Four Nights With the Duke (15 page)

Mia shrugged.

“All the
books
you want,” Susan added. “And the young master can have a tutor again.”

“His Grace thinks I’m dumpy,” Mia said, coming out with the truth of it. “And fat.”

Susan’s brows drew together. “How do you know?”

“He thought I was carrying a child.”

“What?”

“I was able to disabuse him of his error,” Mia said miserably. “But I dislike the idea of being married to him. He’s too handsome, Susan. There’s a disbalance between us that cannot lead to a happy marriage.”

“Were you wearing the blue merino when he said that? It does bunch up under the bosom. I’ve always said that Mrs. Rackerty down in the village should keep to her garden.” She hesitated, and added, “I noticed that he didn’t visit your bed last night, though it was your wedding night.”

Of course she’d noticed. Servants saw everything. “We’ve decided to put the business of making an heir off for a good period of time. Years, most likely.”

“You are not fat,” Susan stated firmly. “You have lovely curves. We shall have to prove him wrong.”

“
Dumpy
is another word for short. I’ll be known as the Dumpy Duchess.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“You think so?” Mia was actually a little hurt. Susan had been her maid—and, in practical terms, her only female friend—for three years.

Susan pulled Mia until she was standing before the glass. “Your dress goes up to your collarbone,” she pointed out.

Mia nodded. “I like it that way.”

“And these extra ruffles at the shoulders do you no good.”

“I need them.”

“Why?”

“To balance my breasts. They’re too large.”

Susan’s eyebrow shot up. “Is that why you always want ruffles?”

“So would you if you were short and had cabbages in front. You’re a full head taller than I am, Susan, and you have no idea what it’s like to be my size.”

“I would love to be your size. Particularly in front.” She plucked at her bodice. “Look at me. I have almost nothing here.”

“Apple dumplings, not cabbages.”

“What? Why are you talking about food?”

“I don’t like to draw attention to my bosom. I’m too short for dresses that catch up under the breasts. They’re made for ladies with long legs, while on me, they billow out and make it appear that I’m carrying a child.”

“Your legs are nicely shaped,” Susan said. “As are your ankles. I think we should order a scandalously short gown with almost no fabric in the bosom.”

Mia rolled her eyes.

“You are married now. You have to dress like a duchess: à la mode, not behind by two years.” She plucked at the ruffle. “Or ten.”

“It will make no difference.”

“Costly gowns make all the difference. We could leave for London tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Susan nodded vigorously. “In order to visit a modiste. You know my sister Peg is in service with Lady Brandle. When I visited Peg last month, we discussed every modiste in the city of London, and I know precisely whom we should see.”

“I can’t. My novel—”

“Your husband neglected you on your wedding night,” Susan said, her voice sharp. “No woman should stand for that. We’ll transform you into a woman so exquisite that the duke will beg for entry to your chamber.”

Mia liked the idea, though she didn’t believe it possible. “I can’t go to London. You know Charlie doesn’t like to travel, and I am certainly not leaving him alone in a strange house while I gad about to buy some new ribbons.”

“You need more than ribbons!” Susan cried.

“I thought I might go for a ride,” Mia said, changing the subject. “Do you happen to know whether Lancelot was delivered last night? I’m not hungry for breakfast.”

“Yes, he did,” Susan confirmed, “which reminds me, you need a new riding habit as well.”

Mia nodded, painfully aware that her habit had
apparently shrunk, as the fabric was straining at the brass buttons that ran down her front, which lent even more emphasis to that area.

“Now that you are no longer plain Miss Carrington,” Susan said thoughtfully, “you might be able to summon a modiste to Rutherford Park.”

“They would come here, to the country?”

“We shall offer double.”

“Double?”

Susan put her hands on her hips. “My lady, your husband did not even attempt to join you in bed last night, did he?”

Mia frowned at her. “Must we go around and around on the same topic?”

“The right gown will make you irresistible,” Susan promised.

In Mia’s expert opinion—as a novelist who had crafted three Cinderella transformations—that was as improbable as snow in July. But she couldn’t help it. A germ of hope sprang up in her heart.

MORE NOTES
ON
F
LORA

         
~ Problem: Flora is boring. Too like a hearth rug. She should issue set-downs. “You flea-bitten fungus!”

         
~At least defend herself.

The vapid Mrs. Dandylion (shrilly): “Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched!”

Flora: “I am happy to say that I would not recognize a chicken, nor do I own any. Obviously our social spheres have been quite, quite different.”

Readers might think she is overly tart?

She must be sweet.

V
ander’s stable was nothing like the simple enclosure at Carrington House. It was four times the size, with a
wide, spotless central corridor and elegant stalls over which horses stretched their heads. Each stall had a brass plate engraved with the horse’s name. And each horse was more graceful than the last.

“Watch that one, Your Grace,” Vander’s stable master, Mr. Mulberry, said, touching Mia’s arm and nodding to their right. “He’s new to the stables, and he’s proven to have a terrible temper. He bit one of the stable hands in the arse, and the lad will have a scar to the day he dies.”

