An Ideal Duchess (5 page)

             
“What make?” Mr. Challoner asked excitedly.

             
“Trust you to focus on the more trivial details, Bim,” The duke said, a hint of humor restored in his voice.

             
She braved a peek at the duke using the torchlight, and she flushed again at his steady, unblinking regard. It was safer to focus the light on Mr. Challoner, who looked amusedly between them.

             
“A Packard,” She said to distract Mr. Challoner from whatever he thought. “The Model F with the rear entrance.”

             
“Damn. I wish I could have a look at it,” Mr. Challoner sighed. “But I supposed that in this wretched weather…”

             
“You could always call on my family—”

             
“At Foxcote.”

             
“Yes, how did you know?”

“It is in my interests to pay attention to my neighbors, particularly when one is as delightful as yourself.” Mr. Challoner said lightly. “Shall we have our tea in the drawing room?”

              “It’s rather late for tea, isn’t it?”

             
“Not in this household,” The duke said dryly. “I imagine your housemaids are handling this loss of power with unnatural aplomb.”

             
“Employment at Challoner House requires servants of strong fortitude and stalwartness,” said Mr. Challoner with a smile. “Excuse me while I go fetch them from the depths of the house.”

             
“The bells,” The duke said in response to the quizzical expression on her face. “They are electric, and since
that
is not in working order at the moment…”

             
“Oh, yes, of course,” Amanda said. “How remiss of me not to remember.”

             
The duke raised a neat auburn brow. “Shall we wait for Bim in the drawing room?”

             
“Yes, of course,” She repeated rather stupidly.

             
“May I?”

             
Amanda realized he was gesturing towards the torchlight and she extended it to him. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, sending a crackling heat from her fingertips and up her arm that had nothing to do with the charged air from the storm outside. She paused to stare up at the darkened void she assumed was his face. The beam of the torchlight dipped as he swung it down and away from her towards the door she assumed led to the drawing room. The torch gave a little ping and then turned off, plunging them into darkness.

             
“Bloody hell,” The duke muttered, as he flicked the switch on and off in an attempt to make it work.

             
“I believe it would be best to wait for Mr. Challoner to return,” She said wryly. “Between the two of us, we don’t seem to have much luck with lights.”

             
“I’m sure you’re right,” The duke sighed deeply. “Blasted things.”

             
Amanda stifled a laugh at his grumpiness, and reached to touch his shoulder…or what she hoped was his shoulder. Her fingers brushed over a silky material she assumed was his sling, and he turned, the angle of his body signaling that he was giving her his full attention.

             
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m not normally so rude and thoughtless with my words.”

             
“I must beg your pardon for failing to curb my tongue.”

             
Amanda smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. “Let us cry pax, Your Grace, before we begin an endless circle of apologies. Shall we be friends?”

             
She began to extend her hand before remembering he could not see it, but to her surprise, his hand, large, warm, and slightly callused, curled around hers. His grip was firm and strong, and she felt the sparks of heat across her skin once again as he held her hand longer than politeness made necessary. There was a clap of thunder, and she squeezed his hand tightly from her surprise as the electricity buzzed and then flickered back on. This time, the thunder was accompanied by a deafening and torrential downpour of rain that beat against the high ceiling of the Great Hall like dozens of tiny hammers.              

             
It was much too unsafe to motor back to Foxcote.

             
The duke dropped her hand as Mr. Challoner reentered the Great Hall, followed by a pair of housemaids carrying large trays. She felt its absence quite keenly, but she avoided his eyes as he gestured for her towards the drawing room. The room was large and warmly decorated with sturdy Jacobean furniture and plush turkey red rug; the late afternoon storm lashed at the tall window panes behind the heavy velvet curtains. It was masculine, yet comfortable, she realized when she sat on the vermillion cushion covering the teakwood chaise longue, and it suited Anthony Challoner’s dark, slightly swarthy appearance. The housemaids set the trays on the coffee table between her chaise and the heavy sofa across from her, and she automatically fixed tea for the three of them.

             
“You must send someone to my mother at least,” She said, handing Mr. Challoner—who sat nearest her—his cup of tea.

             
“I shall send a note with one of my grooms—he has a cousin at Foxcote.”

             
“Wait at least until the rain has let up, Bim,” The duke looked surprised and pleased when she balanced his cup on its saucer before handing it to him. “Wouldn’t want the fellow to come down with a chill.”

             
“I didn’t plan on doing so right now, Bron.” Mr. Challoner scowled slightly.

             
“This is quite a large home to live in all alone.” Amanda interrupted, recognizing the signs of a meaningless squabble between two males.

             
“I’m hardly here throughout most of the year—I’m a barrister by trade, and possess chambers in London,”

             
“And what do you do, Your Grace?” She turned to the duke.

             
His mouth tightened as he set his cup and saucer on the table. “Until last April, I was at Oxford reading the law in preparation for taking the silk. Now, I am simply a duke.”

             
There was something so final and incredibly grave in his words, and Amanda covered her awkwardness by finishing the last of her tea. She glanced out the windows to the darkened sky and shivered.

             
“There is something rather spooky about this storm,”

             
“Probably just the old Challoner ghosts clanging about,” Mr. Challoner said blithely. “Cursed to haunt the house and rattle the guests for all eternity.”

