Man of My Dreams (22 page)

Megan didn’t know the English countryside well enough to realize that the coach that had been retrieved in Scotland had changed directions midway through the return trip. She had assumed she was being taken home to Sutton Manor. By the time she noticed a few landmarks that seemed vaguely familiar, it didn’t occur to her that she might have seen them years ago, rather than last week. But not long after that, she had no trouble in identifying the magnificence of Sherring Cross, which suddenly loomed on the horizon.

She was as spellbound as the first time she’d seen this ducal estate spread out across the land, but not for the same reason. It really was a grand edifice worthy of royalty. The trouble was that
her
husband owned it and
she shouldn’t be his wife.

Devlin was napping across from her—or pretending to. He’d been doing a lot of that lately, to avoid her sulky looks, she supposed. He’d given her his explanation of why he’d assumed the guise of a horse breeder. “Freddy” and “Sabrina” meant nothing to her, and so she hadn’t been all that impressed that there had been a dire reason for his subterfuge.

But she had made a guess and said, “You told my father you were a duke, didn’t you? That’s why he was so pleased to have me marry you, isn’t it?”

“I told him merely to expedite the matter.”

“But you couldn’t tell me?”

“When you were so enjoying your resentment over having to marry a horse breeder? Why spoil it for you?”

Answers like that had kept their conversation to a minimum, but Megan wasn’t used to keeping her unhappiness bottled up, and she’d done so long enough. She leaned forward to wake Devlin, only to hesitate.

Not in your present mood, or are you going to start a fight with him only minutes away from being descended upon by his servants?

I don’t suppose that would make a good impression, would it?

Definitely not. It’s bad enough that you pity him for marrying you; at least let his servants be happy for him—until they get to know you
.

Well, aren’t you the bitch today. And he deserves to be pitied. I’ve ruined his life, remember?

What about your life? It’s just as ruined
.

But it was my fault—

Aha! ’Bout time you remembered that
.

I hadn’t forgotten. But before, I’d only ruined Devlin’s life, which didn’t have all that far to go to be ruined. And there was every chance that marriage to me would have improved his lot, despite his contrary opinion. But now I’ve ruined a duke’s life, which is a whole different matter. It’s no wonder he hates me
.

You know, you ought to be finding some good in this mess, instead of nursing all the dreary aspects
.

There isn’t any good to find
.

What about your getting just what you originally wanted—a duke?

The original plan included him loving me
.

All right, scratch that. What about the fact that you’re going to get to live at Sherring Cross?

I don’t care anymore
.

Liar, you fell in love with this house
.

It’s a bloody mausoleum like Tiffany said
.

It’s better than a stable
.

That’s true
.

“You’re awfully quiet.” Devlin’s voice came to her softly. “Nervous?”

She gave him only a brief glance before looking back out the window. “That’s convenient timing you have, waking just as we arrive.”

“What can I say? I have an excellent inner clock.”

Megan snorted. “And no, I’m not nervous. Nor was I quiet. You forget, I talk to myself.”

“You’re right, I did forget. And anyone who
talks to herself never lacks for company, does she? You’ll have to let me listen in on one of those conversations sometime. They must be fascinating.”

She recognized humoring when she heard it, but decided that was better than the anger he’d displayed at the last mention of this subject. “I suppose you would find them fascinating, since they’re usually about you. But I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your eavesdropping. My conversations are private—and quite silent.”

“You mean you don’t talk aloud to yourself?”

“Of course not.”

He frowned sternly. “That’s not the impression you gave me, Megan.”

She shrugged, remembering that she’d encouraged him to think she might be a little crazy in order to give him an excuse to call off the wedding—and he’d been furious about it then. “It’s not my fault if you misinterpret what I say.”

“Isn’t it?”

