Mad About the Duke (20 page)

Beside him, Elinor laughed. “I feel the same way.” She glanced over her shoulder as if bidding London a fond farewell, then looked ahead. “I so love it outside of the city.”

Even the dogs seemed to delight in the change of scenery, perking up and sniffing the air. She had let the greyhounds out of the carriage, and they were now loping happily alongside, while her terrier, Fagus, yipped his encouragement (or taunts, given that the little dog was a regular handful) at them from the tiger's seat.

“Yes, I do believe I could spend the rest of my life quite contentedly away from all that,” she said, nodding back at the grey streets and buildings.

“Then we have something in common,” he told her.

“That we do,” she said.

“I've been told commonalities go far in producing a happy marriage,” he said.

She straightened a bit.

“No, you mistake me, I am not suggesting—”

“Of course not,” she added hastily.

“It is just that my sister-in-law asserts that a good marriage comes when a man and a woman possess a number of commonalities. And I thought to put her advice to good use in helping you.”

“Your sister-in-law sounds quite sensible.”

“More than you know.” Miranda's sensibility made her an eccentric among the addlepated Tremont clan.

“Did you share a number of commonalities with your wife?” Lady Standon asked.

Now it was his turn to straighten a bit.

“Oh, dear, I didn't mean to pry,” she rushed to say.

“No, no, it is just that I had always thought we had much in common. But then—” James glanced away before he said, “We were young when we married. Too young.”

It was the platitude he had always used.

Elinor nodded. “I think in such instances it is easy to see another the way we want them to be and not as they are.”

There was so much truth, so much understanding to what she said, that James turned and smiled at her. “Yes, something like that.”

He had the sense she was speaking from her own experience. What little he knew of Edward Sterling wasn't in the man's favor. “Did you know much of your husband when you married him?”

The man's proclivities must have been a shock to his young and all-too-innocent bride.

“No,” Elinor said. “But since my marriage was arranged and I had no say in the matter, perhaps it was better that way.”

“Everyone has some say,” he asserted. Surely Vanessa had had her choice, hadn't she? It was a notion he'd never wanted to consider. That she'd been bullied and cajoled into a union with him.

“Thus says a man,” Elinor told him. “Daughters are married off every day for a variety of reasons and they have no say in their future. For what is their choice? Spinsterhood? Being tossed to the streets? See their family ruined?” She glanced away, as if suddenly aware of the bitterness in her voice. “No, marriage is more often than not the province of men.”

“Perhaps it is as difficult for a duke to find a wife,” he offered.

She snorted, most indelicately. “Difficult? For a duke to find a bride?”

James remained resolute. “I think his title would get in the way of his finding happiness.”

She shook her head. “Ridiculous. He would have his pick of Society.”

He paused for a second, then took a deep breath, steeling himself to get this out. “However is he to be certain that the lady he has chosen truly shares his affections?”

“Whenever did this become a matter of affections?”

“Don't you think it should be?” he persisted.

Lady Standon crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you trying to say you find my search mercenary?”

“Isn't it?” But before she could reply, he rushed to continue, “Believe it or not, I do think your happiness depends on finding the right duke.”

“Exactly,” she said, her stiff stance loosening a bit. “I don't want to marry the wrong one.” She stopped short of adding “
again,
” he noticed. “That is why
I want you to discover their interests, their inclinations.”

He could tell her where Longford's lay right this moment, but he doubted she'd believe him.

“Do you want to get married?”

“It isn't a matter of want, but necessity.” She paused and glanced out over the countryside. “Yet it would be nice if…”

James's heart clenched.
If
…It was exactly that word that had held him back from remarrying. For how would he ever know if a lady truly loved him? If her heart belonged to him and him alone? For a man in his position, those things weren't supposed to matter.

But oh, how they did to him.

The silence between them strung out like the wide blue sky overhead until James helped her out. “If you had something in common?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“So I have my work cut out for me. If I am to find you your perfect duke, then I have to know more about you, what you like and dislike.”

Lady Standon shook her head. “I wouldn't know where to start. I think sometimes it is hard to truly know another person.”

That wistful note, that bit of longing to her words tugged at James. “Do you?” he asked. “At one time I would have agreed with you. I would have said there is no way to know what is in another's heart.”

“And now?”

“My sister-in-law asserts that you just know when you meet the right person,” he replied, tugging at the reins, for all of a sudden the carriage and horses seemed to have a mind of their own.

“Like someone who can drive,” she teased.

“I can drive,” he asserted. Not overly well, but he could. “Though if that is one of your criteria, I might suggest that you expand your search a bit, for I don't believe either Longford or Avenbury are decent whips.”

“They needn't drive anywhere, they have coachmen and carriages aplenty for that.”

