Page 45 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

O nce Doctor Burnside returned to Somerstead Hall, it took less than a day before word spread about his visit—and soon the whole county learned of Bastian’s abduction, and the night they had all been drawn to that inn outside of Old Sarum.

Alexander’s involvement was no small matter. The scandal threatened to eclipse even the resurfacing of Viscount Pembroke, who had been spotted in the area before fleeing northward with his wife, evading all questions about his recent exile.

It was unknown to the average reader what exactly had taken them all to The Stone Lion. Like most good stories, there had been talk of duels and love affairs, deals made in the dark, only some of which approached the truth—still too much for Alexander’s liking.

The bodies on the roadside had naturally added to the mystery.

Alexander thought it had only been right to identify Ripley, in case any loved ones wondered where he had gone.

His accomplice, Sarah Grimes, was an actress of little repute in the backwaters of London.

Given the state in which they were found the next morning—surrounded by bank notes traced back to the duke—the story of a highway robbery began to unfold.

Alexander, seeing no reason to dredge up the past, allowed the rumors to circulate unimpeded until they cemented themselves as fact: Mr. Hawthorne and the Duke of Langley must have been traveling back from a Salisbury dinner when they were accosted on the road by Mr. Hawthorne’s latest courtship and the man who had led her astray.

Bastian remained at the manor for two days before his family learned of his whereabouts.

The countess was relieved to find her son mostly alive and decisively unmarried.

The rest of those in residence at Somerstead Hall ensconced themselves in the manor for the following week, refusing to accept callers—except the exceedingly insistent Lady Jane and her niece, Miss Helena Talbot, who was quoted as saying she would be writing a book about the affair once Mr. Hawthorne was well enough to be interrogated. ..

Alexander listened to Margaret read from the scandal sheet, rubbing his brow at her summary of their retellings.

“Honestly, I expected them to do much worse,” Margaret said, setting down the paper. She swung a leg over the side of his desk, peering down at him. “Do you remember what they wrote about our little tryst? Much more salacious... I think they’ve lost their touch.”

“These writers don’t conjure things out of thin air, you realize,” Alexander argued in good faith, leaning back in his seat. “There were no real witnesses to what happened that night. They can only provide their readers with guesswork.”

“A good thing did come out of this.”

Alexander looked up, unconvinced.

“The residents near Old Sarum collected an enormous sum from the scene of the crime. I take it you are not interested in recuperating our losses?”

“Blood-stained money—quite literally. Let them have it, I say.”

“I’m glad Carlisle and I came just late enough to avoid meeting this Mr. Ripley on the road.

He sounds like an awful character—may he rest in something akin to peace.

” Margaret smiled devilishly, leaning forward to brush back Alexander’s hairline.

“It’s no wonder you collapsed. The stress alone could topple a giant, let alone a bump to the head with a candlestick. That looks like a nasty strike.”

He closed his eyes as she stroked his hair. “Am I a pitiable sight?”

“You could never be, not in my eyes.”

The softness in her voice caught him off guard. He opened his eyes and found her gazing tenderly down at him.

“Are you angry at me for coming after you?” she asked, dropping her hand to his cheek. “For dragging your uncle into this mess?”

“How could I be? You saved our lives. I doubt I could have managed the walk back with Bastian alone. We would have died without you and Carlisle.”

Margaret took her hand away. She had been avoiding Carlisle all week. Something must have happened on the journey through Old Sarum. But when Alexander had asked, both had changed the subject.

“He cares for you very much,” Margaret said.

A smile pulled at the side of Alexander’s mouth. “Just Carlisle?”

“No...” She slipped off the desk and came to stand beside him. Alexander grabbed her, pulling him into his lap, where she fit like the last piece of a puzzle. “I care about you very much, too. More than very much. I...”

“I love you,” Alexander said for her.

Margaret went quiet, softening in his arms.

“Now, that’s awfully confusing,” she replied, playfully. “Is that what you predicted I would say, or is that what you?—”

“I love you, Margaret.” He kissed her, ending any further arguments. It was a useful yet highly satisfying tactic he intended to employ again. “Is that quite clear enough for you?”

“Perfectly.” She paused, eyes roving his face.

