The Reluctant Duchess (6 page)

The duchess was entertaining, drawing even her reluctant son into the conversation and leaving no one out. The food was superb, served by liveried footmen. Sara couldn't help but think that this was the life that Meredith had lost. The life she had been born to. She would have made a wonderful duchess.

Sara had never expected that her grief would be so sharp at Rossmoyne House. Everywhere she looked, she imagined Meredith there, in her rightful place beside the duke.

She watched Rossmoyne as he spoke to his mother, and her anger grew. She was surprised by the anger. She'd never once thought Rossmoyne had anything to do with Meredith's death, even when the public turned its accusing eye on him. She knew how much Rossmoyne had loved Meredith. So where did this anger come from? And why now?

“Sara, dear, you're about to fall asleep in your pudding.”

Sara yanked her attention to the duchess and tried to stifle a yawn. She was caught unawares by the exhaustion that suddenly overcame her. She supposed chasing a person through the streets of London did that. What a day it had been.

“My apologies,” she said.

“No, dear, my apologies. I should have realized you would be tired.” The duchess stood, and both men hurried to stand as well. “Gentlemen, Lady Sara and I are retiring for the evening.”

They said their good nights, and Sara followed a maid to her room. She stood just inside the door as the maid closed the curtains and turned back the bedcovers. The room was sumptuously decorated, just like all of Rossmoyne House. Done up in cream and white, it was meant to soothe, and it would have on any other occasion.

Jenny entered and laid out Sara's nightclothes. Sara didn't move. In truth, she felt incapable of moving except to wave Jenny away when she tried to unlace her. “Not right now, Jenny.” As tired as she was, she knew that all she would do was stare at the ceiling, while her mind refused to stop its constant whirling.

Jenny puttered about as Sara sat on the edge of the bed and concentrated on breathing. Everything came crashing down on her at once. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured those letters and the frightening words on them. Every time she entered a room at Rossmoyne House, she pictured Meredith, even though Meredith had never lived here.

Jenny left, quietly closing the door. Even Jenny wasn't really hers. Jenny had been her mother's maid first, then her aunt's, then Meredith's. Sara had inherited her, but she still loved the only person who was willing to talk to her about her parents. She'd lost them at such a young age that she barely remembered them; they were more like ethereal beings. The people she referred to as her mother and father were more real to her.

Sara stood and stomped across the room, though a lady was never supposed to stomp. She flung open the door and looked up and down the massive, empty hall. She'd been half asleep when she'd followed the maid up here and couldn't remember which way to go and had no idea where she wanted to go anyway. She just knew she couldn't stay in this room, in
his
house, a moment longer.

Where was James? Probably fast asleep in the servants' quarters, and well he should be. Since coming to London, James had been on constant alert. He deserved a good night's rest.

She turned right, almost immediately changed her mind, and turned left. For what seemed like forever, she roamed one hall after another, all empty, all silent as a tomb, all sumptuously decorated with plush carpets and dark paneling. Who needed so many rooms? Surely Rossmoyne didn't use them all.

Eventually, she found her way down a set of steps and began to recognize a few landmarks. It was late; the servants had retired well over an hour ago. Sara had always enjoyed the quiet moments. She preferred them, actually. Being alone was soothing to her. Being in a crowd made her heart race and her palms perspire. Her mind never worked as quickly when she was forced to converse with strangers, or even people she knew but wasn't around often. She hated that she was like that. Her mother used to force her to socialize, believing that the more she practiced, the less anxious she would be. But her anxiety didn't work that way. She could not move beyond the real fear that stole her tongue. Meredith, who'd reveled in being at the center of any crowd, had tried to understand, and had shielded Sara from the worst of it, but even she couldn't protect Sara forever.

Sara peeked into room after room, discovering a towering ballroom that echoed when she opened the door. With the windows covered and the candles unlit, it appeared cavernous and slightly frightening. She found a ladies' retiring room adjacent to the ballroom, a few sitting rooms, all closed up and cold, and a smaller ballroom for less formal affairs.

She discovered the hallway that housed the portraits of the previous dukes and duchesses. It was hard to see in the dark with only the light of the moon shining through the window at the end of the hall, but she saw a resemblance between the first duke and the current duke. Both were formidable and dour. Except she never remembered the current Rossmoyne being dour before Meredith's death. When he had been with Meredith, he had been charming. People had flocked to both of them to bask in the magic they created together. She remembered them laughing a lot and being outgoing and social—something she was not.

She found Lady Elizabeth's portrait and was pleased to discover that she was correct: Elizabeth had been a stunning beauty in her day.

Sara turned a corner and was relieved to find that she had somehow returned to the study where she and Rossmoyne and Montgomery had discussed the events of the day. The fire was still lit, although it was burning down to glowing embers. Sara inspected the books lining the walls. None of the titles intrigued her enough to want to pull one down and read it. She turned around and froze. Rossmoyne was sitting in a chair facing the fireplace, watching her.

“You could have warned me you were in here,” she said a bit breathlessly as she tried to control her hammering heart.

“Do you always go traipsing about people's homes in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“And yet you were falling asleep in your pudding.”

“Obviously, I entered the wrong room. My apologies for disturbing your musings, Your Grace.”

“And what of your musings, my lady?”

“Pardon me?”

He straightened his legs until his boots were close to the fire. He'd forsaken his frock coat and had lost his cravat somewhere. The white V of his shirt was a startling contrast to the dark skin beneath. While he'd shaved earlier that day, he had not visited a barber or had his valet cut his hair. It hung to his shoulders, the firelight picking out the red highlights and turning them a fiery orange. His shoulders were as wide as the overstuffed chair he was sitting in. Those amber eyes watched her. “You obviously can't sleep for a reason. What musings are keeping you awake?”

