Sattler, Veronica (74 page)

Ashleigh
grinned, then blushed as she caught sight of the bulge that had not yet
subsided beneath his fawn-colored breeches. "Perfectly, Your Grace. My
husband will have his due."

And
an hour later, amid the bustle and excitement of baggage being unloaded,
greetings from the staff, and delighted chatter from the children, the duke and
his duchess disappeared to their rooms, and he did.

* * * * *

Their
presence at Ravensford Hall was greeted with hearty good cheer on the part of
the staff; from the Busbys to the stable help, the servants at the duke's
country seat had grown exceedingly fond of Ashleigh, and during the time of the
duke and duchess's estrangement—well-known to them through the servants'
ubiquitous and well functioning grapevine—most had privately hoped the marriage
might be repaired. Moreover, members of the older staff, such as the Busbys and
a few others who had been around when Brett was a small boy, were both
astounded and delighted to see that Mary, the former viscountess, had returned
with the obvious blessings of her son. She, like Ashleigh, had been a favorite
of theirs before she left, and to a person, they had always believed her
innocent of the charges the senior Westmonts had levied against her.

Little
Marileigh quickly became the adored darling of all, and while there were some
initially raised eyebrows at the horde of foreign-accented children who
descended on them with this visit, the near-perfect manners and discipline with
which the contessa had imbued her charges soon manifested itself, relieving the
servants' fears and bringing smiles to their faces as the old house echoed with
childish laughter and youthful energies.

And
finally there were the changes in the master; there was no containing their
gasps of dawning delight as they quickly became aware that His Grace had become
a different person. And when they saw the soft looks of love exchanged between
the duke and his radiant little duchess, the unspoken but patently visible
chords of mutual adoration between them, they readily guessed at the source.

"I
knew that sweet little thing was someone special the first day she came,
Henry," said Hettie Busby to her husband the day after the entourage had
arrived, "but I never guessed she had it in her to tame the likes of His
Grace. Beyond hope, I thought he was. But she just went on being herself, Lord
love her, and even that hard case was forced to come 'round."

And
Henry had grinned at her, saying, "Oh, 'Is Grace 'as tumbled 'ard, 'e 'as,
Lor' love 'im. An' a more deservin' man I've never known. Near thirty years
since I seen 'im 'appy like 'e is now!"

But
there was one person at Ravensford Hall who was far from happy over these
latest events. Less than a day after they arrived, Lady Margaret appropriated a
handful of servants and made an exit; bag and baggage, and in tight-lipped
silence, she withdrew from the Hall to live in the dowager's cottage by the
lake, sending only the briefest note to her grandnephew on the matter, wherein
she curtly informed him that she would be sending her lady's maid to deal with
Mr. Jameson regarding any of her future needs.

Ashleigh
expressed dismay at the unbending attitude of Lady Margaret, and Brett
shrugged, saying it was to have been expected, but Mary viewed the retreating
back of her old antagonist in thoughtful silence, a pondering look in her eyes.

Weeks
passed, the warming weather and soft rains of spring melding into the sunshine
of early summer. Crocuses and daffodils bloomed, leading the way for the
thousands of roses that grew in the gardens at Ravensford Hall.

Life
among the estate's inhabitants settled into a comfortable routine. Mary busied
herself with the children, as did Ashleigh, although, since Marileigh spent
more of her time awake and was not sleeping as much during the days as she had
when she was younger, most of Ashleigh's daytime hours were devoted to her own
child.

The
nights, however, were reserved for Brett. The duke found his days consumed by
the demands of his estates—neglected to some extent during the time of his
confinement—so Ashleigh and he, to their chagrin, had found themselves spending
most of their days apart. This had quickly elicited a pact between them: No
matter what the business at hand, no matter how pressing the domestic scene
around them, once the dinner hour passed, they would repair to their private
chamber and see no one but each other—until well after breakfast. And if Her
Grace seemed a bit eager to get through the evening feeding of their daughter,
or if His Grace appeared to rush his consumption of the evening meal, no one
remarked upon it; indeed, there was little reaction, save for an occasional
shared wink or a smile as members of their household watched those two hold
hands and ascend the stairs together, their eyes only on each other.

One
morning in early June was to see an exception to all this. Ashleigh was about
to send for the maid to remove the breakfast tray from the master
bedchamber—she and Brett took of that repast in private, since breakfast, for
them, was usually a sharing of far more than mere food—when Brett emerged from
their dressing room with a grin on his face.

"How
soon can you feed Marileigh and be dressed—in riding clothes?" he asked.

Ashleigh
put down the hairbrush she'd been wielding, hoping to put some order into the
tangled mass of curls that hung down her back before summoning the maid.
"Oh, I should think—
riding clothes!"

"Yes.
I'm off to the stables now, and I'd like you to meet me there in an hour...
that is, unless you've something better to do than accompany me on a ride—and
then a picnic."

"A...
picnic!
Oh, Brett, do you really
mean
it?" She whirled
sharply to face him, the brush flying out of her hand.

"Yes,
I mean it," he chuckled, then opened his arms wide to catch her as she
threw herself into them with a cry of delight.

"Oh,
I cannot believe it!" she enthused as she clung to his neck and placed
little kisses all over his laughing face. "We're to have some hours
together today, then?"

Laughing
and swooping her up off the floor as he swung her around, Brett answered,
"The entire day, love, if you like."

"Ohhh,
I
like!"

He
released his hold enough to let her slide down the front of him until she
reached the floor; then he sucked in his breath. All she wore was a semitransparent
chemise, and he'd just felt enough of the ripe curves beneath it, seen enough
of the twin, rose-tipped peaks and a triangular shadow below, to become
distracted.

