Author: Catherine Coulter
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/catherine-coulter/page,18,36488-the_wyndham_legacy.html
Marcus found that he had to shake himself. Trevor continued in his cool, drawling voice, “You know, of course, that Aunt Gweneth and my father corresponded until his death, then it continued with my mother.”
“No, I had no idea. However, I haven’t been back here the five years since Charlie and Mark died. I came back only after our uncle died and I became the earl. The Wyndham legacy, huh? A treasure from the early sixteenth century? It all sounds like a bloody fairy tale to me.”
“It does to me as well. But my mother believes it.”
“Shall we go back to the Park?”
Trevor nodded, giving Marcus a lazy smile. He said in that drawling voice, “If nothing else, I can sit and just look at the Duchess. It warms a man’s cockles to see such character and loveliness in one female person.”
“You need spectacles,” Marcus said, turned Stanley, and dug his heels into his stallion’s sides. The two men rode side by side in silence back to the Park.
14
MAGGIE FASTENED ELIZABETH Cochrane’s pearls around the Duchess’s throat, stood back, and studied her in the mirror.
“Lawks,” she said, complacently patting her own brilliantly red hair as she saw her own image with its vibrant mass of ringlets above the Duchess’s head.
The Duchess smiled, wondering who the lawks was for. She said as she lightly fingered the pearls, “My mother used to tell me that pearls had to be worn often against the flesh otherwise they would lose their luster.”
“Lawks,” Maggie said again, fingering one of the pearls at the back of the Duchess’s throat. “These oyster pellets must have cost his lordship a bloody fortune, I’d say.”
“You’d probably say right, Maggie.”
“Now, Duchess, I didn’t ever think anyone could have hair as gorgeous as mine, but yours is passable-looking, it surely is, despite that sinful black color, maybe even because of it since your skin is whiter than that Yorkshire cheese I’ve seen, that looks wonderful but tastes like a rotted bladder. Yes, all that black hair provides distraction, and distraction is important for the stage.”
“Thank you, Maggie. You’re probably right.”
“Yes, you’re quite passable-looking too, beautiful even, if I stretch it just a little bit, and I know his lordship will think so too.”
“You believe his lordship will stretch it, Maggie?”
“Stretch what, Duchess?”
Marcus stood in the now open adjoining doorway between the master’s bedchamber and the countess’s bedchamber. She grew very still, unable to look away from him. He was dressed in immaculate black evening wear, his linen stark white, his cravat crisp and beautifully tied, thanks, undoubtedly, to Spears and his magic fingers. His thick black hair was a bit long, curling over the top of his cravat. His blue eyes, however, were cold, colder than the freezing winter of last year that froze the Thames. She tried to smile at him, tried to recognize within herself that he was here and he was sleeping in the bedchamber through that single door, just a thin simple door, that was all, and now he was here, looking at her, and she managed to say calmly, “Maggie thinks I can go beyond passable-looking if you stretch it.”
“Aye, but you, my lord, as her husband, would stretch it to beautiful.”
“Would I? I wonder. You’ve tricked her out well, Maggie. You may leave us now.”
“Just a moment, my lord,” Maggie said with oblivious disregard of the fact that the earl himself had dismissed her. “Let me put this lovely shawl over her shoulders. It’s fair cool at night and I won’t want her to catch a chill. There, Duchess. You look bloody fine now. I approve.”
“Thank you, Maggie. Please don’t wait up for me.”
Maggie just nodded, then, to Marcus’s utter astonishment, she winked at him, then walked out of the bedchamber, all the while touching and patting that flaming red hair of hers.
“Where the devil did you find her?” he asked, staring in bemusement at the now closing door.
“Badger did, in Portsmouth. She found him, actually. She saved him from being run down by a mail coach. I needed a maid and she needed a position. It seems she was between acting jobs. That’s what she is, you know, an actress. Actually, she is very competent and I find her amusing.”
“She winked at me!”