The horse poked his head out to look at her. He was an amber chestnut color, with a black mane and a rather sweet tuft that fell over his eyes. Muscles rippled as his powerful neck curved over the door of his stall. His eye caught hers. It was dark brown, ferocious, wild.

Mia froze. “He’s the size of a house,” she breathed. She vastly preferred the size of her mount, Lancelot; he was as stubby as she was. She was terrified by large horses.

“Sixteen hands,” Mulberry confirmed.

“What is his name?”

“Jafeer. That means ‘the sound of the wind,’ in the language of Arabia. His Grace imported him at great expense on the basis of his bloodlines, but no one can tame him. He’s stopped eating. Doesn’t like England is my guess.”

“Oh, dear, that’s terrible,” Mia exclaimed. Luckily, that would never happen to her horse, because Lancelot liked eating more than anything in the world. She doubted he would even notice if he was moved to a different country, as long as they grew oats there.

“I put your mount in the stall beside Jafeer, as he seems unlikely to be riled by all the carryings-on next door.”

“Nothing riles Lancelot,” Mia confirmed.

Mulberry was trying to guide her past Jafeer’s stall, but she halted. “If I approach him, what will he do?”

“Likely start kicking his stall,” the stable master said. “
Please
, Your Grace, don’t do that. I have twenty-four animals here, and they all grow upset when Jafeer tries to escape, which is all he’s been doing for the last five days.”

Mia nodded and edged past. Lancelot didn’t look up as they approached; he was taking a nap, his head hanging.

“Could Lancelot have a brass nameplate too?” she inquired. “I know he’s not of the quality of the rest.”

“His Grace will undoubtedly procure a new mount for you without delay,” Mulberry said.

“I don’t want a new horse,” Mia told him. Lancelot was just right for her. He resembled a sofa with legs. Short legs.

Sir Richard had sold all the horses belonging to her father and brother, claiming that Charlie had no need of them. He would have sold Mia’s horse too, but for the fact no one thought Lancelot was worth more than a shilling.

“He and I have been together for years,” she said, reaching out to tug on Lancelot’s forelock.

Lancelot ignored her, keeping his eyes shut. He had a strong belief that inertia was better than movement.

“He’s awake,” she told Mulberry. “He doesn’t want to leave the stables, but if you pull him out of his stall, he’ll become livelier.”

Mulberry looked dubious, but he opened the stall door and dragged Lancelot away.

Mia was about to follow when she noticed that Jafeer had moved to the closest side of his stall and was staring at her, his brown eyes bright and curious.

He didn’t look wicked or wild anymore. He looked interested.

She took a step toward him and he bent his head and whickered. There were times when the only thing that would get Lancelot moving was a piece of apple, which meant Mia’s pockets were full of them.

She held one out to him and he lipped it delicately from her palm. “Are you as fast as the wind?” she asked him.

He jerked his head up, almost as if he were answering her. “You are
not
the horse for me,” she told him, because he had begun snuffling her hair, almost as if he were flirting. “You’re taller than any horse should be. And you’re as fast as the wind, remember? I don’t even care to trot.”

Mulberry reappeared at the far end of the aisle. Mia quickly backed up before she could be caught. Jafeer made a little sound in his throat, as if he were disappointed, which was ridiculous.

“I have to go,” Mia said. She turned and began walking toward the open door. Immediately she heard the bellow of an infuriated horse. Whirling, she saw Jafeer rise up on his back legs, come back down and give the back of his stall a vicious kick.

Without thinking, she marched back and said, “You stop that immediately!”

He was rearing up; his front hooves thumped back to the floor and it seemed to her that he had a guilty look in his eye.

“You know better than to make trouble like that.”

Jafeer arched his neck again, reaching over the door to snuffle her hair.

Mia patted his muscled neck tentatively. He was lipping her curls and threatening to make her hair fall from its pins, so she gave him another piece of apple.
He ate it enthusiastically, and then with a gusty blow of air from his nostrils his large head came down and rested on her shoulder.

Mia remained still, raising her hand to scratch around his ear. He moved his ears forward and back, and sighed once more, an unmistakably contented sound. After a moment, Mia stepped back and put both her hands on his face, looking into his eyes.

They stared back at her, liquid and sweet. “
You
are nothing more than a fraud,” she said. “Aren’t you? You aren’t unmanageable at all.”

“Your Grace,” Mulberry said from just beyond her shoulder. “Please step away slowly. I warned you about that horse. He bites.”

“Nonsense,” she said, reaching up to scratch Jafeer above the eyes. “He’s as sweet as Lancelot, just less sleepy.”

Jafeer gave another gusty sigh and closed his eyes, letting her scratch his brow. His eyelashes were long and curled at the ends. “I think he’s lonely.”

“Lonely?”

“See? He just wanted someone to pay some attention to him.”

“Your Grace, he has had attention,” the stable master said in a stifled voice. “The horse cost hundreds of guineas, so he’s not only had the attention of the duke, but all of us in turn have attempted to calm him.”

“Perhaps you didn’t try the right way?” Mia suggested. “Have you tried apples?” She reached in her pocket and took out another piece of apple. “Look, he loves them.”