"But
if you don't hurry into something... more decorous," he breathed, his
hands spanning her tiny waist and itching to travel, "the picnic will be
postponed...
indefinitely!"

Ashleigh
felt a familiar hardness pressing against her belly, and her breathing
diminished almost to nothing. She looked up, and the message in his eyes made
her knees go weak. "I... a picnic could be used to accomplish more than...
the partaking of food, Your Grace... if its site were to be completely private,
that is."

A
moment of silence followed, and then a deep rumble of laughter from her
husband's chest. "In that case, Your Grace, I accept. A picnic it shall
be, in the most private of places. I know just the spot!"

* * * * *

An
hour later, a groom led Raven and Irish Night to where the duke and duchess
waited outside the stables. As it was a warm morning, Brett wore only a white
lawn shirt, minus any jabot or stock, with dove-gray breeches fitted into his
shiny black riding boots. Ashleigh had donned a light blue linen riding habit,
but shunned the small, feathered hat Madame Gautier had made to go with it, opting
to tie her curls at the nape of her neck with a narrow blue ribbon instead.

After
they were mounted, Brett dismissed the groom, then turned in his saddle to
Ashleigh. "Irish Night's well behaved over fences now. I tested her
yesterday afternoon, just to confirm what Old Henry told me. He completed her
training himself while we were away, you know. The old curmudgeon had the
impudence to wink at me, if you can imagine it, and calmly inform me he'd
thought it would be only a matter of time before I brought 'Er Grace' back
home, at which time he'd assumed you'd be needing a safe mount to ride."

Ashleigh
laughed. "Why, that old rascal! I had no idea he was such a romantic! But
Hettie tells me he is a bit superstitious.
Her
version of the story is
that he was merely
hopeful
I'd return and, not wishing to give the, ah,
'spirits of safe returns,' I believe she called them, any wrong ideas, he
insisted on behaving as if I
were
coming back any day. She says if there
was any hope of dissuading him of his 'un-Christian, heathen notions' before,
it's lost now."

Brett
laughed too, then headed Raven out of the stable's courtyard with Ashleigh
following. It warmed him to think of how fond the servants here at the Hall had
grown of Ashleigh—and those in London, too. He reflected back to an evening a
year ago when he'd struck a "bargain" over a tiny, blue-eyed waif
he'd later made a duchess, and found himself grinning.

The
woman riding beside him, he mused as he looked at the perfect, delicate profile
of his wife, had proven more of a bargain than any of them had ever suspected.
She was a born lady, dignified and regal in her bearing, and able to pass the
true test of her station: she commanded the love and respect of those beneath
her as well as those of her own class, effortlessly putting at ease all those
around her. Why, even that old harridan, Margaret, was beginning to come
around. She'd shocked them all just the other day by inviting Ashleigh to tea,
whereupon she'd presented the new mother with a beautiful silver cup she'd had
engraved for Marileigh, saying the birth of a new Westmont was worthy of a
healing of their differences. And by the time the tea was over, she was clearly
trying to become Ashleigh's friend. Such was the power to charm, of his lady
wife!

Brett
laughed at himself with a sudden realization. He hadn't made her a duchess! She
had come to him already formed in that mold; he'd only set to rights what fate
had seen misplaced. And thank God he had, he reminded himself soberly. Thank
God he had!

"I'll
race you to that copse of trees over there," said Ashleigh, breaking his
reverie.

"You
think you have a prayer of winning, do you?"

She
eyed the picnic hamper he had fastened to Raven's saddle, then saucily ran her
gaze over his form. "Raven may be the more powerful horse, but he's
carrying more weight. I refer not only to our victuals, but to a certain... ah,
good-sized... muscular male body. I may win, Your Grace."

Brett
drew his mount even with hers. "Oh, and what will Her Grace have as a
prize if she wins?"

A
slow grin emerged on Ashleigh's face. "She would have you agree to... an
experiment I have in mind."

A
chestnut eyebrow shot upward. "Without knowing its nature in
advance?"

She
shrugged, the grin still in place. "'Tis only if she wins, Your
Grace."

It
was Brett's turn to grin. "And if
I
win?"

"You've
only to name your prize now."

He
shook his head, his eyes meeting hers with a look of amused mischief. "I
think I'll name it later."

A
frown and then a pout.

"'Tis
only if I win," he mimicked, grinning at her again. "Now, shall we
race? Begin on the count of three. One... two..."

They
took off in unison, their superbly bred horses eager to flex their muscles,
each game for the win. Out of the corner of her eye Ashleigh saw Raven beside
her, but beginning to nose ahead, and she leaned forward, bending low over
Irish Night's neck to urge her on. The little filly responded with an
additional burst of speed and began to draw ahead of the stallion.

"That's
it," Ashleigh crooned to the filly. "Good girl, we can do it!"
She crouched even lower, a tricky thing on a sidesaddle, but she wished to
provide as little wind resistance as possible, for Brett had just asked the
stallion for more speed and was getting it, the powerful horse closing the gap
between them.

Continuing
to murmur words of encouragement to the filly, Ashleigh let her have her head.
It was just what the game little horse wanted. She shot out ahead of Raven by
more than a length, and a quick glance over her shoulder told Ashleigh this
came as a total surprise to Brett. But then she saw her husband hunch forward
and ask the stallion for more, and she had no time to do anything but see to
her mount; Irish Night, who had somehow understood Raven's challenge, was
lengthening her strides even more in an all-out effort to win.

And
then it happened. The sidesaddle swung crazily downward, around the filly's
girth, and at that instant Ashleigh was certain she was about to hit the ground
and die. But her instincts saved her. Preventing what could easily have been a
fatal fall, she grabbed the racing filly about the neck and held on.