An Ideal Duchess (39 page)

             
He rubbed the furrows of his brow and sighed, wishing he could release some of the tension wound tightly in his body. It was Amanda’s presence, he reluctantly admitted. He could hide his nauseous anger when out on the estate with Matthews, but having her here, so close to where he discovered Alex’s body, made him feel flayed alive. And then he grew angry with her. It was partially irrational, but despite the passing of two years, he regretted unburdening himself to her. She had not earned his trust, or his confidences, and the bloody stunt she pulled earlier: her blatant, public mockery of the exchange of her cash for his title, proved this to him. Bron pushed away from the doorframe and finished his bottle of beer.

             
The Wilcox brothers stood, wiping the crumbs from their trousers, as Bron walked back inside the barn.

             
“I’ll bring your horses around, Your Grace,” Paul, shorter than his brother, and stockier, walked towards the horses.

             
“Thank you,” Bron said and then gestured for Matthews to meet him around the front of the farm as well.

             
He walked back towards the cottage and knocked impatiently on the door before striding in. Amanda and Mrs. Wilcox were bent over a large black book, and when his wife raised her face to his, her blue eyes sparkling with happiness and her expression unguarded, he felt her openness like a swift kick in the gut. His hands twitched with the memory of the contours of her waist, and he frowned, slightly irritated by this thought.

             
“The horses are being brought around,” He said tersely.

             
Mrs. Wilcox quickly closed the book and rose from her chair to bob a deep curtsey. “Good day, Your Grace.”

             
Amanda’s expression closed, though the smile she gave Mrs. Wilcox was warm. “Thank you for the lovely tea, Mrs. Wilcox. And for those delicious tarts—do send the recipe to Mrs. Alcock.”

             
“Oh, what would I look like sending a recipe to a cook at the Big House?” Mrs. Wilcox blushed.

             
“Like someone who has a marvelous hand with tarts,” Amanda exclaimed. “I’m sure our cook would pounce on your recipe.”

             
Mrs. Wilcox looked embarrassed, but pleased.

             
Bron lowered his eyes from their rapport and turned at the sound of impatient horses.

             
“Come along, then,” He told his wife over his shoulder.

             
Paul and Lucas held the reins of all three horses. Paul started to hand him Thor’s reins, but he shook his head and walked to Theodosia. He waited for Amanda to emerge from the Wilcox cottage and linked his fingers for her to step in to mount her horse. She paused, her expression stymied, until he jerked his head towards his self-made mounting block.

             
He grunted when she stepped up and into his hands, but he ably threw her up into her saddle and waited until she had hooked her leg firmly into the pommel before nodding for Charlie to hand her the reins to her horse. He might be irritated and frequently unsettled by his wife, but he did not want her to break her fool neck. He mounted his horse, checked for Matthews, and gave his wife one last glance before nodding to the Wilcoxes, and then they were off.

             
They continued towards the next farm in relative silence broken only by fluttering birds moving from tree to post, and from post to tree along the rutted dirt road. He glanced again at Amanda, noticing that she had fallen a bit behind, and then pressed his horse to slow down until they were matched the pace she set. She looked pale and unreadable, but her tone when she spoke was neutral.

             
“That was truly a lovely farm. Are they all like that?”

             
“Some,” He lifted his shoulders. “Most of the farms are much smaller than the Wilcoxes. They’ve been on Bledington land for five or six generations.”

             
“So that’s why the photograph of Ursula was placed in as much prominence as the King,” Amanda’s mouth quirked.

             
“They are loyal,” He felt himself smile in amusement.

             
“They care deeply for the land—and the family,” She added, her voice rising as though asking a question.

             
“Undoubtedly. We treat them well.”

             
“And that is all they require from you?”

             
He looked at his wife, uncertain as to the point of her line of questioning. She looked back at him, an inquisitive arch to her eyebrows. He could not help but follow the curve of her rosy cheek and down the crisp, wasp-waisted lines made by her black riding habit before resting on her tall leather boots. She appeared comfortable on the saddle, he noticed with a hum of approval, her elegant figure gently rising and falling in a seat as neat as his mother’s.

             
She had not complained a bit either, and he felt himself warm to her beautiful behavior. She really had been quite decent and circumspect since weathering the small Rawson Manor scandal his various female relations had stamped down one by one across the breadth of England and Ireland.

             
To his surprise, a sharp sensation of melancholy swept through him at the clipping of her wings, and for a brief moment, he wanted her to fly with him.
What rot
, he thought with a derisive snort at the tenor of his thoughts. She was the Duchess of Malvern and the mother of his children—she was supposed to remain on earth, feet planted firmly on the ground, as a proper duchess should. As his mother had done—as was expected of her. He realized she was awaiting his response when she tilted her head slightly, her inquisitive expression shifting to uncertainty.

             
“Yes and no,” He replied, clearing his throat. “They expect me to care for their needs and to guide them.”

             
“Ah, rather like a king,”

             
“More like a benevolent father,” He amended with a frown. “My tenants defer to my judgment and wisdom because I possess greater knowledge and foresight.”

             
“Even in matters of their own farms?” She looked skeptical.

             
“I may not till the soil or plant the seeds, but I am familiar with the workings of the estate,” Bron narrowed his eyes at her. “Overall, my position, as Duke of Malvern, is to provide stability and security—”

             
Her gust of laughter interrupted him, and he tightened his lips in displeasure.