“Still, wouldn't you like to be able to go on picnics from time to time, like this one?”

“This is delightful,” she confided with a sigh. “But I doubt my future holds such spontaneous outings.”

“Then you should add a few more names to your list.”

“You haven't even finished with the current ones,” she pointed out.

“What about Parkerton?” he posed, trying to sound convincingly innocent.

“The Duke of Parkerton?” she sputtered. “Oh, no, he is far too old.”

“Too old!” he shot back. “Madame, I have it on good authority, he is the same age as I am.”

She looked at him and shook her head. “He cannot be. He is forty and then some, if he's a day.”

“And so am I,” he told her.

“Oh, goodness, no. You can't be that old.”

“You needn't make me sound like Methuselah.”

She laughed. “No, it is just that you don't look much over thirty.”

“I'll take that as a compliment. But I am forty. And some.”

“Really?” Lady Standon eyed him again, this time searching for some sign of his impending senility. “I can hardly believe you are so old.”

“Well, I don't feel old, at least I hadn't until a few moments ago.”

She laughed. “I am so sorry to have offended you.”

“And you, madame? How old are you?”

The lady bristled a bit. “I don't see how that is—”

“Of course it is my business,” he told her. “How am I to convey your attributes if they have the same opinion of you?”

“That I am too old?” she sputtered.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, bother!” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I am nine and twenty.”

He glanced over at her and cocked a brow as if he didn't believe her. Which he didn't. Because he'd looked her up in
Debrett's
.

Lady Standon groaned. “Yes, yes, I am thirty. But just.”

He coughed.

“One and thirty, then,” she huffed. “I am over thirty. Ancient. On the shelf. A veritable Ace of Spades. Are you pleased?”

He nodded and winked at her, and then they both laughed, and in that moment, in a glance, they understood what it meant to share something. To have that moment of commonality that bound two people together.

James felt the wonder of it down to the tips of his toes and knew that whatever had happened to him since Clifton's blow, he'd been handed a chance to discover something that had eluded him all his life.

And while he knew that eventually he would have to give this all up, right now, he intended to relish every moment of being in Elinor's company.

Not Lady Standon.

Elinor. His Elinor.

For with her next to him, the world spread out before him ready to be explored, ready to be shared.

They were coming up to a village and James turned to say something to her, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a hole in the road.

He tried to turn the horses, pulling at the reins to slow them down, but it was too late. The wheel hit the hole, jarring the carriage, and the world turned topsy-turvy.

E
linor heard the jolt, the crack of the wheel. Everything happened at once—the curricle turning over, the horses' sharp whinnies, the bark of the dogs as they leapt out of the way.

All she felt was St. Maur tugging her up against him, hauling her close as they fell.

How she didn't break her neck, break something, she knew was the result of St. Maur's quick actions.

They landed in the hard-packed dust of the road, the wheel bouncing off into the ditch in one direction, the carriage a tangled mess a half a dozen yards ahead of them.

“Are you all right?” he asked, cradling her in his arms.

“Yes,” she gasped, feeling a bit jolted and tumbled, but indeed unharmed. “Yes, I think I am. And you?”

“Alive,” he said, glancing up at the mess before them. “What the devil happened?”

“I believe the wheel fell off,” she said. And then she
laughed. For it was all so unlikely. Here they were, in each other's arms—unharmed—while the carriage looked a wreck. It was a miracle of sorts.

He glanced down at her, then laughed. “Yes, but how did the wheel fall off?”

“You drove into that hole,” she said, nodding at the menace behind them. “But certainly it shouldn't have dislodged the wheel. Why, you've hit three others that were twice its size.” She smiled at him. “Are you sure you aren't a duke?”

He glanced over at her. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing, it was just that you said most dukes are terrible whips—”

He straightened, “Are you saying—”

“No, St. Maur, I am not saying that. A hole that small should not have forced the wheel off. I think you need to complain to whoever rented you that curricle. It is a menace.”

“Was,” he said, surveying the wreckage.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “They won't make you pay for the damages, will they?”

“Someone will pay for it,” she swore he muttered as he went over to the horses to settle them down.

Around them, the dogs barked and ran in circles.

The noise of the crash had brought the sleepy village awake, and one and all came running to see the accident.

Before Elinor knew it, the wife of the innkeeper had her bundled off with the help of other women from the village. She was escorted to a warm corner in the public house, where she was cosseted with a cup of hot tea and peppered with a bevy of questions.

“And he saved you?” one of the ladies repeated.

“But of course he did,” another said, nudging the
first woman. “Did you see the man? He's quite a sight.”

Elinor nodded, feeling a sense of pride in St. Maur that she had no right to claim. “He caught me just as the wheel went flying and I was about to be flung out.”

