Awakening His Duchess (4 page)

She nodded and swayed on her feet. But she feared if she
took the chair he offered, she’d never get up. Pulling her earbobs out of her
ears, she placed them on the glass counter. The cross and her wedding ring
clinked down beside them. She set her case on the counter and fished inside for
Beau’s ring.

Pressing her lips together she added it to the pitiful
collection. “How much can you give me for this?”

He drew in a deep breath as if bracing to give her
disappointing news. But then he went still.

He picked up the ring Beau had pressed on her finger in that
secretive ceremony. Her chest hollowed. She wanted to snatch it away from him.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was given to me.” She cast a glance toward her boy, but
he had curled up in the chair and was fast asleep. He knew nothing of his true
parentage. Even though he was born only seven months after her wedding to
Henri, her husband had claimed Etienne. Correcting him hadn’t seemed wise. “By
my first husband.”

The pawnbroker picked up a loupe and trained it on the
raised figures on the face of the ring. His eyebrows drew together. He pulled
out a book and thumbed through it. “It’s an English crest.”

“My first husband was English, yes.” If Beau really had been
her husband. She wasn’t entirely sure the marriage had been legal. Although
he’d escorted her home at dawn and then returned later at a proper hour to
speak to her father. But he’d died before he’d had a chance to talk to her
father. The whole affair had been shoved under the rug, and she’d been married
off to Henri as had been the plan before Beau came into her life.

The man thumbed through the book. Exhaustion and despair rolled
over her like a six-foot wave. She fought to keep her scratchy eyes open. She
didn’t know how much longer she could go on. She should have gone to Henri’s
bank and ask to withdraw from his accounts. As his widow she was entitled to at
least part of his money. She would do that after she slept. But she wouldn’t
wait if the bankers insisted on a death certificate or a will.

The pawnbroker finally set down his book. “This crest
belongs to the Duke of Newkirk.”

The need for sleep flew away, but her brain was sluggish as
if she could no longer take anything in. She stared at him, not comprehending.
“My husband’s surname was Havendish.”

“Yes, the family name of the Dukes of Newkirk is Havendish.”

Beau was the son of a duke?

“So you’ll want to book passage to England.”

She grabbed the ring from his fingers and the metal warmed
in her hand as if Beau had reached from beyond the grave to give her a place to
go.

*~*~*

Five months later, March, 1792

County Durham, England

Thump-thump-thump.
Please, not the drums, again.
No
more blood and killing, no more fires and running.
Yvette moaned.
Thump-thump-thump.

She bolted upright, her heart racing. Images of her family
lying in pools of blood, eyes unseeing, tumbled through her mind. The pounding
drums, the screams of terror, the heat of the rampaging fires, the smell of
blood, sweat, and death jolted her heart.

Thump-thump-thump.
“Maman, p
uis-je entrer
,
s'il vous
plait?”

She sat in a bed in a room with an ornate plasterwork ceiling
and luxurious carpets. Grape and acanthus carvings crept up around the
fireplace containing a controlled fire. To quiet her racing heart, she drew in
a deep breath. She’d been woken, not by the drums but by her almost
six-year-old son pounding on her door.

“Oui.
Yes, Etienne, you may enter.” She pushed back
the covers and put her feet on the floor. The danger was long past, the drums a
memory. Etienne was safe here, and she could breathe again. Although it would
take a long time before either of them felt secure again, if ever.

Long before she reached halfway across the room that made
her feel small and an interloper, her son opened the door and pattered across
the floor as if fleeing for his life.

He dove against her, and she cradled his sturdy frame and
bent down to inhale the little-boy scent. All she wanted to do was hold him
tight and never allow anything to threaten him ever again, which was why she’d
brought him here. Even without knowing what kind of reception she’d receive,
she knew England was far safer than war-torn France or Saint-Domingue in the
midst of a bloody slave revolt.

Stroking her son's tawny hair, she asked, “Did you have a
bad dream?”