             
“There’s always a family curse in one of these great country houses,” Amanda sat back in the chaise. “I think you English like to make excuses for your wretched behavior.”

             
“They aren’t excuses, my dear Amanda—I may call you that, mayn’t I?” He continued after she nodded. “We simply accept that we cannot escape our hereditary foibles. It is bred in us.”

             
“I don’t believe that,”

             
“Take Bron, for example—His Grace,” He clarified. “All Townsends are mad.”

             
Amanda’s initial burst of laughter died in her throat when Anthony’s expression remained serious. “You jest.”

             
“Ask him—isn’t there a curse of madness in your family, Bron?”

             
The duke merely lifted his shoulders.

             
“Alright,” He said. “I concede to exaggerating the proportions of the Townsend Inheritance a bit, but truthfully speaking, it is quite known that every generation or so, there is a Townsend who leads the family into ruin.”

             
“That sounds so ominous—the
Townsend Inheritance
,” Amanda lifted a brow as she looked between the duke and his friend. “You’re only attempting to scare me off,”

             
“Is there something be scared off from?”

             
“No,” She said hastily. “But this is much too morbid a conversation to have during a storm. Let’s talk about something more cheerful, like…”

             
“Three-handed bridge.” Anthony smiled wolfishly. “Do you play?”

             
“Not very well, but I should enjoy it if you aren’t too hard on me.”

             
“Capital! I shall fetch a deck of cards.”

             
Amanda watched as Anthony Challoner set his teacup and saucer on the table and rose to his feet, disappearing from the room in search of the cards. She glanced at the duke, who smiled slightly. They were both having fun at her expense—typical English humor, she mused, particularly when it came to dealing with Americans. Yet, she was unable to shake the feeling that despite her protests to the contrary, there was something to be scared off from, but she didn’t wish to probe too deeply.

Bledington Park

             
The normal silence demanded at mealtimes by the Duchess of Malvern—and strictly adhered to—was no match for the combination of a vivid rainstorm and Bledington’s leaky lead roof. Breakfast that morning was served to a cacophony of water plopping at awkward intervals into the buckets Fowler, the butler, ordered the footmen to place beneath the corroded sections of the dining room ceiling.

             
Viola Townsend, cousin, poor relation, and companion/secretary to the Duchess of Malvern, bore the brunt of the aggravating noise and occasional splashes of rusted rainwater seated as she was at the far end of the long dining table. Besides the rainwater, her only other breakfast companions were Sir Lionel Stratton, who had removed his false teeth and placed them beside his plate while he gnawed on a pheasant wing, and Lady Jessop, who had fallen asleep, her false curls askew.

             
When dining
en famille
, the eccentric elderly relations who lived in various parts of Bledington Park were usually spread across the seating plan, but when Her Grace entertained, they were bunched at the end of the table, where the least important people were placed. Viola clenched her fingers around her knife and fork as she glanced down the expanse of the dining table to where the duchess sat with her more important guests, her elegant riding habit fitted to her still trim figure.

             
That should be
her
, and if matters had gone the way Viola had always thought they would, she would be seated near the head of the table during sparkling dinner parties. She wouldn’t be consigned to the end, clad in the only dear item she owned—a set of tortoiseshell combs her mother left her—and a cut down suit Her Grace’s lady’s maid (who had the pick of the duchess’s cast off gowns) hadn’t wanted. She would now be clad in a Busvines riding habit, only stopping to eat breakfast before the morning’s ride, not wearing a drab tailor-made and preparing to begin her day at the typewriter sorting Her Grace’s correspondence.

             
The seat at the duchess’s right hand, the seat reserved for Bron, mocked her with its emptiness, and she turned towards the dining room door for the umpteenth time, worried and exasperated by his absence. He had not come home last night, and they hadn’t a word from Bron since he’d gone down to London three days ago. He hadn’t told her the exact reasons for his trip to Town, but she was sure it had something to do with the estate. She had caught Her Grace examining some of Bledington’s best pictures more than once, and though she concerned herself purely with the social side of running Bledington Park, she didn’t need Bron to tell her outright that the family was in dire straits.

             
Just as her anxieties over his whereabouts put her off her breakfast, the door to the dining room opened and Bron entered, the worn cap on his head not enough to hide the white bandage wrapped around his forehead. She made a cry of distress and half rose from her seat. He turned briefly in her direction with a distracted frown, and she realized that his left arm was also bandaged.

             
“Why Malvern, what on earth…” The Duchess of Malvern rose to greet her son.

             
“An accident,” He lifted his left elbow. “It shall heal. I’ve only stopped in to let you know I was here before I went upstairs to change.”

             
He kissed the cheek the duchess offered to him.

             
“I must have a word with you, Malvern,” Her Grace said testily.

             
“Of course, Mater—but after I change,” He replied smoothly.

             
Viola could only sit when Bron turned and walked back out of the dining room. Etiquette and her social status forbade her to get up and follow him, and she was forced to keep her curiosity and concern at bay until Her Grace dismissed her for the morning. She made her way upstairs, but instead of heading for Her Grace’s boudoir, where Viola normally conducted most of her work, she crept towards the bachelor quarters. Bron had not yet moved into the duke’s room, allowing his mother to retain the suite she would vacate upon her son’s marriage. This made Viola’s sojourns to his bedroom quite easy.