“Gar, you could have gone and broke yer neck,” one of the maids said.

“Or worse,” another added, nodding solemnly.

All agreed with the lass, though Elinor was at a loss to know what was worse than a broken neck.

“Now where were you off to, ma'am?” one of them asked.

“We were going to Colston,” she said. “For a picnic.”

“A picnic?” one of them repeated. “This time of year?”

They shared a glance that suggested that perhaps the crash wasn't such an accident after all.

“Mr. St. Maur is inspecting the construction at Colston. He thought I might enjoy a jaunt to the country.”

“Do you like the country then, Mrs. St. Maur?” the innkeeper's wife asked.

“Oh, I am not Mrs. St. Maur,” Elinor said without thinking, and even as she said it, she could feel the good wives of the village pulling back from her as if she had just grown a second head.

“I am Lady Standon,” she told them, though this did nothing to improve her standing with them. “Mr. St. Maur is my solicitor,” she said, trying to find some way to make her unescorted trip into the country without a maid or a companion in her company look better than it truly was.

Just then, St. Maur came bounding through the door. “Excellent news, my lady!”

“The carriage is fixed?” she asked, hoping for a fast getaway before these ladies got out the stocks and enforced some ancient decency laws.

“No,” he said. “It's an utter ruin. But I managed to salvage our basket.”

The good wives of the village glanced at each other, clucking their tongues and gathering up their skirts, as well as their concern for Elinor.

Any woman fool enough to travel about with such a man deserved her ruin.

Handsome though he was.

“Mad, the pair of them,” one of the ladies muttered under her breath.

“Aye, mad.”

Elinor ignored the whispers, now seeing another point of concern. How the devil were they going to get out of this mess?

More to the point, out of this village of gossips.

“And,” he continued, holding his hands out to the fire and warming them quickly, before he reached for her and pulled her to her feet, “I've found a way to Colston.”

“Excellent news,” she said, smiling at the frowning crowd of hens.

He bowed to the ladies and led her out of the room, as impervious to their stares and shaking heads as if he were indeed a duke. “Though it may not be as elegant as the curricle, I can promise you, it won't overturn.” He waved out the open door at their new conveyance.

A hay wagon.

“Adds to our adventure, don't you think?” he whispered over to her.

And something about the pride in his eyes that he'd managed to salvage their day caught her heart.

He might be Parkerton's age, but he had the spirit of a much younger man.

The women behind her watched to see her reaction, and she decided not to disappoint them.

“Well done, sir,” she said, hitching up her skirts and walking straight to the wagon. “Don't forget the basket. I would hate to leave those apple tarts behind.”

He caught up the basket, tucked it into the wagon, then climbed up, reaching for her and pulling her up. As they settled into the hay for the ride to Colston, Elinor waved gaily at the women, who gaped after them.

“You've made new friends?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Quite the contrary,” she told him. “They think us mad.”

“Truly?” he asked, sounding all too pleased with the notion.

“Yes, indeed.”

So St. Maur waved gaily at them as well, the dogs barking and yipping as they trotted merrily behind the wagon as if they'd never had such a happy adventure.

Elinor knew exactly how they felt as she glanced over at St. Maur, who was even now lying back in the hay, hands behind his head, looking up at the sky as if he was en route to heaven.

Perhaps they were, she thought, as she too fell back into the pillows of straw.

 

The farmer dropped them off at one of the side gates leading into Colston. After thanking the man, James caught up the basket with one hand and Elinor's gloved fingers with the other. “Come along. This is
probably better. The pathway to the house from here is glorious.”

His affection for the place was irresistible, for indeed the pathway was glorious.

They walked through a maze of great trees dotting a wide lawn, their bare branches reaching up. Curving through the grove wound a driveway, as if the owner had been loathe to cut a single trunk down.

As the woods gave way to a lawn, she began to make out a large rotunda, flanked by two grand rectangular wings. Windows dotted the house, sparkling like diamonds set in a majestic crown.

“Oh, my!” she whispered, as Colston came completely into view.

“Yes, that was my opinion exactly when first I saw it.”

She glanced over at him, then back at the house. “You are overseeing all this?”

“In a manner of speaking. I come out from time to time to ensure that the work is how the owner wants it.”

Elinor gazed at the large rotunda that made up the front of the house. Fronted with a stone portico, the great dome rose stories up above the classic columns of stone.

“Whoever owns this?” she whispered, awed by the sheer grandeur.

“I am not at liberty to say,” he told her. “But I can reveal the owner purchased it last year from Lord Casbon's widow.”

“Wasn't Lord Casbon a collector of antiquities?”