The coach stopped, saving Megan from answering that incriminating question. Devlin usually opened the door, but he wasn’t quick enough for the bevy of footmen who appeared instantly. More started pouring out of the house as soon as it was realized that this wasn’t a guest arriving, but the duke. And between the coach and the house, Megan heard more “Your Graces” than she ever hoped to hear again, and that was noth
ing compared with the commotion once they reached the mammoth entry hall, where it seemed every servant in the house wanted to welcome home the master. At some point Devlin got around to introducing his wife, and then the “Your Graces” started all over again.

Megan didn’t know how she managed to get through it—it seemed the butler, John, and Mrs. Britten, the housekeeper, were determined to give her the name and duty of everyone present—but that they were all so genuinely welcoming quickly alleviated the nervousness she’d denied having.

Devlin had a moment to stand back and watch her interact with his people, and he was frankly dumbfounded to witness a Megan he’d never seen before. He’d done the unthinkable and brought a bride home without giving the household any warning to prepare for her, yet she was putting the frantic ones at ease by swearing she’d like to view the grounds first, then some of the house—which was undoubtedly true, since the
stables
were on the grounds—before she was shown to her rooms, giving them the time they needed to prepare those rooms.

He’d been too nervous when she’d met Margaret to notice her behavior or even what she’d said to his aunt. But this time he listened to her every word and watched her conduct herself graciously, like the perfect lady, and finally his amazement got the better of him
and the words just tumbled out. “Good God, where did my brat go?”

He knew it was a mistake instantly. He saw Megan’s back stiffen, watched her swing around to face him, felt the pain explode in his shin, then watched her eyes widen at the realization of what he’d provoked her into doing before his entire household. He wasn’t surprised that she then burst into tears and ran out of the hall. He felt like doing the same.

He knew as well as anyone that first impressions were lasting impressions, and he’d thoughtlessly ruined Megan’s introduction to his household, possibly undermining her authority. He had no excuse except that he’d been under the same strain as she this past week—and he hadn’t been behaving normally since he met her.

Short of replacing the entire staff, which was displaying various degrees of shock and embarrassment, he offered an explanation. “We’ve been traveling continuously for two weeks. My wife, naturally is exhausted because of it, and so not quite herself.”

“You surely must be exhausted as well,” John said beside him, and it was thirty-some years in the household that made him bold enough to add, “Because I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you do anything so stupid—Your Grace.”

Devlin heard several murmurs of agreement, enough to realize that the blame was going where it belonged. He almost laughed in relief,
but managed a serious “Quite right, John. Truth is, I haven’t been at all myself since I met the young lady.”

“That’s love, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Mrs. Britten volunteered.

“Is it? Then I’d better get used to it, hadn’t I?”

The staff was back to smiling at that point, which was an excellent time for Devlin to take his leave to search for his furious wife. He owed her a thoroughly contrite apology this time, though he’d be lucky to get it out before she kicked him again. No doubt about it, he was definitely going to have to buy that girl some softer shoes.

Megan was nowhere to be found in the stables. Devlin had hoped otherwise. He knew she adored horses. He had counted on the sight of so many Sherring Cross Thoroughbreds to charm her out of her current mad, or at least lessen it somewhat, so she’d listen to what he had to say.

One of the gardeners finally mentioned he’d seen her heading for the lake. Devlin had a moment of panic, considering the state of upset she’d been in, and treated the man to the unprecedented sight of the Duke of Wrothston racing hell-bent down a tree-lined path.

He saw her from a distance, sitting on the bank away from the boating dock. She looked like a veritable hoyden with her bon
net removed and her hair released from its constraints to form a bright red cloak down the dull gray of her traveling jacket. She had her skirt raised to her knees, and one foot dangled in the icy water.

Devlin could perhaps thank the icy water for dissuading her from jumping in, if she’d been of that mind, but now that he saw her, he knew how ridiculous that notion of his had been. Megan wasn’t the type to hurt herself when she was upset. She was spoiled enough to prefer making her antagonists suffer right along with her. No, maybe not spoiled in that. It was human nature to retaliate. He’d caught himself doing it lately. She just did it with such a flair.