“Did we try apples?” Mulberry sounded stupefied. “Your Grace, we have tried every conceivable kind of vegetable and fruit, the best oats, specially made
bran-and-mash. Do you see his ribs? That horse has been starving himself.”

Mia let go of Jafeer and rose on her toes to look over his door. He instantly backed up to give her room.

Sure enough, his manger was full of oats. “Jafeer,” Mia said, pointing to the box. “You must eat.”

He made a funny noise, almost as if he were talking to her.

Mia leaned against the door. “I suppose I could stay here for a little time,” she told him, “but I must go for a ride. Lancelot is waiting for me.” Jafeer bent his head and began to lip up the oats.

“Well, damn my britches,” Mulberry exclaimed, instantly adding, “Please excuse me, Your Grace.”

Mia laughed. Jafeer had obviously remembered how delicious oats were; Mia patted his neck and he raised his head and whickered at her, but lowered his head again immediately.

After a few minutes, Mia made her way out to the paddock. Mulberry hoisted her onto Lancelot’s broad back just as a groom emerged from the stable on his own mount. Mia’s heart sank. She was desperate for escape, and the last thing she wanted was the quizzical gaze of a bored young groom as she and Lancelot meandered down the path, stopping now and then, which allowed Lancelot to fortify himself with some grass due to the unwonted exercise of carrying her.

“I have no need for an escort,” she told Mulberry. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she added, nodding to the groom.

“Your Grace,” Mulberry objected, “you cannot think to go for a ride without an escort.”

“That’s exactly what I intend,” she said. When he started to protest, she drew herself upright. She might as well practice looking like a duchess. “I shall
ride alone,” she stated. “I shall return in an hour or thereabouts. Good afternoon, Mulberry.”

With that, she pointed Lancelot toward the open gate. He ambled through it, resigned to the fact that she was forcing him to take her for a ride.

Mia leaned forward and patted his neck. “Good boy, Lancelot.” Behind her she heard Jafeer’s infuriated bellow and the pounding of hooves. He must have realized that she had left while he was eating.

She followed a path that wound from behind the stables, skirted the edge of the lawns and wandered off into the woods. The moment she was out of sight of the looming house Mia felt as if she were finally able to breathe. It was as if she’d been swept up in a whirlwind, only to find there was no air in the middle of the storm.

A short time ago, she’d been in the local church, waiting to become Mrs. Edward Reeve, when Sir Richard had announced that Edward had fled, and she had instantly plunged into a panic from which she had yet to emerge.

In the last weeks, her every muscle had remained taut with fear. Now she could relax. Whatever happened to her, Charlie would be secure, financially as well as physically. Vander would prudently administer the estate, not like Sir Richard, who would have wasted Charlie’s patrimony in frivolous lawsuits.

Vander would never do that, and Edward wouldn’t have either. For the first time she let herself really think about the fact that her fiancé had left the country rather than marry her.

Her throat tightened. It felt terrible.

Edward had kissed her as if he meant it. After their first kiss, he had pulled back, laughing. And yet he looked at her in such a way . . .

Obviously, desire was not enough to ensure loyalty. She had believed Edward loved her, but in hindsight, he had been temporarily lustful. Like Vander.

For a moment she wobbled in the saddle, struck by the realization that someday Vander would take a mistress, a beautiful sylphlike woman, someone he might love the way Thorn Dautry loved his wife.

Tears began to slide down Mia’s cheeks. There was a reason she wrote Lucibella novels: she longed to be loved, and to fall in love.

Her father hadn’t been adept at paternal duties. But he had loved the late Duchess of Pindar. He was happiest dancing with Her Grace. Mia had seen him circling the dance floor a hundred times, his hair gilt-bright in the light thrown from chandeliers, proud to be holding his love in his arms.

The memory made the tears come even faster. She had hoped—dreamed—that someday she would love someone with the same passion, but within the bonds of marriage. She hadn’t felt overly ardent with Edward, but she had genuinely liked him and she had been certain they would grow to love each other with time.

Now, if Mia were ever to experience love, it would have to be adulterous. Her love would be tarnished like her father’s, hemmed in by shame.

She closed her eyes and let Lancelot go where he would as an occasional sob wracked her chest. She came back to herself only when they stopped moving.

The first thing she saw, blurrily, when she opened her eyes was a large hand holding Lancelot’s reins. She looked slowly from the hand past an expanse of fine wool, a strong jaw, blue eyes. Angry blue eyes.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Vander barked. He had maneuvered his horse beside
Lancelot’s side in order to grab the reins. His leg was touching hers.

There was no point whatsoever in trying to pretend otherwise. “Crying.”

“I’ve never seen anyone riding with closed eyes,” he said. “Your horse could have tripped on a mole hole. Though he’s so stubby that you likely wouldn’t have suffered injury. I must get you a decent mount.”

“Lancelot is a perfect horse for me,” Mia managed, blotting her tears with a damp handkerchief.

“As long as you attempt nothing faster than a walk,” he said in a jaundiced tone. Men tended to be unkind to Lancelot. Mia had never succeeded in convincing her brother that she had no need to trot, and that therefore Lancelot’s sluggishness was irrelevant.