle died and I became the earl. The Wyndham legacy, huh? A treasure from the early sixteenth century? It all sounds like a bloody fairy tale to me.”

“It does to me as well. But my mother believes it.”

“Shall we go back to the Park?”

Trevor nodded, giving Marcus a lazy smile. He said in that drawling voice, “If nothing else, I can sit and just look at the Duchess. It warms a man's cockles to see such character and loveliness in one female person.”

“You need spectacles,” Marcus said, turned Stanley, and dug his heels into his stallion's sides. The two men rode side by side in silence back to the Park.

M
AGGIE FASTENED
E
LIZABETH
Cochrane's pearls around the Duchess's throat, stood back, and studied her in the mirror.

“Lawks,” she said, complacently patting her own brilliantly red hair as she saw her own image with its vibrant mass of ringlets above the Duchess's head.

The Duchess smiled, wondering who the lawks was for. She said as she lightly fingered the pearls, “My mother used to tell me that pearls had to be worn often against the flesh otherwise they would lose their luster.”

“Lawks,” Maggie said again, fingering one of the pearls at the back of the Duchess's throat. “These oyster pellets must have cost his lordship a bloody fortune, I'd say.”

“You'd probably say right, Maggie.”

“Now, Duchess, I didn't ever think anyone could have hair as gorgeous as mine, but yours is passable-looking, it surely is, despite that sinful black color, maybe even because of it since your skin is whiter than that Yorkshire cheese I've seen, that looks wonderful but tastes like a rotted bladder. Yes, all that black hair provides distraction, and distraction is important for the stage.”

“Thank you, Maggie. You're probably right.”

“Yes, you're quite passable-looking too, beautiful even, if I stretch it just a little bit, and I know his lordship will think so too.”

“You believe his lordship will stretch it, Maggie?”

“Stretch what, Duchess?”

Marcus stood in the now open adjoining doorway between
the master's bedchamber and the countess's bedchamber. She grew very still, unable to look away from him. He was dressed in immaculate black evening wear, his linen stark white, his cravat crisp and beautifully tied, thanks, undoubtedly, to Spears and his magic fingers. His thick black hair was a bit long, curling over the top of his cravat. His blue eyes, however, were cold, colder than the freezing winter of last year that froze the Thames. She tried to smile at him, tried to recognize within herself that he was here and he was sleeping in the bedchamber through that single door, just a thin simple door, that was all, and now he was here, looking at her, and she managed to say calmly, “Maggie thinks I can go beyond passable-looking if you stretch it.”

“Aye, but you, my lord, as her husband, would stretch it to beautiful.”

“Would I? I wonder. You've tricked her out well, Maggie. You may leave us now.”

“Just a moment, my lord,” Maggie said with oblivious disregard of the fact that the earl himself had dismissed her. “Let me put this lovely shawl over her shoulders. It's fair cool at night and I won't want her to catch a chill. There, Duchess. You look bloody fine now. I approve.”

“Thank you, Maggie. Please don't wait up for me.”

Maggie just nodded, then, to Marcus's utter astonishment, she winked at him, then walked out of the bedchamber, all the while touching and patting that flaming red hair of hers.

“Where the devil did you find her?” he asked, staring in bemusement at the now closing door.

“Badger did, in Portsmouth. She found him, actually. She saved him from being run down by a mail coach. I needed a maid and she needed a position. It seems she was between acting jobs. That's what she is, you know, an actress. Actually, she is very competent and I find her amusing.”

“She winked at me!”

“Well, she's never been a maid before. She was probably
quite used to men looking at her and admiring her, perhaps even more. Perhaps she forgot herself for a moment and was seeing you as a possible leading man in a play.”

More like a possible protector, Marcus thought, but said aloud, shaking his head, “Jesus. The countess of Chase has an actress for a personal maid.” He added with a grin, “I will admit she does have panache.”

He'd actually referred to her as the countess. She felt something hopeful sprout in her, but then he turned away from her and began pacing the floor.

