Page 11 of The Duke's List
Sidmouth left earlythe next morning after another restless night under his own roof. He’d read his wife’s list of demands so many times, he was afraid he’d spend the rest of his life walking around with a permanent cockstand.
The first item on Jane’s list should be easy. She wanted him to talk to her. He could comply with that, but ordinary, civilized conversation was not enough for his duchess. No. She wantednaughtyconversation. He’d barely thought about naughty conversation since he’d been a lad at Eton. Back then, he was fascinated with all things sexual, the mysterious world of grown men, beyond his grasp.
When had he outgrown his obsession with pleasures of the flesh? There was a house of courtesans of startling beauty in London he patronized every time he was in town, and then there had been the widow in Portsmouth he’d visited occasionally over the years in his yacht,TheFalcon. For the most part, however, his life had been devoted to the running of Bocollyn ever since his father’s death.
Pleasure for the sake of pleasure-when had he abandoned that part of his life?
Since it was still in the pre-dawn hours, he stopped by the kitchen to commandeer a dozen biscuits with some ham, cheese, and elderberry jam. He should take along enough to share with Captain Thorne and Major Bourne, he reasoned, knowing full well most of the fare would be gone before he reached Rose Cottage. Mrs. Smythe supervised the packing of his saddlebag and included a jug of cold milk. She also added two extra jars of jam so His Grace would have something to leave with the retired military men.
He walked quietly out toward the stables, past the stable master’s cottage, telling himself he was trying to avoid disturbing Her Grace’s slumbers. He needn’t have bothered. She was already in the exercise yard, working with one of the yearlings. She wielded a long whip she periodically snapped against the dirt of the exercise pen. She gave low commands and occasionally cooed encouragement to the young filly.
She wore a long work skirt that barely skimmed the top of her boots. The skirt swung in time with her movements to control the filly on a long rope while the skittish young animal trotted around the circular ring. Jane’s thin muslin shirt molded to her breasts from the moisture of her perspiration. The mist was burning off the fields, and the rising sun framed her face in a fiery halo.
Sidmouth forced himself to stop staring and ducked out of sight around the side of the stables so that she wouldn’t know he’d been there. Of course there was also the embarrassing bulge in his riding buckskins…maybe no one would notice.
His groom waited with his favorite mare, Lucy, and after a slight hesitation, averted his eyes.Damn. He’d been caught out lusting after his own duchess again.
Jane wipedsome drops of moisture off her brow and smiled. Sidmouth’s attempt to slink past without notice was the cause of the smile in spite of the sting that still lingered from his accusations in Venice. The shock and anger he’d shown when she’d presented him with her list of demands were like metals used to forge a spike for splitting large logs in two.
Unfortunately, her annoying husband was not the only irritation in her life. She’d arisen before first light so she could work off her frustrations from the encounter with Christina the day before.
She still held a fond place in her heart for the woman who had initiated her into the fine art of loving, but Jane refused to be a willing participant in the woman’s games of domination. As a girl of fifteen, she’d been fascinated by Christina’s worldliness. What had followed had been a gradual tutoring in sensuality that she’d never regret, but Christina no longer had a place in her life.
She was married now to a man who infuriated her, made her want to throw things at him, made her hope for things she was afraid she couldn’t have. In short, she feared she’d fallen in love with Sidmouth. God help her.
Chapter Nine
Sidmouth stoppedat the top of the bluff beyond the lodge where Harriet and Nicholas made their home. The late autumn wind haring off the ocean was like a bracing slap that forced him to wake up and become fully aware of all of his senses.
His eyes took in the Cornish coastline which seemed to stretch on forever, but in truth was but a small corner of his estate. His people looked to him for answers, for solutions, for a way forward. But right now, he was merely a man trying to understand not just women in general, but one in particular. A stubborn, sensuous woman who needed to understand the responsibilities of her station. He knew in his heart he should acquiesce to his wife’s requests, but first, he had to talk to men he could trust. Men who saw him as just another man, not a duke. Men who had dealt with the heartache, and joy, women could bring.
When he turned Lucy to head toward Rose Cottage, he noticed a few sheep wandering up the trail through the woods. He’d have to let his steward know where the animals had strayed. They tried to keep them farther inland, away from the bluffs, closer to Bocollyn House. Perhaps even his sheep didn’t want to be near him.
Captain Thorne’s pet donkey, Bert, interrupted his self-loathing reverie with sharp, annoying braying. He pulled an apple from his pack to distract the animal. He’d grabbed one from the kitchen that morning to keep Bert from trotting behind Lucy and making a nuisance of himself. Thorne had apparently left him out to graze. When he tossed the apple to the stubborn donkey, Bert promptly forgot about deviling Sidmouth and Lucy.
He followed the narrow road up to the cottage barn and dismounted. After leading Lucy into one of the stalls, he rubbed her down and gave her a bucket of oats. Sidmouth could not help noticing how clean the stables seemed. All the stalls had been mucked out, and fresh hay had been laid down.
Thorne, a retired Royal Navy captain, suffered from painful swelling in his joints from rheumatism acquired over long years at sea. He tended to the cottage as well as he could, but most of the time, he relied on Harriet’s gardener and other servants to help out whenever they could be spared from the lodge.
When Sidmouth turned from tending to Lucy, he looked down the barrel of a rifle pointed at his gut. A rifle held by a man with the same dark good looks, taut, muscular build, and clear blue eyes as his cousin’s husband, Lieutenant Bourne. Except, this man’s dark hair had silver streaks throughout, and his tidy beard was all silver.
Sidmouth raised his hands in a sign of peace just as Captain Thorne stepped into the barn trailed by a braying Bert. The animal apparently regarded them as intruders. “I see you’ve met His Grace, the Duke of Sidmouth.”
The other man immediately stood back and lowered his rifle.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. Thought you were one of those poachers that’s been plaguing Mrs. Bourne.”
“May I present Major Liam Bourne, late of the 83rd Foot out of Dublin, home from the wars?” Thorne nodded his head in the direction of the rifle-toting man. “He’s agreed to stay at Rose Cottage until Lieutenant Bourne comes home from his service in the King’s Navy. Lady Harriet and Nicholas need protectors.”
Major Bourne nodded in agreement, a fierce frown on his face. “No one had better threaten my son’s family while I’m here.”
Sidmouth broke out into a roar of laughter. “You’re every bit the cock robin your son is. We’re going to get along splendidly, without the need for me to give you a pounding, like the one I gave him.” Sidmouth quirked one brow. “At least I hope not?”
Sidmouth stretchedhis long legs to the side of the cottage’s small farmhouse table and broke off a chunk of the lodge cook’s crusty bread. Captain Thorne sliced generous wedges from a wheel of tart goat cheese centered on a chipped green platter.
He gazed around the tiny kitchen and marveled at how spotless everything seemed. “Has Lady Harriet been sending her maids over to tend to the cottage?”
Major Bourne maintained his stern look which Sidmouth assumed was his normal mien. He would have hated to have served under the man on the Peninsula, or, God forbid, ended up at the other end of his rifle in a French uniform.