She feared Etienne was haunted by the things he’d seen.
Perhaps in time his memories of the uprising would be dimmed as memories of
youth often are. She prayed every day to the Mother Mary to deliver him from
the horrors he’d witnessed.

“Maman,
Porquoi—”

“English, please. You must speak the language of here.”

Etienne climbed into her bed. “I take forever to find your
room. Why are you so far?”

Because this house was monstrously large. She didn’t want to
be so far away that Etienne couldn’t find her. Tomorrow she would suggest that
a room closer to her son would be better. She guided Etienne toward the large
bed. Lying back down, she curled around him and smoothed the covers over them
as she murmured soothing sounds.

Etienne snuggled closer to her and asked, his young voice
earnest, “Why do they call me, my lord?”

How in heaven’s name could she explain this to a young child
in a way that he could comprehend? Yvette hadn’t wanted to tell him anything
until she knew the reception they’d get. The last thing she wanted was Etienne
resenting Beau’s family, if they were turned away at the door. But they hadn’t
been turned away. “Well,
Pere
wasn’t your papa. I was married before to
a boy” —she could only think of Beau as a boy— “the son of the man we met
today, the duke.”

Etienne twisted to see her face. His little face crinkled.
Until she’d arrived here, she’d always thought Etienne resembled her, but other
than the slight tilt to his blue eyes, he was the spitting image of Beau.

The transformation from unformed baby features to mirroring
Beau had happened so gradually she’d failed to recognize the shocking similarity.
Or perhaps she hadn’t allowed herself to see. That magical time with Beau had
been cut short too quickly. The longest time had passed before she could think
of Beau and his sudden death without dissolving in tears.

Fortunately Henri couldn’t have known the son he claimed
looked like Beau. He’d never met Beau.

But the man who opened the door to them at the duke’s castle
had put his hand to his chest and exclaimed excitedly. He’d seen the resemblance
right away. He’d known she was from Saint-Domingue before she could tell him.

The servant had shouted for Danvers, and the man appeared,
looking much older than she remembered, but then she had aged too. She rarely
looked in the mirror anymore, but when she did she saw the darkness in her eyes
as shadows of a woman who’d been widowed twice before the age of twenty-five
and lost far too much. If it weren’t for Etienne, she didn’t know that she
would have found the strength to go on.

Fortunately, Beau’s man had recognized her and had gone all
teary-eyed when he’d seen her son.

The duke had wanted to see her straight away, before she’d
had a chance to catch her breath or really assimilate that Beau had grown up in
this grand house with marble floors, jewel-like mullioned windows and
breathtaking murals on the ceilings. She had been hesitant to claim a marriage
she didn’t believe legal, but she had produced the signet ring when the duke
asked.

If Beau had told her he was the son of a duke, she wouldn’t
have had to marry Henri. She could have come here. If she’d been safe in
England, she never would have witnessed the complete massacre of her family.

The devastation balled in her and swelled upward, clogging
her throat. No, she could not allow herself to shatter. Better to feel nothing.
She had to remain strong for Etienne. She swallowed the bitter lump.

For the last few months she’d taken one step then another,
focusing only on getting Etienne to his father’s family where he would be safe.
She had to keep doing that—burying the emotions that robbed her of a will to
live. He was safe here, but she no longer wanted to feel. Because everything
hurt too badly.

She shoved the events of the day to the back of her mind and
whispered into her son’s hair, “This is your home now, Etienne.”

“Maman, how could
Pere
not be my papa?” His mien was
too serious for a boy his age, but perhaps that was why she hadn’t seen the
resemblance to his father. Beau had been too much of a charmer to be serious
for long.

“Your papa was my first husband. The man who grew up here.
But he died before you were born.”

Etienne’s little face crinkled. “How do you know he’s my
papa?”

Her son never accepted anything at face value but must dig
until he knew how things worked. She sighed. Rather than get into a discussion
of things he was far too young to understand, she said, “You look like your
father.” She touched his straight aristocratic nose. “You look like Beau.”

