The Third Duke's the Charm (24 page)

The rules of the game were never clear to her. “Should I have?” she asked ironically.

“Most women would be at least slightly jealous and perhaps asked what she looked like.”

“I have never claimed to be like most of society.”

“No,” he agreed softly, “you are like no one else and I want only you. I was teasing anyway. Her husband rescued me and she was kind enough to dress my wounds.”

“I owe her my gratitude.”

“As do I. Don’t worry, I plan on rewarding them both, though they seem content enough on their sunny isle. Maybe, after our child is born, we can take a small excursion to Minorca.”

Her interest stirred. “I’ve always wanted to see the Mediterranean.”

“Then you shall. I wouldn’t mind a trip back under different circumstances. They have lemon trees there and very different flowers.”

“Lemon trees you say,” she asked curiously. “What kind of flowers?”

“Pink ones.” He grinned as he kissed her. “That is all I remember. Some were pink. There might have been some white blossoms as well, but I can’t be sure.”

“Pink? There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of species with pink flowers. What were the leaves like?”

“I paid no attention.”

“Paid no—”

Her outrage was silenced as he kissed her again, this time more deeply. “I was thinking of you the entire time,” he whispered. “Of our rides in the park. Of rainy English afternoons where we could simply sit and talk, of how you taste and your scent and the way you feel against me. I can’t define when it happened, but I’ve wanted you for a long time. When you were engaged to Charles . . .”

He stopped and Vivian almost held her breath. He looked so endearingly boyish, as if struggling for the words, when in truth there was nothing boyish about his sleek, honed male body and she couldn’t imagine anyone using that description for the Marquess of Stockton.

She asked delicately, because it was important . . . so important. “When I was engaged to Charles, what?”

“I was envious. Of him, but then again, I had been for some time.”

“I have a confession of my own.” She bit her lip, so used to feigning indifference the words were difficult to say. “I have always wanted to marry for love. I told myself that at least I did, and still do, love Charles. Not in the romantic way I’d always imagined, but I knew we would get along well enough. With you, it is quite different.”

“Different how?” His eyes looked very blue in the flicker of the single candle still burning.

Her smile was tremulous. “Lily warned me I was falling in love with you.”

“Did she now?” He kissed her neck, his hands urging closer. “That has a promising sound to it. And?”

“If missing you terribly, feeling joy at the notion of having your child, even if it meant seclusion and scandal, if seeing you again, alive and returned to me was the single happiest moment of my life, is love, then I am afraid she’s correct.”

“If that is the case, I think we are both in trouble.”

If his mouth hadn’t tickled her collarbone and slid lower to her breast, she might have thought of a response, but in truth, there really were no words to describe her tumultuous emotions. So she merely sighed in pleasure and surrendered to the magic of his touch.

Chapter Twenty-six

The gallery was quiet, the scent of wax in the air, the morning light coming in the tall windows. The polished floor gleamed and the slanting sun gave it a warm glow, whereas he actually usually avo
ided this part of the house.

Lucien had never considered himself a man with a great deal of imagination, but there was something about looking at the faces of all his dead ancestors he found disconcerting, his own mortality reflected there.

Especially now. There was life and there was death. The irony of his father’s deteriorating health just as he learned of the conception of his first child did not escape him.

They’d even finally discussed it. He and Charles had been summoned for a counsel in the ducal study. Grave and regal as usual, their father had told them both in his distant way that he was satisfied his sons were fine young men.

That sort of emotional exchange was rare indeed. No mention of his illness, of course, but he did comment that though Lucien’s absence had been trying, Charles had shown remarkable resourcefulness and responsibility.

High praise indeed, Lucien had thought wryly, as he had labored for years to achieve that measure of confidence, but after a brief conversation with their factor, he thought his younger brother deserved it.

It was gratifying, actually, to see his brother and father come to an understanding. While the abduction had been a personal nightmare, perhaps, as fate tended to arrange matters, it had been a blessing as well in that regard.

He’d been out for a morning ride and his booted feet rang as he crossed the hush of the room before stopping in front of the particular portrait he’d come to see. The first Duke of Sanford stared back with a slightly haughty expression on his face, his plumed hat emphasizing his angular bone structure. His father’s portrait would hang next to his grandfather’s when the time came, and he imagined his would also, hopefully many years from now because the portrait of the current duke was kept downstairs in the formal rooms until his death.

“My lord marquess. I’m . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The sound of the female voice made him swing around, his brows lifting slightly when he saw it was Charles’s lovely young wife, her blond hair drawn back simply, her expression chagrined. Obviously her gown was new and the latest style, but there was still a freshness about her that reminded him she was from a simple background.

While he didn’t understand why Charles had been content to just have a platonic relationship with Vivian, he did understand why he was drawn to this young woman. She was beautiful in a different way, and he was beginning to wonder just what mystical power attracted a man to a certain female.