He approached her cautiously. She heard him and stiffened, but didn’t turn around to see who was disturbing her peace. Was she still crying? God, he hoped not. He’d prefer her volatile temper anytime to her tears, for, like most men, he became a blithering idiot when faced with them.

With that in mind, he said the one thing guaranteed to provoke her. “Stubbed your foot, did you?”

Devlin groaned inwardly when all she said was a quiet “Yes.”

He dropped down to his knees behind her in the soft mulch of the bank. His hands rose to draw her back against him, but he stopped himself, afraid she might tumble into the water in an effort to get away from him.

“I’m sorry, Megan.”

“For what?”

“For putting my leg in the way of your foot.”

She made him wait for a reply while she put her stocking and shoe back on, but finally she encouraged him with a surly tone. “You won’t be forgiven for that.”

“For my thoughtless words?”

“Nor for that.”

“For being so surprised at your impeccable behavior?” he tried.

“Possibly for that.”

Even though she couldn’t see it, he kept his relieved grin to himself. “You were doing splendidly, by the by, and no one faults you for—for stubbing your foot. All censure has been directed where it belongs. In fact, my butler has assured me that I’ve never behaved so stupidly.”

“I disagree. I can recall any number of—”

“One apology at a time, brat.”

At that she stood up abruptly, so abruptly her derriere bumped into his chin. She swung around with a startled “Oh,” but then remarked with what he could swear was a touch of humor, “Daring, weren’t you, getting so close to me?”

“Not at all. Cold water isn’t just good for cooling off lust. It also cools off tempers.”

She amazed him by actually laughing. “You wouldn’t throw me in.”

“Possibly not. With that cumbersome train on your skirt, I’d probably have to jump in
to save you, and I’d rather not, since I can assure you that my lake is much colder than your pond.”

“I don’t recall your even having a lake.”

“Undoubtedly you couldn’t tear yourself away from my stable to explore further.”

She detected the ill humor in that statement, but chose to ignore it. “Actually, I saw a great deal of your house. One of your maids was having a fine time impressing Tiffany and me. Even showed us your private suite—well, only a peek.”

“Were you impressed?”

“Oh, absolutely. Why do you think I wanted to marry the Duke of Wrothston?”

The taunt cut him to the quick. He should have realized she wouldn’t let the matter of his embarrassing her go so easily, that she’d be getting even in some other way. And she’d chosen a truly sore spot to strike at.

“I recall your saying it was because of my stables,” he replied with deceptive mildness.

“That, too,” she said with a smile, then sauntered away, unaware of the black mood she was leaving him with.

He didn’t attempt to follow her, too angry to trust what he might say. For a good hour he sat there brooding over his misfortune. And not once in that time did it occur to him that Megan might have been teasing him. The subject was too touchy for him, too painful, so he naturally assumed she must know that.

“I hear you made an ass of yourself upon your arrival,” the Dowager Duchess of Wrothston said without preamble as she entered Devlin’s office—also without knocking. “Sorry I missed it, but—good God, Devlin, what have you done to yourself? You look positively disgraceful—and have your valet cut that hair immediately.”

Devlin leaned back in the chair behind his desk and twisted an overgrown lock around his finger. “You don’t like it? This is what happens when one rusticates. Would you like to hear a few other things that can happen?”

“Am I getting the impression that you’re annoyed with me, dear boy?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Very well, we’ll do this your way.” And she sat down across from him to visibly brace herself. “Tell me what other things can happen.”

“One could go insane.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me, but I suppose it’s possible. What else?”

“One could get married.”

“So John
wasn’t
ribbing me? You actually came home with a bride?”

“There are a number of things I’d call her, but bride isn’t necessarily one of them.”

Lucinda St. James cocked a silver-white brow at him. “Trouble already?”

Devlin snorted. “Already? Never anything but.”

“I believe I’ll form my own opinion, since
you’re in such a tetchy mood. Where is the gel?”

Devlin shrugged. “The stable would be as good a guess as any.”

