JoAnn Wendt Read online

  She looked every inch the duchess. The duke would be pleased. Her girlish mass of red hair had been tamed to a sleek sophistication. Washed three times by a clucking covey of hairdressers, her hair had been brushed dry, then drawn to the crown of her head and coaxed into a tumble of Greek curls that emulated the Greek statues of Tewksbury Gardens. A tendril of burnished hair curled at each ear, softening the blaze of diamonds that trembled there.

  Her gown was French, as the duke had commanded. An acclaimed dressmaker had been summoned from Paris. The result—dazzling. Even the difficult-to-please duke deemed it worthy of the occasion.

  The gown was a sweep of ivory satin. The neckline was low and trimmed with flowerlike ivory satin petals. Each petal was encrusted with seed pearls and brilliants. Cloth-of-silver underskirts rippled at the hem of her gown as she moved, lending a silvery grace. She wore diamonds on her fingers, diamonds on her wrists and the famous Tewksbury diamond pendant upon her white bosom.

  With a last anxious glance in the glass, Flavia stepped from the staircase, releasing her skirts. The heavy satin woofed softly as it settled round her. She hurried on, her step echoing in the entrance hall, her step clicking over a floor of snowy marble that had as its center the ducal crest worked in black and gold marble. From their posts near the tall, ornately carved double doors, footmen bowed as she passed. A glance out the Venetian glass windows assured her all was in readiness outside, too. The duke would find nothing to criticize. Torches flamed along Tewksbury’s quarter-mile carriage drive. Footmen waited in the flaring light to help guests alight from conveyances that would range from Uncle Simon’s modest landau to coaches crested and trimmed in gold leaf.

  Flavia shivered. She wished the coaches, the river barges would never arrive. She dreaded tonight. She dreaded the natal day congratulations that would bubble so effusively from smiling mouths while malicious eyes narrowed and darted between her young figure and that of the aging duke. She shuddered. Then, sensing the eyes of servants upon her, she swept regally on.

  The duke waited in the Hall of Portraits in the west wing. As was his custom in unoccupied moments, he was studying the heroic-size paintings of titled Englishmen and equally titled Germans. His own likeness, Germanic and severe, hung in the place of honor.

  As Flavia entered, her heart drummed with the trepidation she always felt in the duke’s presence. Hearing the rustle of her gown, he turned abruptly. She dropped into a graceful curtsy. When she rose, he was fitting spectacles upon the bridge of his long Roman nose. Clasping his hands behind his stiff black brocade coat, he studied her without expression. As he did so, Flavia’s cheeks warmed in humiliation. She was the duke’s property. She was his to inspect. Still, she thought in a flush of anger, it is degrading. She fought the impulse to fidget under his gaze; the duke disliked females with fluttery hands.

  At last he removed the spectacles, folded the wire temples with maddening slowness, and replaced the spectacles in an inner breast pocket.

  “I approve,” he said in his chill, thready voice.

  Flavia let out her breath in relief.

  ‘Thank you, sir,” she said softly.

  “Not at all.”

  He continued to inspect her, his cold eyes traveling from her crown of Greek curls to her silver slippers.

  “I believe I shall have you painted as you are tonight. The new portrait shall replace the current one hanging in the Hall of Duchesses. That likeness lacks—” He tossed a ruffled wrist in an aristocratic gesture. “—lacks dignity,” he finished.

  Flavia flushed. She knew the duke disliked that portrait. In it, she was all hair and eyes. And her face was not the oval perfection of her predecessors.

  She swallowed. “My only desire is to please you, sir.”

  It was true, fervently true, she admitted to herself. The duke displeased was a man to be feared.

  “Of course.” He accepted the homage as his due. He granted her a rare, careful smile. “You do please me, my dear.”

  Flavia’s eyes widened in surprise. The duke seldom praised. Hardly knowing how to respond, she lowered her eyes to the Oriental carpet that lay like an island in the huge polished hall. She curtsied once again.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He gave a pleased nod at her response and moved toward her on thin legs that were almost comic in white silk stockings and enormous ribboned knee clocks. With stiff formality he offered his arm.

  “Come, my dear. We shall greet our guests on this the first natal celebration of my son.”