“Well, she’s never been a maid before. She was probably quite used to men looking at her and admiring her, perhaps even more. Perhaps she forgot herself for a moment and was seeing you as a possible leading man in a play.”
More like a possible protector, Marcus thought, but said aloud, shaking his head, “Jesus. The countess of Chase has an actress for a personal maid.” He added with a grin, “I will admit she does have panache.”
He’d actually referred to her as the countess. She felt something hopeful sprout in her, but then he turned away from her and began pacing the floor.
“You shouldn’t allow her to call you Duchess. Surely it’s an impertinence.” This observation he tossed over his shoulder. “Everyone calls you Duchess. You’re not Duchess, you’re a countess, you’re a my lady.”
“I don’t really care,” she said, watching him closely. “How is your wounded arm?”
“What? Oh, my arm. It’s fine. Actually, it still gets a bit sore if I use it too much.”
“And your ribs?”
He looked at her now, stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread, and just looked down at her. He was so big. She knew he was trying to intimidate her, but how could he when she’d known him since he was fourteen years old? As she recalled, to a nine-year-old girl, he’d been overpowering even then. “What is this? Wifely concern?”
“I suppose so.”
“My ribs are well again.”
“That’s good.”
“I met Trevor. He was riding Clancy. He looked like a bloody centaur.”
She smiled, actually smiled, more than one of her meager little liftings of the corners of her mouth, and he knew she knew he’d made a complete and utter ass of himself. He persevered. “Trevor is still a wretched dandy’s name.”
“Perhaps, but he is a man with nothing at all effete about him. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, dammit. It’s ridiculous to pin such a ridiculous name on a man who is my size.”
“Yes, but right now, I really don’t care.” She paused a moment at the surprised look on his face, then said, “It’s good to see you, Marcus. I was hoping you would come here.”
“I hadn’t intended to, but, well—” He shrugged, and for a moment, she would have sworn he looked vastly uncomfortable, even embarrassed.
“Regardless, I’m glad you’re here. Your Aunt Wilhelmina is a difficult woman, a puzzle really. Your young cousin Ursula is very nice, I’m sure you realized that when you met her this morning in the garden. James is my age, perhaps a bit older, and I have no idea what he’s like. The look on his face is decidedly morose. Something is wrong there. As you saw for yourself, Trevor is quite a lovely man. He’s kind.”
“What do you mean he’s ‘lovely’?”
“He’s big and very strong and handsome.”
“I want you to watch what you say around him, be certain not to be overly friendly. He might try to take advantage of you. You’re very innocent and he is not.”
“I’m a wife now, surely I’m not all that innocent.”
His eyes dilated. “Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, you are. No, don’t argue with me in that reserved well-bred way of yours. Tell me why you’re glad I’m here.”
She became perfectly still and he hated it. He shouldn’t have reminded her that she was reserved. She’d become a bit more open with him, spoken freely, without restraint, but now her hands were folded quietly in her lap. Slowly, very slowly, she raised her chin and looked at him squarely. It seemed to him a mighty effort. Then she said baldly, “You’re my husband. I missed you.”
“Your husband,” he said, sarcasm evident in his repetition. For a moment he’d forgotten her perfidy, but now she’d fan
ned those perfidious embers back into a roaring orange flame. “Don’t you find it odd that we’re married, Duchess? I’ve known you since you were nine years old, skinny with knobby knees, and so very solemn you could have been a pillar in the Norman abbey in Darlington. Yes, so quiet you were, so aloof, so very reserved and watchful. I saw the future beauty in that somber, too quiet child. And I called you the Duchess and everyone then saw the same things I did, and thus it became your name, even to your red-haired maid who’s an actress and looked at me as if she’d like to bed me and have me buy her a bauble in return.”
“Yes,” she said. “And when I was only nine years old, you were fourteen and proud and strong and the devil’s own son. My father was right about that. You led Charlie and Mark into some disgraceful mischief. My father always knew it was you who led them, always. Do you remember when you, Charlie, and Mark made a stout pine casket and filled it with stones and laid it on the floor in front of the altar in the church? When people filed in for the Sunday service, there it was, that coffin, just lying there with a rough bouquet of flowers on top of it, and everyone was afraid to open it.” She smiled a very small smile down at her folded hands, then added, “I looked up to you ever so much, but still you frightened me.”