“Yes, he was. Until his collecting got him killed a few years back. Napoleon seized nearly everything the man was trying desperately to ship home. Dis
traught and hunted, he fled to the hills of Italy, where he died. Some say of a broken heart.” James tried to keep his composure, his lips twitching, and then he laughed.

“Whatever is so funny?” she asked, hands on her hips. “The poor man died—after having lost everything he loved.”

“Oh, yes, I know, that is hardly funny,” he agreed, trying to regain his composure. “One of his servants, a dedicated—though dim-witted fellow—tried to have Casbon's body sent home, so he marked the box ‘Rare Antiquity,' which of course the French customs official immediately seized and sent on to Paris for Napoleon's personal collection.”

Elinor's hand flew to her lips, first in horror, and then, as she conjured the image of Boney opening up his “Rare Antiquity” only to find poor Lord Casbon's bones inside, shaking with amusement.

“I suppose then Casbon got the last laugh, wouldn't you say?” James teased.

“Oh, do stop,” Elinor begged as she continued to giggle.

James laughed again and towed her up the driveway, until they stood in front of the marble portico jutting out from the rotunda. Tall columns held up a triangle roof, and the lintel was made up of a Grecian frieze of chariots racing. One of the drivers was depicted being dragged along, having fallen from his chariot, the poor conveyance missing a wheel.

“How familiar,” she mused, her lips twitching once again.

James didn't particularly like her insinuation, for certainly he wasn't that bad of a whip, but still he couldn't help smiling. “I'll have you know this is a
serious tour of what will one day be considered one of the finest homes in all of England.”

She laughed again as she made her way up the steps, taking one last peek at the artwork. She glanced over her shoulder at him and this time pressed her lips firmly together.

“Now I shall never be able to look at that without thinking of you,” he told her.

“I should think it will serve as an excellent reminder to find a more reliable stable from which to rent a carriage.”

James shook his head. “At least I am not the only one who has been ill served by their stables—apparently it was happening back then as well.” He took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Come along and we will tour the rest of the house. I am sure you will find plenty of fodder over which to tease me.”

At least he hoped so, for he'd never had any woman poke at him so. Another of the boundaries his title placed around him tumbling to the wayside like a lost carriage wheel.

“Lead on,” she said, her fingers gently squeezing his sleeve. “I look forward to the challenge.”

 

Elinor fell in love that afternoon.

For it was all too easy to be swayed by the beauties of Colston.

And, if she were willing to admit it, with Mr. St. Maur.
Which she was not…
but it was nearly impossible not to fall head over heels in love with the man.

His knowledge of Colston, its history and the work being done, all served as evidence that he was not only smart but thorough and inquisitive as well.

Once they completed their tour—through the mazes of scaffolding and paint pots and plaster—he brought her out to the summer house in the garden, a wonderful glass-fronted hideaway that had been built into the old brick wall surrounding the gardens.

The dogs frolicked and played along the paths, exploring and sniffing every corner of the enclosed and protected space to their hearts' content.

This was just one of the many surprising nooks and crannies of Colston, which, like so many grand houses, had risen where Roman roads had crossed, where a Norman castle had given way to a Tudor manor, and then to a larger house as the family's fortunes had climbed. Now, it was being transformed once again to suit modern tastes, though reminders of past glories and innovations clung to the place stubbornly—like this summer house, a relic of its Elizabethan owners.

“This was once a vineyard,” he told her. “Or so the old house records claim.”

“However did you arrange all this?” Elinor said, setting her cup of tea down on the table St. Maur had thoughtfully provided.

That was what had struck her all day—not only his knowledge of Colston but also all the details and planning he'd put into seeing to her comforts. Like having a table and chairs set up and waiting for them.

And how easy it was to be cozy in this hidden-away summer house, furnished as it was, with a desk in the corner, a settee and chair near the stove, and a carpet atop the stone floor, giving the room a homey feel.

“Lessons from my father,” he confided. “He traveled widely—for business—and liked to have his furniture with him. I kept the lot of it for sentimental
reasons, but now I see why he liked them. I store them here because it makes for a good place from which to conduct business when I must come here.” He paused and glanced over at her from where he lounged on the settee. “And most convenient for picnics on short notice.”

“Yes, delightfully so,” Elinor said, rising and walking over to the door to survey the garden closer. She nestled inside her cloak; it wasn't because she felt chilly but because she felt wonderfully contented.

As promised, there were apple tarts, ham, a nice loaf of bread, a French cheese—which she delighted in—and even an orange—which she had no idea how he'd procured, though she enjoyed it thoroughly.

Bared and layered in leaves for winter, the garden held secrets of which she could only wonder. What lay hidden beneath the brown blanket? Peonies? June bells? Would the roses that were only bare wood and thorns now bloom pink or red or white?