Page 26 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

M orning came and left as the Langley party traveled westward for Wiltshire.

It was announced before their departure that Carlisle had gone ahead to Somerstead Hall without them.

When Alexander arrived with Margaret in the mid-afternoon, they found Carlisle’s vehicle parked outside – but his uncle, the Somerstead butler, said he had gone into Salisbury to visit a friend almost as soon as he had arrived.

Margaret was shown indoors by the housekeeper and greeted politely by the rest of the staff, reentering the manor as its official mistress.

Alexander didn’t linger with her long, setting the house to order ahead of Isadore’s arrival.

He had sent a rider down to Bromley with the invitation before their departure from London.

It remained to be seen when Isadore would arrive, if she ever would.

Hours later, at dusk, Alexander paused his reading as he heard someone enter the library. He turned to find Margaret at the doors, looking around with stars in her eyes as she inspected the room’s extensive book collection. He cleared his throat to signal his presence, and Margaret gasped softly.

“I thought you were with Mrs. Howard,” he said, setting the book on his knee, a thumb placed between the pages.

“And I thought you were in your office,” she replied, approaching cautiously. The light from the fire refracted off her face. It was almost dark, and the house had settled into its usual evening motions. “Mrs. Howard says that’s all you do. Work, work, work,” she imitated with frightening accuracy.

“Duchess, I am a newly married man. I am owed a moment of reprieve from the politicking in London to enjoy these first few days of my marriage.” He didn’t mention that he couldn’t sit still long enough to work, even though that was what he wanted most.

He gently kicked out the armchair beside him, preparing it for Margaret to sit.

It had been difficult to concentrate on whatever Edward Burke had written, with his mind racing with thoughts of his family.

Margaret was a welcome distraction and a beautiful sight, visibly tired from the day of travel, wearing a dark blue dinner gown that suited her new post.

“How is the book?”

“Dreadful. I cannot stand the man’s writing any more than his opinions, but it is good to know one’s adversaries and opposites intimately... Tell me how your day has been.”

“Is this an attempt to get to know me then, as my adversary?” She smiled as she lowered herself into the seat, examining its upholstered arms and skimming the tips of her fingers over the buttons.

“It has been largely uneventful. Mrs. Howard introduced me to the staff – properly this time, now that I needn’t be hidden – and ran me through the workings of the house.

It is a much larger place than anywhere else I have lived, but I have spent the last six months managing my mother’s home alone. This should be no challenge for me.”

“I admire your confidence.” He angled himself toward her, grateful for the company. How strange, he thought, that he should be grateful for anyone’s company. “But I hope you have no aspirations of applying your economizing here. I have a land agent I like well enough already.”

“Perish the thought. I was never particularly proficient in mathematics. It was a wonder I did not sink my family’s finances even further into ruin with my miscalculations.”

“What will Lady Pembroke do now that she must run the house without you?”

“Exactly what she was doing before.” Margaret shrugged and finally settled into her seat.

“With your generous allowance, she has already refitted the house with the appropriate staff, including a governess for Eliza and a new estate manager. There is not much estate to manage at present, but the house needs someone, and he is completely suitable, so I hear.”

"I am glad she is behaving sensibly. Although the allowance is not so generous as you claim.”

“You don’t think?” Margaret laughed. “I think it is more likely that you are richer than you know.

Look at this library. I can only imagine how much all these books must cost. It puts the Pembroke collection to shame.

Though Papa was never a frequent reader.

.. I glimpsed the display cases by the door.

Those tomes alone must be worth a fortune. "

Alexander looked behind him at the displays Margaret had referenced.

“Those are Carlisle’s fascination. Honestly, I have had no hand in curating this library.

Three-quarters of this collection had accumulated long before my birth.

My uncle procured the other quarter. But I agree that it is an impressive hoard of knowledge. ”

“Just as your uncle is an impressive man.”

“Impressive, yes.” He clapped his book shut and set it down on the table between them. “But no less a fugitive in my eyes.”