“Frightened you, Duchess? I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine you ever being frightened of anything. If anyone threatened you, you’d just freeze him with one of those still, blank looks of yours. One of those inhuman looks that make a person silent as the grave. Why would you be frightened of me?”
She looked away from him then, and he realized she was embarrassed.
“Why?”
She said in a voice that didn’t sound at all like her, a low voice, muffled, reticent, “You belonged here. You were strong and confident and you belonged. Even now you belong although you’re fighting it with all your absurd misplaced pride. I never did belong.”
He didn’t want to deal with that, not now, there was too much else to think about. He said shortly, “Well, now you’re the damned countess of Chase. Surely you believe that you belong now. More than I do, truth be told, for your father gave you everything that wasn’t nailed down with the entailment. Doesn’t everyone treat you with respect and deference?”
“Yes, everyone has been most kind. When Mr. Wicks and I arrived three days ago, I will tell you that I was nervous. After all, I am the former earl’s bastard, no matter how you cut the cake, a former bastard who is now the mistress. But everyone has been generous. I am grateful for that.”
“But not dear Aunt Wilhelmina.”
“Her behavior is frankly strange and leaves one’s mouth gaping open. I daresay you will gain her measure very quickly. It is time to go to the Green Cube Room, Marcus. It is time for you to meet her and James.”
“Very well. No, no, don’t move. Good God, you’re showing too much cleavage, Duchess. Here, hold still.”
He strode to her and she rose to meet him. He rearranged her shawl, tying it first in a knot and setting it directly between her breasts, then pulling the knot to the side so that the long part of the shawl draped low over the front part of her gown. It looked frankly ridiculous, but she said nothing, didn’t move, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Still displeased, he tried to pull the gown up, but it wouldn’t move, for it was banded snugly beneath her breasts. For a moment, she felt the warmth of his fingers against her flesh. If he noticed where his fingers were, he gave no indication of it, saying with a frown, “I still don’t like it. You will have it altered. I trust your other gowns are not so very revealing. Doubtless that mangy dog Trevor will ogle you. You will give him one of those cursed cold looks with your chin up to the ceiling, like he’s so lowly he’s beneath your slipper.”
“Do you believe he would prefer being a mangy dog to a bloody fop?”
But now Marcus was looking at her breasts. Then he looked at his fingers that had touched her. He didn’t say anything. She saw his eyes darken, saw his pupils enlarge. His cheeks flushed. Slowly, he lowered his fingers and lightly skimmed them over her bare shoulder. He looked utterly absorbed. Those calloused fingertips moved slowly, so very slowly, to touch the top of her breasts. She felt a shiver of warmth, felt a shaking response from deep within her and leaned toward him, pressing her flesh against those tantalizing fingers. He whipped his hand away. She was motionless for a moment, knowing she had to regain her sense, knowing that she hadn’t behaved as she should have. She’d simply done what her body had wanted her to do and he’d found her unacceptable. She finally managed to say, “It is time.”
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, still looking at her breasts. “I suppose it is time, Duchess.”
It was very late. She yawned, then realized that she couldn’t manage the buttons at the back of her gown. She stood there before her mirror for a moment, wondering what to do. She wondered until the adjoining door opened and Marcus walked through, wearing an old burgundy velvet dressing gown. His feet were big and bare.
She froze. “What are you doing here?”
He walked up to her, stopped just inches away, and smiled down at her. “I’m your husband. I’m also the master here. I can be anywhere I please.”
“I see,” she said, her eyes on the lapels of his dressing gown. She saw the bare threads threatening to pull apart, particularly at his elbows.
“I doubt it.”
“What do you think of Aunt Wilhelmina?”