All of his family’s old time retainers saw the resemblance
and now that she really looked at her son, she could see Beau in the curve of
his lips, the dimples in his cheeks and in the pale blue eyes with thin indigo
spokes radiating out from the center.

“Maman, did the slaves kill him too?”

Yvette winced, trying to think of an appropriate
explanation. “No, he fell and hit his head.”

Etienne frowned. “That’s a silly way to die.”

“I don’t think there is a good way to go,” answered Yvette.
Everything about Beau’s death had confused her. She had seen him fall and bang
his neck and jaw against a table, but the blow hardly seemed enough to kill a
healthy young man. She’d screamed, then run for help, but returned to find him
lifeless. Even now the memories sliced her raw. Her inability to help him stung
her eyes. “Now go to sleep, Etienne. Tomorrow you will get to know your papa’s
family. It seems we will stay here awhile.”

Because more than Yvette wanted a safe haven for Etienne
while she tried to track down her late husband’s assets, the duke wanted an
heir, even if it meant recognizing a less-than-worthy French daughter-in-law.
Apparently Etienne was the closest thing he had to a legitimate male
descendant.

Chapter Three

Two
and a half years later, September 1794

County Durham, England

“We are almost home,” said Beau to his dark-skinned companion
trudging along beside him. The air smelled like memories of his youth. A
delicate hint of English rose gardens, hay, and deciduous trees flavored the
breeze instead of the overpowering scent of bougainvillea, sugarcane fires, and
palms. By God, he wanted to get home, collapse onto his down-filled mattress,
and sleep until he could forget the last decade ever happened.

“You
are almost home,” said Mazi in his deep resonant
voice. “I am only one stop closer.”

“You may want to stay here.” Beau stopped short of begging
Mazi to stay. He already owed his life to the man a dozen times over. “You’ll
never want for anything.”

“My wife.”

His fingers curling tightly, Beau pressed his lips together.
Mazi might yearn for his wife, but if Beau never again saw the woman he tried
to marry, it would be too soon. If there was any justice in the world, Yvette
would have perished in the revolt. Many of the white plantation owners had
died. Her greed and disappointment in his lack of wealth had led to his being
forced into slavery. If not for the revolution, he’d still be a slave—or dead.

They turned the corner onto the tree-lined lane leading to
the ducal estate. Beau tried to breathe in deeply, but his lungs refused to
take in the air. Turning to the side, he coughed.

Mazi stopped and waited for Beau to recover his breath. Mazi
was a good man, a proud man who wanted to return home to his wife and
children—if they yet lived—and to take over the tribe his brother had coveted
enough to sell Mazi into slavery. Beau owed him the chance to do that.

“If you wait for me to get well, I will go with you,” said
Beau. But he didn’t know if he would ever be a whole man again.

Mazi looked off into the distance. “I return you to your
family, to the place of your ancestors. You will stay here.”

Beau hitched the pack on his back. He would stay until his
father grew tired of him. As the third son, he was superfluous. If he had come
home from his world travels in good order, his father would have insisted he
choose between the clergy, the military, or politics.

A
cart rattled by and the man in it craned his neck staring at the odd pair. Beau
doubted any local would recognize him. He was very different from the spoilt
youth who had left for a world tour a decade ago. Throughout England he and his
companion had been a source of curiosity. If it wasn’t Mazi’s dark skin drawing
stares, it was their tattered and barefoot appearance or their disregard for
convention, sleeping in hayricks under the stars. Beau had lived too long with
nothing to easily fall back into civilized behavior.

Besides, their coin was sparse. It had taken them months to
get enough money to book passage to England. Once on friendly shores, Beau had
considered sending a letter and waiting for money to be sent, but the petition
for help was what the youth he had been would have done.

As they crested a small rise the massive elm tree shadowing
the cottages of his father’s crofters came into sight.

Beau’s heart squeezed and he stumbled forward, running with
his uneven gait to touch the warm wood. He’d climbed this tree with his
brothers, swung from an old rope tied to one of his branches, escaped from his
tutors beyond it.