  His thready voice rang with pride, and obediently Flavia took his arm and moved with him to the corridor of bowing footmen.

  “You’ve viewed my new jade piece, Flavia?”

  Carefully, she considered her answer. His Grace was easily irritated at an ill-chosen word about his jades.

  “The vase is magnificent, sir. It’s not nephrite jade but jadeite, isn’t it? If I’m not mistaken, sir, a vein of dark green imperial jade runs through the lip of the vase. Only a master craftsman carves imperial jade.”

  His eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise.

  “Very good, my dear. You are learning.” He drew a proud, deep breath. “The piece,” he said, “is a treasure!”

  Flavia knew that to be true as she moved down the corridor on his arm. She dared not ask where he’d gotten the “treasure.” The duke didn’t seem to acquire his Oriental pieces at auction, as other people did. The pieces simply appeared in Tewksbury Hall. No money seemed to be paid.

  Alert to London shipping news ever since the night on the quay, she’d gradually become aware that the duke’s jade collection increased whenever certain colonial ships were in port: Bountiful Lady and Virtue. Those ships had once been investigated on charges of smuggling. The charges had been dismissed as false by the Board of Trade. The duke sat on the board. Uncle Simon served as chief clerk to the board. Flavia shivered. The duke’s wealth seemed to increase every year.

  When they reached the black, white and gold entry hall, the duke suddenly glanced down at her.

  “I have been contemplating the Tewksbury lineage, Flavia. Continuity of line is best ensured by multiple heirs, do you not agree?”

  Flavia’s fingers contracted violently on his stiff brocade sleeve. Her heart stopped. Unable to speak because of dread for what surely must come next, she could only nod.

  He took the nod for acquiescence.

  “I shall resume calling upon you,” he said meaningfully. “If I may, my dear?” His tone was polite but patronizing—the tone of a man who cannot imagine any reply to him in the negative.

  Flavia felt ill. Very, very ill. Forcing back tears that sprang up, she swallowed with difficulty.

  “My—my only wish is to be your dutiful wife, sir.”

  He granted her an approving nod.

  “And so you are.” He patted her tightly curled hand, then drew it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Tonight, my dear? After the ball?”

  Her eyes flew to his in stunned disbelief. Dear heaven, not tonight! Not this night of all nights. Not this night when her mind was so full of him.”

  The duke was waiting. It was foolhardy to make the duke wait. She forced out the only acceptable answer.

  “Tonight, sir,” she whispered, trying to smile.

  He began to say more, but his discourse was arrested by the excited shouts of coach footmen, the loud squeaking crunch of carriage wheels on the crushed stone drive. Becoming the perfect host, the duke left her side.

  Flavia was left alone in her agony, standing stiff and solitary in the center of the entry hall. The imposing black and gold crest under her feet seemed to swallow her up. As footmen tugged open the carved doors, and laughing guests spilled over the threshold, she felt something die within her. What it was, she couldn’t name. But its death left an emptiness in her soul.

  * * * *

  The Baroness Annette Vachon lay curled against him like a contented cat. Garth could almost hear her purr. He smiled to himself a
s her fingernails traced his shoulder, then trailed to his chest. The nails played idly there for a time—twisting tufts of hair—then trailed lower.

  He held his breath in anticipation.

  With a sultry laugh, she shifted up on her elbow. Her raven tresses spilled to his chest like fine silk. She was in one of her playful and generous moods. The forty-four-year-old baroness dipped her head...

  He felt the pleasure build slowly, in golden, ever-widening rings. His ears filled with the roar of his own desire. His blood raced. Slowly she took him to the brink. Then, as he teetered on the brink of release, she suddenly rolled away, giggling. Kittenish, she skittered to the edge of the bed, grabbing at a wrapper of Chinese red silk.

  “Damnation, Annette. Teasing bitch!”

  With a growl, he lunged for her, catching her arm. He wrenched her to the center of the bed, and her giggles rippled as he flung her to her back and held her down. Still giggling, she gasped for air and struggled, her dark hair a silken fan on the pillows.

  “Not again, McNeil,” she scolded, laughing. “My maids must dress me for the ball. Let go.”