“It should come as no surprise at all that I love you too... Shall I give you that list now, of all the things about you that used to irk me but no longer do? I could start a new list of all the things I like about you instead. First of which, of course, is your incredible charity. Second, your tolerance for the press. Third, your ability to stay upright on a horse despite coming in and out of consciousness... Shall I go on?”

“Perhaps later, for I can think of a much better use of this time alone.”

Alexander laughed softly, taking Margaret and setting her on top of the desk. He kissed her deeply, relishing the power of her kiss as she returned it, hands looping around his neck.

They broke apart suddenly at the sound of something clattering to the floor.

Looking down, he saw his pocket-watch lying face up, a crack having splintered the glass from its impact with the floor.

“Oh, no,” Margaret said, already slipping away from him. "Your poor watch...”

“Let time remain broken in this moment,” he said. “I need only you to measure my days beside.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Bastian said, squinting into the afternoon light.

Alexander turned from the view of the manor. “That never bodes well.”

“If I’m to disappear again, I should like it to be under more romantic circumstances next time. Somewhere with sea views, a woman who speaks no English...”

"That would make it remarkably more difficult to locate and save you.”

“I will not need saving again, though I am grateful to my rescuers.” He paused, tapping his cane against the ground. “Those rag writers on the other hand... They will never have my gratitude.”

“You could write them,” Alexander suggested. “Tell them they have the story wrong. Whether they will believe you is another matter entirely—although they were not too far from the truth to begin with. You did escape with whom you thought was Isadore, did plan to marry her...”

“I thought it was the right thing to do. I was trying to help you.” Bastian grinned.

“But as for setting the record straight... I’d rather not.

I’m hoping my ordeal will paint me in a positive light next season.

A young, wounded romantic, swept away on the currents of love.

.. No need to mention my being abducted by a woman, nor the pathetic sight of me, I’m sure, as I writhed around on the floor like a worm, bound and gagged. ”

“You’ve had laudanum this morning.”

“A small amount. Augusta doled it out like it was wine. I’m thinking of marrying her.”

Alexander laughed. “Margaret won’t like that.”

“No. And we cannot displease your dear duchess. I will have to settle for another.”

“Not Miss Diana Dawson-Duff?”

Bastian’s eyes went wide.

“Perhaps not,” he replied, tapping the plinth with his cane.

“She, erm... She cast me off before I left London. I didn’t want to say anything, thought perhaps there was a chance I could reconcile with her when her family returned from Yorkshire.

But now that I’ve had time to think about things—on my deathbed, I mean— I don’t think she’s quite right for me.

I should at least marry someone who likes me. ”

“That does tend to be an important prerequisite to love.”

Though not always necessary from a first meeting, he thought sardonically.

They paused near the sundial at the top of the lawn, Bastian steadying himself on the plinth.

The gardens at Somerstead were preparing for spring, crocuses emerging, hedgerows budding with green.

It would be a bright, warm season. And Alexander intended to spend most of his time with his wife and friends.

Politics could wait until after the summer.

They heard the footsteps before they saw him. Carlisle emerged from the manor, his coat unbuttoned, a letter in one hand. He looked between them, eyes lingering a moment on Bastian, before settling on Alexander, as he crossed the terrace and joined them on the grounds.

“Ah. I’d feared I would miss you,” he said to Alexander with a tight smile.

“Just in time,” Bastian replied, tapping his cane. “I believe I’m meant to rest indoors soon—preferably before someone demands another interview or clubs one of us over the head again.”

He bowed with pretend gravity and excused himself, leaving Alexander and Carlisle alone in the gardens. Carlisle looked down at the letter in his hand as they walked toward the shade of a tree.

“I have something to say to you,” he said.

"You’ve been circling like a hawk all morning.”

“Yes. I never was much good at goodbye speeches. And this will be goodbye, for a time. You know I am headed to London to join The Royal Society on the first motions of their trip to The Levant. They have expedited their departure. Something about the shifting weather—who knows?” He gazed off into the distance.

“I’ve tried to write down the words twice, and both times I almost ended up in verse. ”

They stood facing one another beneath the bare branches of an old oak. A breeze rustled the early spring leaves.

“It’s about your father,” Carlisle said.

Alexander looked down from the branches.