She looked away, discomfited by the conversation and by being alone with him in a dark room. “I should go.”

He chuckled, and it was then that she noticed the half-empty bottle of Scottish whiskey on a table by his elbow. He lifted a thick-cut glass and drained it.

“You've been drinking,” she said.

“I have. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ah, there's the marquess's daughter.”

“Pardon me?”

“You turned your nose up at me. I wondered where the marquess's daughter was. You certainly didn't act like one today.”

“I have no idea what you mean. You're drunk.”

“Not nearly.” He poured two fingers into his glass and took a sip. “Sit,” he commanded, waving his glass toward the matching overstuffed chair behind her.

Rather than argue, Sara sank into it. Even though she couldn't sleep, she was exhausted, her mind numb from everything that had happened over the past few weeks. If she could turn off her mind, she would.

“So what are you thinking?” he asked as he stared into the fire. He was in a contemplative mood and far more gregarious than he had been.

“I'm thinking this is inappropriate and I should return to my room.”

“Besides that.”

“I'm…I'm finding that I'm thinking an awful lot about Meredith. Every hall I walk down, every room I enter, I think that this could have been hers. It would have been hers if not for a madman.”

“Do you think so?”

She raised a brow in surprise. “You were betrothed. I'm assuming she would have presided over your home. Am I wrong?”

He shrugged and contemplated the fire for a long time, making Sara wonder what he was thinking. What an odd turn to the conversation. Sara assumed from the way Ross and Meredith had behaved together that they had been in love. Could she have been wrong?

“You miss her.” His voice startled her out of her thoughts.

“Yes. Every day. And you? Do you miss her?”

“I miss us,” he said.

Ross peered at Sara through the haze of alcohol that clouded his brain. He wasn't drunk, as she had accused, but he was well on his way.

The firelight softened her appearance; for once that censorious look was gone from her features. He was again surprised to see that she was pretty in her own way. Meredith's beauty had overshadowed everything when she was in the room, but Meredith hadn't been in the room for two years now, and here was Sara, who possessed her own beauty. Her soft brown hair took on blond streaks when the firelight touched it, and those eyes seemed to see everything and take it in. She was a thinker, Sara was. He liked that.

“What do you mean, that you miss us?” she asked into the silence.

He'd said too much, but then he was in the frame of mind that he didn't care. Tomorrow he would care, but not now.

“When Meredith was around, everything seemed brighter, more alive.
I
felt more alive.”

“And now?” she asked.

Leave it to Sara to dig deeper, to want to know more.

“And now it's not like that anymore. Everything changed.” He'd let her think that he meant everything had changed when Meredith died, but in reality things had changed long before that.

“You do seem more dour.”

He surprised himself by laughing, even though her words were spot on.

“You loved her,” she said softly.

“I did.” And he missed her, but he had been truthful when he said he missed the two of them together. He missed having a partner, someone to talk to, to go to social events with. He supposed he missed what could have been, but when he tried to picture a life with Meredith, he couldn't. He supposed that was because he had changed so much. Sometimes he wondered if Meredith would like the person he had become. He thought not. Because Sara was right. He was more dour.

But then Meredith had changed as well, before her death.

Two years ago he hadn't taken life seriously, and Meredith hadn't taken life seriously either. He'd grown since her death. Some—most—would say he'd grown up, and there was a lot of truth to that. He'd found a calling in life that was far more than wandering from ball to ball and going to gaming hells. He'd seen human suffering up close, and he'd been in some tight situations that had him wondering if he would survive.

Yes, he was dour. He didn't like that aspect of himself, but he was afraid to let himself unwind because he'd seen the flip side of that, and he didn't want to go back there.

“Do you despise me?” he asked into the silence. Where in the hell did that come from? What did he care if Lady Sara Emerson despised him? And yet he did care. He'd tried to distance himself from her family except for the occasional letter he'd had his secretary send. For so long he'd blamed himself for Meredith's death that he had assumed her family felt the same.

Sara seemed startled by his question. “Of course I don't despise you. Why would you ask that?”

He shrugged. “Just a feeling I get when I'm around you.”

She slipped into contemplative silence and after a while said, “I don't despise you, but there are moments when I'm angry with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you should have been there. You should have protected her. Meredith was such a free spirit and so trusting of people. You should have stopped it….” Her voice trailed off, and even though she spoke softly, it didn't lessen the hurt he felt. She certainly knew where to stab him to cause the most pain.

How many times had he thought the same thing? How many times had he chastised himself for not being there for Meredith when she needed him? Had she called for him while she was being brutalized? He'd woken from many a sweaty dream with the call of his name echoing inside him.

“I don't mean…that is to say, I don't blame you,” she added.

“Ah, but you do. You just admitted you do.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Isn't it?”

“You're twisting my words around.”

He reached for the whiskey bottle, filled his glass, and took a healthy swallow, feeling the comforting burn all the way to his stomach. The room took on a hazy quality. “No need to get defensive, little one. You are correct. I should have been there.”

“Why do you think she left the house?”

The question had haunted him for two years. They had gone to a ball that night and been the toast of the event—the newly engaged duke and his soon-to-be duchess. They had been treated like royalty without actually being royalty. People flocked to them to congratulate them, to speak to them, just to be near them. It had all been Meredith. She had been the shining star that drew everyone to her. He had been peripheral, although being a duke hadn't hurt.

He and Meredith had fought that night. They fought often, though to the outside world, they were the perfect couple. It had been exhausting, keeping up that ruse. The fight was of the usual nature. Meredith had wanted to continue with the balls, and Ross had not. He'd wanted a quiet night in, but for Meredith, that thought was foreign. He'd gone to the ball but ended up leaving early.