  He did not.

  “Will you never learn, Annette? A tease must expect to pay the piper.”

  “But the duke of Tewksbury’s ball—” She broke off, giggling.

  “I don’t know Tewksbury. I don’t give a fig for his ball.”

  He pressed his mouth hard against hers, and slowly the laughter died in her throat. She ceased her struggling. Her body tensed, and he watched the dark flashing eyes mellow to a familiar glow. With an excited shiver, she reached for him.

  * * * *

  The coach jolted along, rocking, pitching. Even with Annette’s footmen running ahead lofting torches, the driver failed to avoid many of the chuckholes.

  Inside the coach, sitting next to Annette, Garth McNeil propped his feet upon the seat opposite and eased down into the sumptuous leather to endure the short journey to Tewksbury Hall. Yawning, he let his eyes slide shut. He was tired. Annette Vachon’s bed was not famous for the sleep it provided.

  He began to snooze. His nap was interrupted by a smart tap on his shoe. He ignored the imperial summons and snoozed on. She tapped again with her ivory fan. This time, insistently. McNeil opened one eye to a slit. “Not again, surely?” he said dryly. The baroness tossed her beautifully coiffed head in feigned disgust.

  “Really, McNeil. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  He gave her a lazy grin. “I know why.”

  She whacked at him with her fan, then speared his propped feet with an annoyed look.

  “Remove your feet from my cushions. You should respect my possessions.”

  McNeil did not remove his feet.

  “As I respect their owner?”

  For answer, she threw her fan in pique and turned away. McNeil chuckled. Why did he enjoy provoking her so? Wasn’t it enough that he exasperated her by calling her Baroness, when the proper mode of address was Lady Annette? Ah well, he thought, perhaps I enjoy playing the role of the colonial-born clod.

  Annette retreated into injured, haughty silence. But experience had taught McNeil that the silence would not last long. His mistress was not one to endure much in silence. He was right. Only a minute passed before she swung her head to him.

  “You do love me, McNeil.”

  “Have I ever said so?”

  She shot him a look of pure fury, and he was surprised at the hint of tears in the hard, dark eyes. He’d gone too far. He sighed. There was no need to hurt her. She made his London stopovers pleasurable. Annette was a generous lover and, in her own greedy and having way, a sweet one. He found the difference in their ages—her forty-four to his thirty-two—to be a positive factor, not a negative one.

  He resolved to make amends. He retrieved the fan for her, and slipped his arm around her waist. When, with a happy, forgiving sigh she settled against him, he kissed the beauty patch she wore on her cheek.

  “You do love me,” she reiterated. McNeil felt a surge of annoyance at the old, wearying theme. He’d heard it for the past three years.

  “I love to bed you,” he corrected.

  She lifted her head, her lips forming a pout. “So! You still fancy yourself in love with that dock whore who warmed your bed one drunken night and then vanished.” She tossed her head in contempt. “You still search for her,” she accused.

  McNeil stiffened. He pulled his arm from her waist.

  “If I do, it does not concern you, Annette.”

  She swung toward him in irritation. “In love with a doxy! Pah. Do you know the life span of a dock whore, McNeil? The slut is long dead of disease. Forget her.”

  He winced. Hadn’t that been his agony these past two years? Hadn’t that worry consumed him during his voyages? He’d searched. Judas, how he’d searched! He’d hired a dozen men to comb London. He’d offered rewards to tavern-keepers and prostitutes.

  “She’s dead,” the baroness said. The furious eyes he turned upon her would have stilled the tongue of even the bravest man, but Annette ignored his fury. Tactlessly, she pressed her case from another direction.

  “Only God knows how much money you’ve wasted in your search.”

  He looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing as a suspicious thought formed. The carriage jolted into a pothole. The lantern swung in its leather harness.

  “Only God knows?” he asked acidly.

  Her scared eyes told him he’d caught her. So she had been nosing into his activities. She fluttered her lashes, suddenly playing the coquette.

  “If I make it my business to delve into your life, it is only because I love you, McNeil.”

  He sat on his temper, sat hard. Damn her bold, interfering ways! Judas. A vile new thought began to form, choking him. Had Annette thwarted his search in some way? She had money enough to do it.