             
“I’m sorry, Malvern,” She got out between her giggles. “You sound so absurdly pompous.”

             
“I regret that my adherence to my duty is so amusing to you,” He said coldly. “It is a pity you cannot recognize the importance of your position as my duchess.”

             
“You weren’t this stuffy when we first married,” She had stopped laughing, her eyes bright with an emotion that made him too uncomfortable to probe. “You act as though we all are pawns on a chess board called Bledington Park.”

             
“You aren’t a bloody pawn,” He said irritably. “You are my duchess, my queen.”

             
“Well then,” She said coolly. “You oughtn’t forget that the queen can do whatever she so desires.”

             
Before he could reply, she kicked her horse into a trot, and then into a canter, flying down the dirt lane past Matthews.

             
“Stay here, Matthews,” He said grimly at the estate manager, kicking his own horse into a trot and then into a canter.

             
He caught up with her in a trice, for the perfect seat he had observed earlier had grown sloppy in her haste to ride away, disorienting the easily distracted Theodosia, who zigzagged lazily beneath Amanda’s hands. He pulled back a little to keep Theo from getting spooked by his horse, and then shouted with surprise when his wife grasped the reins, her perfect form returning, and zipped down the lane in a thumping, dirt-churning gallop. 

             
She disappeared over and down one of the rolling hills leading towards the deer park spread across the east of Bledington’s boundaries, and he followed, leaning into his horse as the wind coursed over his face. It wasn’t a bruising ride of hunting the fox, but the pursuit was just as sharp and satisfying.

             
He was almost amused by her subterfuge—almost being the key word, for it scraped against his pride that she had taken him in so easily, and he wanted to get her back. When he crested the hill, she was nowhere to be found, and he slowed Thor, whose sides heaved with his great, snorting breaths. Bron breathed heavily, his blood thrumming hotly beneath his sweaty skin, and he darted a glance about the area in search of his wife. 

             
Her horse ambled towards him, her reins dragging across the lane, and he quickly dismounted, his heart in his throat, fearing she had been thrown. Theo and Thor now tied to the fence, he plunged into the tall, yellowing grass, his mouth dry and hands clammy beneath his gloves as he searched for her body. The memory of Hugo Hambly’s grossly-angled neck, when he’d broken it the hunting season a year ago,  before the grooms had covered him with a blanket, haunted his memory just as much as Alex’s mangled pulp of  a face, and he shuddered in nausea at the thought of Amanda’s neck broken, her bright blue eyes dull with death.

             
He jerked his head up at the sound of feminine laughter, his fear turning into anger when he caught a glimpse of her riding habit between the trees. That bloody woman was hiding from him. His anger with her frightening him pushed him into a run, adrenaline chilling his blood as he entered the deer park. A low-lying branch knocked his hat from his head, but he paused in the act of fetching it when he saw her again, just ahead of him, clad only in her riding breeches and coat. The glimpse of her habit, he realized in shock, had been her safety skirt, which she had removed and hung from a branch.

             
Her laughter floated towards him again, and he moved quietly, deliberately in the direction of the sound. He froze when he nearly stepped on a twig, and then carefully stepped over it, gently pushing aside branches in between stopping to listen for any sounds she might make. This was, he realized distantly, rather like the games he played as a boy with his brother and friends during school holidays, and his heart beat heavily in his ears at the slightly more adult tinge to this game.

             
He paused when he heard her breathing, the slow, short breaths of a woman in a corset, and then moved around the tree behind which she was resting, and grabbed her arm to pull her towards him.

             
“I have you,” He narrowed his eyes at her, feeling slightly triumphant in spite of his irritation. “Now what the devil are you on about?”             

             
“A bit of fun,” She laughed, a sensual, smug sound that raked across his skin and prickled his scalp.

             
Her free hand came up to touch his face and then his shoulder, before sliding around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue probing tentatively, and he reluctantly closed his eyes to kiss her back. She sagged against him, thigh to thigh, breast to chest, as though she had feared he wouldn’t kiss her back. Which was absurd, he thought darkly, because he could not deny himself the opportunity to touch her no matter how angry or displeased she made him. This was the only thing he knew he could do for her, with her, where she could not unsettle him or make uncomfortable demands.

             
Her hair loosened from its tight roll at the nape of her neck, falling in a thick, silky skein across the hand he used to cup her chin, twining between his fingers and fluttering between them like a curtain. She smelled of roses and perspiration, a not undesirable combination of scents that made him want to inhale her, and so he did, breaking their kiss to run his nose down her cheek and throat.

             
She murmured something indecipherable—well, indecipherable because he was preoccupied with the mechanics of getting her riding breeches off so he could bury himself inside her—and then he realized what had distracted her attention from him: a small herd of deer pawing delicately at the ground.

             
They paused, their soft, downy bodies quivering when they caught his and Amanda’s scent. He stared at them, finding his own body quivering with loathing as he recalled the last time he saw deer in this very park…in this very area, he realized with a curdling of his blood. He looked at Amanda, his lip curled in disgust at her utter carelessness.

             
“This is what you consider ‘fun’?” He said curtly.

             
Her eyes widened in recognition, her mouth soft and trembling. “I just wanted—in Newport—I’m sorry Malvern, I didn’t know—”