He frowned a bit. “She is unexpected. She was all charm and sweetness to me, but I don’t trust her. As for Trevor, I was right. He stared at your breasts and don’t try to deny it. And James, he was staring too, but he is more concerned with his own troubles than with your attributes. It went off all right. Everyone behaved himself. It’s fortunate that there are so many tidbits of interest right now, what with the political situation and all the entertainment our foreign visitors are providing us. Have you heard that ditty about the Grand Duchess Catherine? With the rude, crude, and lewd? She and her brother, Czar Alexander, and their antics, will provide dining conversation for another three months.”
“I have heard Spears singing it. I think it a clever ditty. He has a beautiful voice.”
“He thinks so at any rate. As I said, Aunt Wilhelmina acted normal, at least as much as a Colonist can act normal, their speech being so slow you want to yell at them to just get on with it. Yes, the evening went off just fine.”
The evening hadn’t been all that painful, she thought, as she nodded slowly. She had, however, been surprised when Aunt Wilhelmina had oozed charm all over Marcus. He was right about that. And she’d watched him, she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d looked at his beautiful mouth, listened to his deep voice, his deeper laughter, the way he chuckled off-key, and couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off his hands, large hands with black hair on the backs, and those long fingers of his, fingers that had touched her, caressed her.
“Would you please unbutton my gown, Marcus? I cannot seem to manage it.”
With any other woman, he would have believed it an invitation. But not with her. Not with the Duchess. His wife. She turned, lifted the thick glossy black hair that was in a loose pile down her back. It hung there in deep ripples, for she’d just pulled the braids apart and smoothed them through with her fingers. It was a style that suited her, those fat braids interwoven with ribbons in a coronet atop her head. Her face was too fine, too well-sculpted for all those clusters of ringlets over the ears. No, this style suited her to perfection. He unfastened the row of small buttons that marched up her back. The gown was quite pretty, the dark blue the precise color of her eyes. Still, it was cut too low.
When the gown gaped open, he took a step back. “There,” he said. “You’re free of it.”
She turned to face him. He didn’t move. There was no screen in the bedchamber. “I have to change now, Marcus. Would you please leave me for a while?”
“No. But I will get in bed.”
She stared at him, words shoved together into a meaningless mass i
n her throat. She watched him walk to the bed set on its foot-high dais, watched him walk in his bare feet, big feet that were really quite beautiful, watched him pull the covers back, unsash the dressing gown, shrug it off, and naked as a black-haired god, climb into the bed. He pulled the covers to his waist, fluffed the pillows behind his head, and settled himself. Now he watched her.
She wasn’t stupid. He wanted to have sex with her. But still there were no words in her mouth or in her mind. Her mind was filled with the sight of him, standing there, for just an instant really, shrugging off that dressing gown, showing her his long muscled back, his man’s flanks, his man’s buttocks and long, thick legs. She swallowed. She supposed she’d considered this, but not really, not to this point, not to where he was actually in her bed, and he was awake and sober and appeared to want this. To want her.
She felt a surge of hope. She stared at his chest with its mat of thick black hair, at the obvious strength and power of him and said, “You want me to be your wife now, Marcus?”
He merely smiled at her and crossed his arms behind his head. “Get undressed, Duchess.”
Slowly, she pulled the gown off her shoulders, eased it past her hips, and let it drop to a soft pool of blue silk at her feet. She slid her hands beneath her chemise and pulled the dark blue garters down her legs and unrolled her stockings. She kicked off her slippers and pulled the stockings off her feet. Dressed only in her chemise, she stepped out of the clothing and walked slowly toward the bed.
“You didn’t want me before,” she said, stopping a foot from the dais. Her black hair fell and framed her face, a face now very pale in the dim light. Maggie her maid had been right. The contrast of all that sinful black hair against the white flesh of her arms and legs and the pure white of her chemise was starkly beautiful. She was exquisite, this wife of his who had drugged him and married him while he was in a stupor and who had come to his bed and made him take her virginity so that he couldn’t, in a state of enraged stupidity, if he could have ever been that abysmally stupid, annul the marriage.