“He will return soon enough,” Margaret said soothingly. “I imagine he received it as a shock, this business with Isadore.” She paused, and he saw a wealth of questions spark behind her eyes. “Was Carlisle close with his brother—your father?”

“Oh, they tolerated one another, but I doubt there was any deep affection between them.” Alexander scanned his memories for answers.

“Carlisle is a private man. He has rarely spoken about my father in all the years I have known him, and my own memories of the late duke are lacking. I knew him for scarce a year before he passed. From what little Carlisle has shared, there were no two more different men in the world. Carlisle considers himself a scholar, fiercely non-political. The late Duke of Langley was his perfect opposite, forever had an opinion to share without the means to defend his ideas. He was mostly faithful to his wife, who died a few short weeks before him. My mother was the exception to his fidelity, and theirs was a lengthy affair.”

A frown contorted Margaret’s face. “She must have been a very charming woman. Did your father share no children with his legal wife?”

“None that lived. If he had been in the possession of legitimate heirs, you and I would not be sitting here today discussing him. I would be living much like Isadore lived—hidden or dead.”

“Well...” Margaret leaned toward him, smiling. A ringlet of dark hair caressed the side of her face. “I am very glad that things turned out as they did, strange though it may be to admit as much. You make for a remarkable duke, the finest Duke of Langley who has ever lived, I wager.”

They settled into a companionable silence as Alexander basked in her compliment.

He was not usually affected by a kind word, especially not from a young woman, as they typically knew so little about the world, but there was nothing usual about the way Margaret made him feel.

Only a week ago, they had been at each other’s throats.

Maybe she thought like he did that there was no need for unnecessary strife now that they were married.

“I do have one more question,” she said, reaching over for the carafe of water on the side table and pouring two glasses.

He watched her delicate fingers wrap around the handle, feeling as tortured by her now as he had been the night before.

“And perhaps you will not want to discuss it with me. I don’t know.

.. If Carlisle shared so little about your father, how did you come to learn of Isadore’s existence? ”

Alexander retraced the steps in his mind, a smile pulling at the side of his mouth. Margaret had been there at the start of it all and had found herself at his side still.

“Do you recall the night we first met?”

She nodded, but she didn’t look pleased by the memory.

“When we toured the gallery, you came across a painting that had no signature.”

“I think I remember.” She brought the glass to her mouth and took a sip. “No plaque either.”

“That’s just the thing,” he said. “There was a signature, indecipherable to you at the time. But I understood it, so faint it was barely discernible, once you pointed out the strangeness of the painting to me. The signature read Rousseau, and it occurred to me in that moment that the painting had some connection with my mother.”

Margaret’s glass hit the table with a soft clink . “The woman in the window... I remember now. She was holding something in her arms...”

“Yes. My interpretation is that the figure was Celeste cradling Isadore. My mother painted the picture herself as a gift to my father.” He observed her glass, the water oscillating gently back and forth until it settled, her lips having marked the rim.

“I did not know how to act in the face of that realization. It does not excuse my quick dismissal of you that evening, but it does explain why I behaved in the manner I did. You could not have been permitted to remain any longer and notice what I had seen. That was my line of thinking, though I regret it now.”

In the proceeding silence, Margaret turned slowly from the fire to Alexander, and in the firelight, he saw her eyes shine with tears. She promptly batted them away, forcing a smile. But he had seen enough to know that she had carried his rejection with her all these years.

“That makes perfect sense,” she murmured, reaching again for her glass. “And I understand now why the painting was removed.”

Alexander started. “Removed?”

“I walked the gallery just before finding you here. The painting you mentioned is gone.”

“Are you quite certain? You did not mistake it for another?”

“I am positive.” She looked surprised, setting her glass in her lap. “I walked the same path we had on the night we first met. The Gainsborough painting came first, and then there was an empty space where the, well, where the Rousseau painting had once been.”

Alexander stood abruptly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looked into the fire as it crackled, trying to remember if he had ordered the painting removed. No such thing had ever happened. Someone else must have taken it down.