“You aren’t intruding,” he said, trying to be as neutral as possible. “My father informed me last evening that he was going to have my portrait commissioned. I am trying to reconcile myself to the fact that it is part of the natural progression of becoming the Duke of Sanford.”

“I should excuse myself then.” She turned hastily, her profile illuminated by the morning light.

“Don’t go.” Did he not remember at all what it was like to be charming? He essayed a rueful smile. “You and I have barely met, and certainly your entry into our family hasn’t been a traditional one. Between my father’s illness and my unexplained absence, I am sure it has not been easy for you to settle in.”

Louisa had stilled and turned back, an uncertain look on her face. “I own it isn’t the life I am used to but I knew that before I married Charles.”

“Vivian says you’ve been a friend to her. Thank you.”

She shook her head. “I’ve done nothing. She has been more of a friend to me. It doesn’t matter to her about Charles and the elopement.”

“I should hope not.” Lucien had to give a small laugh.

“I didn’t mean . . .” She stopped, and then to his relief, laughed too. “I hardly meant you are a consolation prize, my lord. I meant most women would mind, whether or not she wanted her intended bridegroom, if he ran off with someone else. She truly doesn’t. She was willing to play the jilted fiancée because she knew how much we loved each other.”

“That sounds like her. Vivian has a delightfully interesting way of looking at the world. But I do not suggest you steal her favorite rose bush.”

“True enough.” Her face lightened delightfully when she smiled. “I wish I shared the passion for plants that permeates the air around here, but I don’t. Thankfully Charles is as inept in the greenhouse—not that we are allowed in there—as I am.”

“Botanists can be tyrants.”

“So I am learning.”

Had a deafening sound, punctuated by the window shattering, not interrupted at that moment, he had every intention of telling her he was glad she’d met and married his brother for a myriad of reasons, one of which was that he then had the opportunity to pursue Vivian.

What the devil
?

As jeweled glass spilled all over the floor, he instead found himself sweeping his sister-in-law up into his arms and taking the stairs two at a time down toward the main level of the house, not at all certain what was happening. She clutched at him but thankfully did not scream, even as a second explosion occurred.

Glass shattered somewhere—a great deal of glass from the sound of it.

What the hell was going on now? The amount of melodrama in his life was wearing on his nerves.

“My lord . . . I . . . I . . .”

He ran past a stammering footman. “Get everyone away from the windows and tell me my fiancée is not in the conservatory.”

“I don’t know, my lord. The last I . . .”

If there was an answer it was inarticulate and he was too far away to hear it anyway. Servants were running everywhere and he encountered Charles in the hallway. Lucien swiftly deposited Louisa in his arms.

“What’s happened? Is she injured?” His brother’s face was pale.

He thought he might have a similar pasty hue.

“No, it was expedient just to carry rather than drag her in my wake. I think the noise came from the back of the house, which is why the window up in the gallery shattered. I felt the floor shake.” Lucien shouldered past him. “It had to be the conservatory.”

Oh God. His father. Sir Edwin.

Vivian and his unborn child.

Charles’s face reflected his own worst fears.

He dashed outside through the open terrace doors, the bright blue sky at odds with the unreal stab of horror that crawled through him when he rounded the corner of the house and saw the destruction.

A sea of glass sparkled in the sunlight and there were plants everywhere, mangled bits of green mingled with dark earth that spilled across the formal garden and paths. Torn flowers gave a mosaic of color to the scene. One wall and most of the glass roof of the conservatory was missing and the scent of gunpowder hung like a pall. Besides the valuable stained glass window upstairs, most of the windows on the back of the house looked damaged, but that was all he took in with a sweeping glance, because he didn’t give a damn about worldly possessions at this moment, he was just frantic to find out if anyone was injured.

Several of the gardening staff had come running and stood gaping at the devastation. He said grimly as his boots crushed glass, “Help me, but be careful. If anyone was in here they could be injured and under the rubble.”

Without thought for the broken glass and his bare hands, he began to search the upturned shelves and demolished benches that had once held his father’s experiments, feverish and doing his best to tamp down the rising panic.

In the chaos, it was impossible to tell from the shattered structure where he was exactly in relation to the slight cough that came through the haze of smoke. He froze, and then turned around, waiting, praying, for another. One of the other men must have also heard it, for he was staring at the north side, arrested in place, his arms dangling.

“Father?” Lucien’s voice was hoarse. “Speak so we can find you.”

“Lord Stockton, I think it came from this direction.” The man pointed with a dirt-stained glove. He raised his voice to a shout, “Your Grace? It’s William. Where are ye?”

The response was weak, but discernible. “Orchids.”