Duchy’s brow shot a little higher, since it was after ten o’clock at night. “This late?”

“The time of day or night is never an issue when
she
wants in a stable.”

She started to say something, then changed her mind. “I’m not going to touch that one.”

“Don’t blame you a’tall,” Devlin retorted dryly.

“Very well, you’ve kept me dangling long enough. Who is she?”

“Squire Penworthy’s daughter.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Duchy said with a grin that told Devlin what he’d suspected.

“You ought to be. What maggoty reasoning gave you the notion that I would take to that redhead?”

“Now how could I possibly know that?” she asked with perfect innocence.

“But you hoped.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“I met her a number of years ago.”

“So I’ve learned to my regret.”

She gave him an annoyed look for that cryptic interruption. “Then you know her father brought her here to purchase one of our Thoroughbreds.”

“And guess what she named that mare?”

“Something silly, no doubt. She was only a child, after all.”

“I’ve always thought the name was ridiculously silly myself, which is why I never use it.”

Both of Duchy’s brows shot up. “You don’t mean—not Ambrose?”

“
Sir
Ambrose, actually,” he replied, at which point his grandmother burst into laughter. “I fail to see the humor in that.”

“You wouldn’t, dear boy, but then you’re as stuffy as your grandfather was at seventy. Comes from too much work and little time for anything else, which I have been
trying
to break you of. You were under his wing too long, that’s your problem. But I’m here to tell you he
wasn’t
like that when I married him, and you’re too damn young to be taking after him.”

“I do
not
consider myself stuffy—nor does Megan, for that matter.”

“Delighted to hear it, but then that’s one of the reasons I’d ‘hoped.’ The gel makes a lasting impression—at least she did on me. I’ve found myself thinking about her quite often over the years.”

“What’d the minx do, set fire to the furniture with her temper?”

Duchy chuckled. “Didn’t notice any temper. But I did notice a great deal of enthusiasm and precocious charm. She was a delightful little chit, with an outspokenness that was quite amusing. It was also vividly apparent
that she was going to be a great beauty. Is she?”

“Without equal,” Devlin allowed grudgingly.

“Then where’s the harm done? I certainly saw none in putting you where you could meet her and might be influenced by her vivaciousness.”

“Playing Cupid doesn’t become you, Duchy,” he said disagreeably. “You’d met Megan Penworthy only once, six years ago when she was no more than a child, and on that one meeting you throw your only grandson to the wolves. I’m disappointed in you.”

“So I gather. Wolves, Devlin?”

“Vixens, then.”

“I take it you’re trying in your ambiguous way to tell me she’s not the girl I thought she was.”

“Not at all. I’m sure that girl is still there and a great many people get to meet her quite frequently. I’m just not one of them.”

Duchy sighed in exasperation. “Kindly remember that I didn’t create the necessity for you to disappear for a while. I merely took advantage of it. The fact remains that you’ve gone through most of your adult life expecting to marry Marianne, so, quite correctly, you weren’t looking around for anyone else. But that marriage did not take place as planned, and when it didn’t, you should have immediately started a search for another bride. Did you? No, you did not. You were too set in your
ways already, and too immersed in your work, even though you know full well that you have a responsibility to marry and produce a son for Wrothston.”

“Why does this sound all too familiar to me?” he asked dryly.

“Because I have a duty to harp on it, and at least I know
my
duty.”

“Haven’t I seen to mine?”

Duchy lost patience with him. “You’re pulling teeth, is what you’re doing. If you don’t like the gel, what’d you marry her for?”

“Who says I don’t like her? No, actually, just now I
don’t
like her, but what the hell’s that got to do with it? It certainly doesn’t stop me from lusting after her every time she comes near me, even when she’s not near—bloody hell, any damn time of the day, for that matter!”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Beg pardon.”

“As well you ought to,” she retorted indignantly. “Now, before I expire of exasperation, what, exactly, is the problem, Devlin?”

“She doesn’t love me.”