“You shouldn't allow her to call you Duchess. Surely it's an impertinence.” This observation he tossed over his shoulder. “Everyone calls you Duchess. You're not Duchess, you're a countess, you're a
my lady.
”

“I don't really care,” she said, watching him closely. “How is your wounded arm?”

“What? Oh, my arm. It's fine. Actually, it still gets a bit sore if I use it too much.”

“And your ribs?”

He looked at her now, stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread, and just looked down at her. He was so big. She knew he was trying to intimidate her, but how could he when she'd known him since he was fourteen years old? As she recalled, to a nine-year-old girl, he'd been overpowering even then. “What is this? Wifely concern?”

“I suppose so.”

“My ribs are well again.”

“That's good.”

“I met Trevor. He was riding Clancy. He looked like a bloody centaur.”

She smiled, actually smiled, more than one of her meager little liftings of the corners of her mouth, and he knew she knew he'd made a complete and utter ass of himself. He persevered. “Trevor is still a wretched dandy's name.”

“Perhaps, but he is a man with nothing at all effete about him. Don't you agree?”

“Yes, dammit. It's ridiculous to pin such a ridiculous name on a man who is my size.”

“Yes, but right now, I really don't care.” She paused a moment at the surprised look on his face, then said, “It's good to see you, Marcus. I was hoping you would come here.”

“I hadn't intended to, but, well—” He shrugged, and for a moment, she would have sworn he looked vastly uncomfortable, even embarrassed.

“Regardless, I'm glad you're here. Your Aunt Wilhelmina is a difficult woman, a puzzle really. Your young cousin Ursula is very nice, I'm sure you realized that when you met her this morning in the garden. James is my age, perhaps a bit older, and I have no idea what he's like. The look on his face is decidedly morose. Something is wrong there. As you saw for yourself, Trevor is quite a lovely man. He's kind.”

“What do you mean he's ‘lovely'?”

“He's big and very strong and handsome.”

“I want you to watch what you say around him, be certain not to be overly friendly. He might try to take advantage of you. You're very innocent and he is not.”

“I'm a wife now, surely I'm not all that innocent.”

His eyes dilated. “Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, you are. No, don't argue with me in that reserved well-bred way of yours. Tell me why you're glad I'm here.”

She became perfectly still and he hated it. He shouldn't have reminded her that she was reserved. She'd become a bit more open with him, spoken freely, without restraint, but now her hands were folded quietly in her lap. Slowly, very slowly, she raised her chin and looked at him squarely. It seemed to him a mighty effort. Then she said baldly, “You're my husband. I missed you.”

“Your husband,” he said, sarcasm evident in his repetition. For a moment he'd forgotten her perfidy, but now she'd fanned those perfidious embers back into a roaring orange flame. “Don't you find it odd that we're married, Duchess? I've known you since you were nine years old,
skinny with knobby knees, and so very solemn you could have been a pillar in the Norman abbey in Darlington. Yes, so quiet you were, so aloof, so very reserved and watchful. I saw the future beauty in that somber, too quiet child. And I called you the Duchess and everyone then saw the same things I did, and thus it became your name, even to your red-haired maid who's an actress and looked at me as if she'd like to bed me and have me buy her a bauble in return.”

“Yes,” she said. “And when I was only nine years old, you were fourteen and proud and strong and the devil's own son. My father was right about that. You led Charlie and Mark into some disgraceful mischief. My father always knew it was you who led them, always. Do you remember when you, Charlie, and Mark made a stout pine casket and filled it with stones and laid it on the floor in front of the altar in the church? When people filed in for the Sunday service, there it was, that coffin, just lying there with a rough bouquet of flowers on top of it, and everyone was afraid to open it.” She smiled a very small smile down at her folded hands, then added, “I looked up to you ever so much, but still you frightened me.”

“Frightened you, Duchess? I'm sorry, but I can't imagine you ever being frightened of anything. If anyone threatened you, you'd just freeze him with one of those still, blank looks of yours. One of those inhuman looks that make a person silent as the grave. Why would you be frightened of me?”