Thank God
. Luckily William knew exactly what part of the greenhouse held those particular plants because Lucien would have been quite lost considering nothing looked like orchids any longer. The gardener led the way as they picked through all the shattered panes and piles of wreckage. A few minutes later they were extracting the normally pristine and aristocratic Duke of Sanford from underneath an overturned bench, his face streaked with dirt and a hint of blood, his formerly powerful frame frail as Lucien helped to heft him carefully to his feet.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Just stunned, I think.” His father attempted to straighten his clothing, only brushing damp soil into the fabric and then giving up. “I’m dying, but it isn’t going to happen to today, so stop hovering over me. What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Lucien was almost afraid to ask, but he had to. “Where is Vivian?”

His father coughed and said hollowly, “Gone.”

***

It had been like thunder on a clear day, and her father glanced up with a frown. Then when the second noise came, Vivian realized that it was
not
a natural sound at all.

“What is that?” A sinking feeling settled in her stomach as she looked up at the arch of cloudless sky. Her hands were full of specimens, since the duke was intent on trying to seed some wildflower species. She dropped the carefully extracted plants without care, gazing at their now restive horses. “Father.”

“I heard it,” he agreed, his face drawn into a tight mask. “Just leave this. We’ll come back later for the seedlings.”

It was quite a testament to his alarm if he would allow their precious plants to be discarded. She felt exactly the same way. Though it was hard to tell in the meadow, it had seemed like the sound had come from the direction of the ducal residence.

Without assistance she scrambled onto her horse the moment he led it close enough, and he swung onto the saddle of his mount as well, paces behind her when she set her heel into the side of her mare and urged it forward.

They weren’t even close to the house when she registered the faint taint of smoke on the breeze, and yet even that hint of what had happened didn’t prepare her for the reality when they were far enough up the drive to see the house.

The conservatory was gone—or at least most of it, she realized, as her horse careened close. At the last minute she pulled up, so appalled she could hardly keep her seat. Glass everywhere, servants milling around, and the worst, in the debris were parts of scattered plants, destroyed, mutilated, ruined.

She wanted to cry.

“Where’s Lucien?” she demanded, sliding from the saddle in the same manner as she’d gotten into it, without assistance, staring at a young man who had rushed forward to help her. “Lord Stockton. Where is he?”

“The duke was in the conservatory, my lady, when the accident occurred.”

Oh God. She hadn’t thought of that. He’d not been feeling well enough to accompany them, so he’d dismissed them to go gather the seedlings. Not to mention she was doubtful what kind of accident might have suddenly destroyed a greenhouse on a sunny, peaceful day. Since Lucien’s kidnapping she wasn’t quite so naïve and it hardly looked like something that might have naturally occurred.

It was her father who demanded, “How grave is it?”

“The duke was taken upstairs, but is just shaken, not truly injured, or so I am told. It must be true, for Lord Stockton left him to go find you.”

Thank God. From the scope of the destruction, it was a miracle there were no severe injuries.

Lucien would never have left his father unless he also thought something was wrong.

Still holding the reins to her horse, she told her father, “Go see to the duke. I am sure Charles is there, but His Grace is much more likely to tell you the truth if he is more severely injured than he has admitted, rather than worry his sons.”

“That could be.” Her father agreed, his voice stricken, his old friend’s illness already distressful before this catastrophe. “Where are you going?”

“I have to find Lucien.”

“Why not wait for him to return? Vivian—”

“I can’t.” She couldn’t explain it, but the sense of urgency overwhelmed her. She remounted with the assistance of the young footman and wondered what direction to go. It would be ridiculous for them both to be roaming about, missing one another, getting more and more worried. However, that was easier said than done considering the extent of the grounds, and she had no idea where he might have gone looking for them either.

All she could think of was that perhaps the duke had told him they were headed toward the river, though the east meadow had proved much more interesting in terms of summer flowers.

So the river first, she decided, guiding her mount toward that path.

Her breathing was erratic, she found, and she had to forcibly calm herself. Even if the damage to the house was intentional, surely whoever had done it was long gone. After all, the Duke of Sanford had considerable influence and damaging his property involved risk.

But Lucien had confided that in his opinion, the man who kidnapped him had not been entirely sane, and though he hadn’t elaborated, she had believed him from the look on his face.

He wasn’t by the river, drat it.

Or in the meadow either.

Where are you
?

She stopped, holding her horse still as she pondered whether or not her father was right and she should have just stayed at the house. As she sat there, the sun on her face, her hands trembling, the faint sound of voices made her swivel her head.

Deep voices, the words not clear, but somewhere close enough she could hear them speaking . . .

To her left, she decided and urged her horse that way, through a copse of trees, mostly saplings, leaves ruffled in a slight, scented breeze.

She stumbled onto a scene that was so unpredictable she almost lost her seat and fell in an unattractive heap on the ground.