  He gave her a long look. She misread his look and slid coyly to his lap, her silk petticoats rustling. She teased his angry, unyielding mouth with butterfly kisses.

  He burned with anger. He had the sudden urge to demean her, humiliate her. Roughly, he took her into his arms and wrenched at the gown lacings that ran along her spine, wrenching them loose. She jerked upright in surprise.

  “McNeil? What are you doing?”

  He smiled with distaste.

  “The only thing for which you have any talent, Baroness.”

  She tried to lunge away, and for once she did not giggle. She drew quick, panicky breaths.

  “But in my coach? I never!”

  He laughed unkindly.

  “Then it’s time you did, Baroness.”

  She cried out in fresh protest and twisted away. But he held her with one hand and angrily snuffed out the coach lantern that rocked gently at the window.

  “McNeil! No! We are nearing Tewksbury Hall— think how I shall look!” But by the time her words were out, she lay under him in a crush of silk.

  * * * *

  To Flavia’s immense joy, Simon Beauchamp was among the first guests to arrive. She knew it cost her uncle great effort to attend. His health had deteriorated in the past two years, and he preferred a quiet evening at his own fireside.

  She hurried forward. In younger, more carefree days she would’ve run laughing into her uncle’s arms. Those days could be no more. Uncle Simon seemed to understand, but his eyes were the sadder for it. With old-fashioned decorum, he bowed low over the jeweled hand she offered.

  “How very good of you to come, Uncle Simon.”

  “Only the grave could prevent me from honoring your son’s natal day, Flavia.”

  He smiled, but it was a solemn, questioning smile. In it she read unspoken concern for her well-being.

  “All is well,” she said quickly. “Truly, Uncle Simon.”

  The quaver in her voice threatened to betray her, and she slid her gaze from his. To hide the emotions that churned, she smiled with a brightness she didn’t feel. Taking his infirm arm, she plunged into diverting chatter as she led him across
the entryway.

  “Come, Uncle Simon. Salute the duke, and then I shall take you in. Father is already at the gaming tables. Mother is in the west ballroom, keeping a hawk’s eye on Harriet and Phoebe. At thirteen and fourteen, the girls are already such minxes. Uncle, you’ll laugh! They browbeat Mother into letting them wear grown-up gowns. But Mother insisted they tuck a lace fichu into their necklines. I’m positive Harriet and Phoebe intend to let their laces slip the moment Mother turns her back.”

  Her uncle was silent. Gamely she chattered on.

  “I can’t wait for you to see Florentina. She’s so beautiful tonight! She’s sixteen now, you know. When that handsome young baronet from Edinburgh sees her tonight, he is sure to speak to Father. Oh, and Valentina! There has never been such a lovely seventeen-year-old. Wait until you see her. I bought her a gown of ruby-colored silk. With her black hair and bright blue eyes, she’s—”

  She fell silent as the stern set of her uncle’s jaw told her he’d not been deceived by her playacting. His frown deepened as she led him slowly toward the cluster of guests where the duke held court, proudly and arrogantly receiving congratulations on his son’s first birthday.

  Simon Beauchamp scowled.

  “So everyone is happy but you, Flavia.”

  Her eyes fled from his. She wanted to deny his statement, but could not. She couldn’t lie to Uncle Simon. Their hearts were too close. Together, they guarded the secret upon which her safety and the prosperity of her family depended. She patted his arm helplessly.

  “I have my son. I have my sisters. I have Mother and Papa and you. I—I have many blessings, Uncle Simon.”

  He fumbled for her jeweled hand, covering it with his swollen, rheumatic one.

  “Perhaps, my child. But were it within my power to grant it, I would wish you blessed with one thing more.”

  She raised her eyes, questioning.

  “Love,” he said simply.

  * * * *

  The baroness was predictable. First she raged, pelting him with fan, reticule and calamanco dancing pump. Then she hurled curses that would’ve made a sailor blush.

  Amused, McNeil eased into the cushions to ride out her temper. Soon, her railing was punctuated with a few stray giggles. At last she threw up her hands and burst into low throaty laughter.