She looked away from him then, and he realized she was embarrassed.

“Why?”

She said in a voice that didn't sound at all like her, a low voice, muffled, reticent, “You belonged here. You were strong and confident and you belonged. Even now you belong although you're fighting it with all your absurd misplaced pride. I never did belong.”

He didn't want to deal with that, not now, there was
too much else to think about. He said shortly, “Well, now you're the damned countess of Chase. Surely you believe that you belong now. More than I do, truth be told, for your father gave you everything that wasn't nailed down with the entailment. Doesn't everyone treat you with respect and deference?”

“Yes, everyone has been most kind. When Mr. Wicks and I arrived three days ago, I will tell you that I was nervous. After all, I am the former earl's bastard, no matter how you cut the cake, a former bastard who is now the mistress. But everyone has been generous. I am grateful for that.”

“But not dear Aunt Wilhelmina.”

“Her behavior is frankly strange and leaves one's mouth gaping open. I daresay you will gain her measure very quickly. It is time to go to the Green Cube Room, Marcus. It is time for you to meet her and James.”

“Very well. No, no, don't move. Good God, you're showing too much cleavage, Duchess. Here, hold still.”

He strode to her and she rose to meet him. He rearranged her shawl, tying it first in a knot and setting it directly between her breasts, then pulling the knot to the side so that the long part of the shawl draped low over the front part of her gown. It looked frankly ridiculous, but she said nothing, didn't move, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Still displeased, he tried to pull the gown up, but it wouldn't move, for it was banded snugly beneath her breasts. For a moment, she felt the warmth of his fingers against her flesh. If he noticed where his fingers were, he gave no indication of it, saying with a frown, “I still don't like it. You will have it altered. I trust your other gowns are not so very revealing. Doubtless that mangy dog Trevor will ogle you. You will give him one of those cursed cold looks with your chin up to the ceiling, like he's so lowly he's beneath your slipper.”

“Do you believe he would prefer being a mangy dog to a bloody fop?”

But now Marcus was looking at her breasts. Then he looked at his fingers that had touched her. He didn't say anything. She saw his eyes darken, saw his pupils enlarge. His cheeks flushed. Slowly, he lowered his fingers and lightly skimmed them over her bare shoulder. He looked utterly absorbed. Those calloused fingertips moved slowly, so very slowly, to touch the top of her breasts. She felt a shiver of warmth, felt a shaking response from deep within her and leaned toward him, pressing her flesh against those tantalizing fingers. He whipped his hand away. She was motionless for a moment, knowing she had to regain her sense, knowing that she hadn't behaved as she should have. She'd simply done what her body had wanted her to do and he'd found her unacceptable. She finally managed to say, “It is time.”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, still looking at her breasts. “I suppose it is time, Duchess.”

 

It was very late. She yawned, then realized that she couldn't manage the buttons at the back of her gown. She stood there before her mirror for a moment, wondering what to do. She wondered until the adjoining door opened and Marcus walked through, wearing an old burgundy velvet dressing gown. His feet were big and bare.

She froze. “What are you doing here?”

He walked up to her, stopped just inches away, and smiled down at her. “I'm your husband. I'm also the master here. I can be anywhere I please.”

“I see,” she said, her eyes on the lapels of his dressing gown. She saw the bare threads threatening to pull apart, particularly at his elbows.

“I doubt it.”

“What do you think of Aunt Wilhelmina?”

He frowned a bit. “She is unexpected. She was all charm and sweetness to me, but I don't trust her. As for Trevor, I was right. He stared at your breasts and don't try to deny it. And James, he was staring too, but he is more
concerned with his own troubles than with your attributes. It went off all right. Everyone behaved himself. It's fortunate that there are so many tidbits of interest right now, what with the political situation and all the entertainment our foreign visitors are providing us. Have you heard that ditty about the Grand Duchess Catherine? With the rude, crude, and lewd? She and her brother, Czar Alexander, and their antics, will provide dining conversation for another three months.”