Page 10 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

As Atkins hurried away, she turned back to Richard, her nose wrinkling a little at his apparel.

“Unless you would care to change before you eat?” Even with a look of distaste on her face, she had to be the most beautiful young lady he’d ever seen.

Shame about her haughtiness, and the suspicions surrounding her.

Not to mention the Prince of Wales’s obvious interest in her.

Her haughtiness could be dealt with, though.

Richard began by grinning at her obvious discomfiture.

That he was making her feel awkward pleased him.

For some reason he had rapidly become convinced on meeting her that she was a woman who deserved to be made to feel uncomfortable in order to soften her.

There was too much of the air of the self-satisfied about her, as with many devastatingly beautiful women.

She was probably far too used to getting her own way with men because of her looks, although that might well not have worked with Marcus.

It wasn’t going to work with him if he could help it. Although he had to admit that of all the women who’d ever crossed his path, she was the only one he’d ever felt a stirring for. Which might be because she was the only one he couldn’t have.

He gave himself a mental shake. Beautiful she might be, but if she had taken a hand in the demise of her husband, her demeanor didn’t suggest any fear that she would be caught for it.

He wiped his hands on the legs of his breeches.

“I’ve eaten in worse states than this before.

I shall manage.” He let his gaze run over her riding attire.

“Unless, of course, you wish to change out of your green habit?” If she had any respect for tradition and custom, her gown should be black, not green.

Black for a year after a husband’s death.

Green was not considered acceptable by society.

At least, he wanted her to think he was of that opinion.

He himself had no intention whatsoever of sporting the required black armband of mourning, as that would be too hypocritical.

“Not at all,” she said, nothing in her tone betraying annoyance at his inference.

“I have eaten many times whilst wearing my riding habit. Come. Let us repair to the morning room.” For a moment, she let her eyes linger on his rolled-up sleeves.

Had she never seen a man’s forearms before? He had to smother a chuckle.

The morning room had always been the domain of Richard’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Stourbridge, and for a short while of her daughter-in-law, Marcus’s mother, until she’d faded away after the birth of Richard’s youngest cousin, Grace.

It had not changed at all in the nineteen years Richard had been away.

Silk Turkish rugs adorned the polished oak floor and a sparkling chandelier hung from the stuccoed ceiling.

Above the marble fireplace hung the portrait of some long-gone generation of Carstairs children clustered around a shaggy terrier under the benevolent gaze of their lace-capped mother.

And on other walls hung portraits that might or might not have been of more distant ancestors in old-fashioned apparel.

The comfortable, if faded, wingback chair his grandmother had favored still had pride of place beside the empty hearth, but no one occupied it.

She must have been dead now for over twelve years, and Aunt Cressida, of whom he had only the vaguest of memories, for longer still.

Delicate green silk wallpaper, a little faded in places by time, covered the walls, and matching, heavy green drapes, their folds a little faded here and there by sunlight, were held back from the windows by thick gold cords.

However, nothing could remove the melancholy chill from the room, as though ghosts lurked in every corner, whispering their secrets together. Might Marcus’s now be amongst them?

The duchess took a seat beside the fireplace, settling into it with regal grace and inclining her pretty head towards the Louis XV settee beside her.

Smothering a smile, Richard did as she’d indicated was her pleasure and sat down, leaning back, stretching his long legs out, and crossing his ankles.

For some reason he wasn’t sure of, it seemed imperative that he should make this pretty, possible murderess realize that this was his property, not hers, and he was here to not just visit but to take over.

She must understand that she was no longer in charge here, and that the house was not hers to command. And neither was he.

The duchess folded her hands in her lap and fixed him with a direct stare. A curious stare. She clearly had questions she wished to ask, just as he did. Well, he would start.

“You have the advantage of me, madam, in that you know my name already and I do not know yours.”

Her expression didn’t alter in the least. “Why,” she said, her eyes fixed on his face with calmly confident hauteur, probably enhanced by the fact that she was dressed to the nines and he was not, “I am the Duchess of Stourbridge, of course. Who else did you think I might be?”

She was being deliberately obtuse. Straight faced at it, as well. Was there any humor lurking in her to be found and teased out? It might be fun to do that. Despite her haughty manner, the thought of fencing words with her was an attractive one. A pity she’d been married to his cousin.

Richard brushed a stray strand of his unruly hair out of his eyes. “Your given name is what I require, for I can’t go on calling you madam, can I? And as you are living in what is now my house, and we are cousins by marriage, I feel we should be on Christian name terms.”

She pursed her lips as though considering his words. “Perhaps you are right.” She smoothed her already smooth skirt. “My name, Your Grace, is Isabella.”

