Page 34 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

T he wheels of the carriage crunched over the drive. Alexander leaned back in his seat, readjusting his gloves, squinting through the window at the overcast sky while Bastian finished recounting the details of their last stop in Salisbury.

“But naturally,” Bastian was saying, “Whethery insisted the motion will fail in the Lords. Who knows whether he has the right of it—always speaking, that one, but never quite speaking well. It’s a wonder they let us go after we ran into them in the square.

Nothing worse than a country politician, that’s what Father says, and when there are four of them together.

..” He audibly shivered. “Good to be home.”

Alexander’s mind had wandered, thinking of Margaret—the knowledge she had shared with him last night, and that damnable letter. He reached into his vest pocket, checking it was still there, when Bastian’s tirade came to an abrupt end.

“Something wrong?” Bastian asked.

Alexander extracted his hand quickly and made a point of adjusting his jacket. “Nothing you need concern yourself with,” he replied.

He discretely examined Bastian’s demeanor, wondering how his friend could appear so relaxed despite entertaining Isadore behind Alexander’s back. They both had secrets to hide, but Bastian was doing a much better job of hiding his.

Yet it’s not really my secret to hide but my wife’s, Alexander thought.

A letter from her disappeared father stating his intent to return to her life.

I could not bear the thought of asking Margaret about it this morning – she hid the truth from me, and someone exposed her.

A situation like this must be handled delicately, at the right time.

“Hm,” Bastian said in the silence before growing quiet.

But not for long. A moment later, he added, “Do you see that?”

They had passed under the last arch of clipped hedgerows, and the manor came into view. Nothing struck Alexander as wrong at first, until he noticed what Bastian had seen at the edge of the courtyard.

A horse stood in the drive. Not just any horse, but one of their own, fully tacked and waiting without a rider.

“Isn’t that one of yours? Thrasos or Thesis, or something?” Bastian said, his voice suddenly alert. “No grooms with her?”

Alexander was opening the carriage door before the wheels had come to a full stop.

The dark mare looked stressed, her flanks damp and mud-speckled, sides streaked with sweat like scum from the sea.

It was Thalia, one of Carlisle’s favorite horses.

But Carlisle had not been at the manor that day, so who had she escaped from?

Alexander reached for her reins, and Thalia jerked her head defensively. Her saddle was askew, and when Alexander leaned in closer, he saw a bead of blood dripping from the leather, unable to tell whether it was from the horse or something else.

His blood ran cold.

"Where is Margaret?" Alexander asked.

Moments later, workers from the stables rushed into the courtyard on horses of their own.

A young stable hand named Frederic dropped from his saddle and dashed toward Thalia, too quickly.

She reared as he struggled for the reins, filling the courtyard with the sounds of her protests as Alexander narrowly escaped the attack.

“Your Grace,” the head groom panted, wiping the sweat from his brow as he dismounted.

He looked startled to see Alexander, guilty of something.

“We saw the horse come bolting past the stables. She galloped right to the manor, she did, came back without a rider a while after Miss Bell, and we tried to follow but?—”

“Who was the rider?” Alexander asked.

But he already knew the answer.

The head groom shook his head miserably. Alexander gritted his teeth, pushing past the groom as the man replied, “The Duchess,” and pulling on the reins of the nearest mount. He swung into the now-empty saddle.

"They left through the stable gates, Your Grace, headed eastward into the woods," the groom stammered. “Miss Bell returned safely on her own. It is only Her Grace who is missing.”

Bastian was already mounting the other horse. "We’ll ride together,” he said. “Organize a search while we’re gone,” he then ordered the remaining men.

Alexander didn’t wait for Bastian as he raced out of the courtyard.

The horse’s hooves thundered beneath him as they took the dirt road through the fields.

The estate was a blur beside him. His eyes were trained on the horizon, hands slick with sweat in his gloves as he raced toward the place where his wife had last been seen.

They reached the wooded edge of the estate. Rain had started to mist over the stable grounds. Alexander slowed, scanning the area for signs of Margaret’s return. The forest gate swung open on its hinges. Margaret was nowhere in sight.

Charging through the gate, he sliced through the woods toward the valley. He didn’t know how long he rode for, eyes searching the forest floor desperately, until he heard Bastian call, “There!” causing both of them to stop.

Alexander followed the trail of Bastian’s pointer finger to a dark shape on the ground. He dismounted before his horse had fully stopped, stumbling down the narrow slope toward the mass of fabric down the bank.

Margaret lay crumpled at the base of a shallow ridge, her riding cloak caked in mud. One of her boots had fallen off, her hair loose and tangled around her face. She was still, quiet, curled in on herself like a sleeping child. A thin trail of blood ran down the side of her face.

"Margaret..." Alexander fell to his knees beside her, a vice tightening around his ribs. He cradled her, worried about moving her too much, and brought his ear to her face to hear for breathing.

A faint moan, barely audible over the sound of the rain increasing by the minute. His heart surged in disbelief.

“She’s alive,” he said to Bastian, who stood at the top of the bank with the horses.

He heard Bastian slide down the bank toward them, saw him kneel at Margaret’s other side and check her face and limbs. “A knock to the head?” Bastian asked. “Something more? We must return her to the manor and call a doctor.”

Alexander nodded, gently slipping his arms beneath her and lifting her off the ground.

His stomach turned as Margaret let out a cry of pain, eyes rolling back in her head.

The rain fell on her white face, her body heavy and slack in his arms. His mouth trembled as he shouted more orders at Bastian, unsure what he said or when, as minutes passed like hours until they found home.

After the physician’s visit, Margaret was moved to her chambers.

Doctor Burnside, a long-time friend of Carlisle’s, had been brought up from town to examine the duchess.

Carlisle had been nearby in Salisbury, heard the news, and rode up with the doctor in all haste.

He stood by the door with Alexander as Doctor Burnside left Margaret’s care to the maids, suggesting laudanum and rest until she regained full consciousness.

“A mild concussion,” Doctor Burnside said as Alexander and Carlisle walked him out. “And her ribs, likely bruised. The cut on her head is shallow; there is no cause for concern yet. We will know more once Her Grace wakes. It’s critical that she is allowed to rest for now.”

He reached into his coat pocket and handed Carlisle a calling card, saying something about reaching another doctor in town if Doctor Burnside became unavailable.

Alexander was hardly listening, focused on the activity beyond Margaret's door.

He felt Carlisle pat his shoulder briefly and tensed at the gesture.

His uncle saw the doctor to his waiting carriage, allowing Alexander to return to Margaret.

Long after the doctor’s departure, he remained at her bedside, studying Margaret, watching the maids tend to her, wondering how this might have been avoided.

She looked thin and fragile beneath the heavy coverlet of her bed, chest rising and falling slowly, her hair arranged in dark waves around her face, so beautiful he could only look at her in increments.

He thought of how she had seemed the night prior, smiling at him over his desk, full of life, pretending everything was fine despite the letter she had received.

As though that matters now, he thought. Nothing mattered: not the letter, not Bastian and Isadore, not this come-and-go tension between them.

He thought late into the night, trying to leverage reason against his worry, his pocket watch on her bedside table counting the minutes until she woke.

His heart ached for Margaret, and when he considered the worst, that she might never wake up, he realized what a fool he had been.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep or how, but eventually, early strains of morning light flickered across his face, waking him in his chair. He looked down at Margaret, and she was looking at him.

“Margaret?”

Alexander leaned forward, careful not to touch her.

Her face was deathly pale, her lips dry, but her eyes were half-open, locked with his.

He glanced at the table where the small vial of laudanum had moved from its spot, drops of water clinging to the edges of the glass beside it.

The maids must have come and administered more medicine in the night.

Margaret was awake, under the heavy influence of the doctor’s prescription.

“I’m here,” Alexander murmured, eyes burning as he leaned in closer. “You’re safe. Oh, Margaret...”

He swore she smiled, brows twitching with a deep breath. But his wife was in a faraway place, not really hearing him.

“The horse,” Margaret said. Even though her voice was weak, the sound of it was a balm for Alexander’s soul. She licked her lips, and the movement seemed to pain her. “Forgive me...”

“There is nothing to forgive.” He meant it, brushing his hand against hers where it rested at her side.

“Isadore...”