Richard smiled. “Thank you, Isabella. But please, call me Richard—or Diccon if you prefer, as I invited you to while we were in the stables, and meant it. I don’t think I shall get used to being addressed as ‘Your Grace’ for quite some time, and it’s such a mouthful.

Christian names are much to be preferred between cousins. ”

A little frown furrowed her brow as though she thought him very forward, or perhaps for some other reason. “Very well. To oblige you, I will do so… Richard.”

So she didn’t want to use the nickname by which everyone had known him all his life. As though in doing so she feared becoming too familiar, too close, and wanted to maintain the solid barrier that lay between them. Well, let her keep her barrier up if she wanted.

He smiled. “Thank you… Isabella.” The music of her name on his lips pleased him. A name only a young lady as beautiful as she should own.

Silence fell between them. Richard could think of nothing more to say to her that wouldn’t come out as some sort of interrogation and be considered rude on such new acquaintance.

There was much he wanted to know, especially about his cousin’s death, but that would all have to come later, and small talk with a lady of her caliber seemed beyond him.

He’d grown far too used to the rough campfire talk of his fellow officers, and often of his men as well.

Nearly twenty years in the army had forged rough edges on him, and he knew it.

Rough edges that would be difficult to rub off.

She, on the other hand, seemed itching to pose a question.

Eventually it burst out of her. “Marcus told me that you were a soldier, and yet you present yourself here in the attire of a…” She paused as though searching for the right words, which must have been hard. “The attire of a country gentleman.”

He could answer that. “I have resigned my commission. I might one day go back, if I’m needed, but my commanding officer’s orders to me were to return to claim my inheritance. and to swiftly find myself both a bride and an heir, or he would not have me back.” He gave her an apologetic smile.

Her delicate eyebrows rose. Had he shocked her with his talk of marrying quickly and getting an heir?

Probably it wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed in polite company.

But then, was she polite company? She hadn’t so far shown herself up as being of the most polite.

He considered those delicate brows, still raised in an unspoken question.

They were a few shades darker than her auburn hair and arched over her hazel eyes in a perfection that suggested artistry might be involved.

Damn it, though, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

It was going to be difficult not to fall under her spell.

Finally, she spoke, her voice just a little brittle.

“I see. So you are here at Stourbridge to find yourself this bride in haste?” A little smile played about her mouth, but he couldn’t trace the cause of it.

“Have you never heard of the saying ‘marry in haste and repent at leisure’? I feel it is an adage you should pay heed to.”

Was that a hint of bitterness in her tone?

Her mouth had set itself in a hard line that implied his suspicion was correct.

Had she herself done what she was now warning him against?

Had she not suspected Marcus’s true nature when she’d agreed to marry him?

Poor fool. He had to feel sorry for her if that was the case.

He bowed his head. “I shall endeavor to follow your advice.”

The opening of the door saved him from further efforts at conversation. On the threshold, Atkins bowed. “Breakfast is served, Your Graces.”

Good. He was starving. He’d have to find out more later, but preferably not from Isabella, Duchess of Stourbridge. He had a feeling that anything she told him should be taken with a pinch, a very sizeable pinch, of salt.

As they stepped out into the hallway, movement on the wide staircase caught Richard’s eye.

A woman was descending the stairs, aided by a cane that was tapping with every step she made.

Not a young woman, but not an old one either.

Rather, she was of indeterminate age and indeterminate appearance, having rather dull brown hair confined in a plain bun, sallow skin and a thin, shapeless body on which her gown hung as though thrown on with no thought to appearance.

She came to a halt on the half landing just above them.

Richard ground to a similar halt, staring.

Could it be? No, surely not. She’d have been married off by either her father or brother years ago.

But this woman had the same decided limp, a limp that had been caused by a Marcus-induced accident in her early childhood, if she was indeed who he thought she was.

Their eyes met across the wide hall. Recognition, quickly followed by shock, dawned on the woman’s face and her brown eyes widened, her mouth opening in a wordless gasp.

“Dora.” Richard, forgetful of Isabella, was across the hallway in a few long strides, holding out his hands to her. “Tell me it’s really you.”

The woman’s hand shot to her mouth and she almost staggered. “Diccon. It can’t be. I don’t believe it. Marcus told me you were dead.”

Richard ran up the stairs, two at a time, and as he reached her, caught her in a tight embrace, pressing her slight body against his. “Dora. I’m back. I told you I’d come back for you, and I have.”

The cane clattered onto the stairs as Dora wrapped her arms around him. “I knew you would, if I waited. I knew you would.”