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Page 25 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie woke with a rope around her neck. For a moment, she felt blind panic and clawed at the noose. A twisted panel of gossamer came loose with scarcely a tug.

She stared at the silvery taupe material in her hands and gave a breathless laugh. It was her nightgown; she had fallen asleep in it.

She rolled her head to the side and squinted at the clock on the bedside table, blinking with surprise when she saw it was already nine o’clock. She was not surprised to find the bed empty as she remembered Plimpton kissing her goodnight sometime after their third round of lovemaking.

She smiled at the word: lovemaking .

Her smile grew as she remembered his reaction to Madam Therese’s nightgown. The woman certainly knew her business. Plimpton had appeared deranged from the moment he had disrobed her until he had spent inside her that first time.

His sheepish look afterward had been another emotion she’d not seen on his face before. He had further delighted her by insisting she keep the gown on.

“But it is becoming badly creased and wrinkled,” she had protested.

“I will buy you another. Ten more.”

“In all different colors?” she had teased.

“Yes. No. Only this color.” He had rubbed the thin material between his fingers, looking perplexed. “What is this color?”

“Taupe? Fawn?”

“Taupe?” He pulled a face. “I don’t like how that sounds. But fawn,” he repeated. “Yes. I like that. It is the same shade that is in your eyes; fawn, mixed with silver. I have never seen a color like it. Unusual and beautiful.”

His thoughtful scrutiny had embarrassed but pleased her. She was no stranger to male admiration and compliments but coming from a man like Plimpton—who did not waste words—the compliment moved her.

The door opened and Freddie glanced up, expecting to see her maid. Instead, it was Plimpton.

“Ah, you are finally awake.” He strode into the room, his eyes roaming her person with obvious interest.

She pulled the sheet a bit higher and treated herself to an examination of his person. “You have been riding,” she said, hearing the disappointment in her voice.

“No. I am dressed for riding. I am waiting for you.”

“You delayed your morning ride for me?”

“I did. Would you like to go?”

“Very much.” She bit her lower lip. “Can you give me a quarter of an hour.”

“Take half-an-hour. I have something yet to do before I am ready.”

“Thank you.”

“I will send in Compton.”

The second the door closed behind him she shoved back the bedding, struggled out of the miles of her nightgown, and snatched up her dressing gown.

Freddie knew he preferred to ride first thing and was touched that he had waited for her.

He might look cool and aloof when they were not in the bedchamber, but the countless thoughtful gestures he made were beginning to convince her the man who had ravished her three times last night was closer to the real Plimpton than the one who surveyed the world with an opaque, emotionless gaze.

Freddie believed the process of peeling back the layers and getting to know that private man might just be her new favorite pastime.

***

Freddie’s days quickly fell into a pleasant pattern.

After the first morning, she instructed Compton to wake her as soon as Digby had woken the duke.

They went riding, rain or shine, and Plimpton took her to a different part of the estate each morning. It was a small holding, only a little over two thousand acres, but nearly all of it was under cultivation and productive.

A quarter of his tenant farmers made their money from orchards and the other three quarters from mixed crops. All of them followed the Sweet Clover tradition of raising bees, a side industry that supplemented their income.

“Nobody relies solely on one crop—like corn,” Plimpton told her one morning. “Although the harsh weather a few years ago devastated many English farmers, ours here did better than most as they have always been encouraged to keep large parcels for experimental crops.”

Freddie was fascinated by how devoted and knowledgeable Plimpton was about all facets of agricultural life.

When she mentioned it on their third or fourth ride, he merely shrugged. “It is my livelihood and those of thousands of my people. I could hardly show my face on my estates if I did not know how they supported themselves.”

She did not mention Sedgewick’s approach to his livelihood—which had been to squeeze his workers and farms like they were wet rags to be rung dry—but she could not help mentioning Wareham’s attitude, which was laissez faire at best and benign neglect at worst.

“Yes,” the duke had agreed, “Wareham is what I would call a casual steward of his land. Thankfully he does not compound that inattention with gambling or profligate spending, so his estate can prosper. Your brother and I have had dozens—probably hundreds—of discussions over the years regarding the need for agricultural improvements. The great landed estates of England are struggling—as are all farmers—since the War.” He momentarily looked grim. “The time when landlords could rely on their farms to support them are quickly coming to an end. Only innovation will save English farmers, and, by extension, the aristocracy that draws its wealth from them.” He had glanced at her, his mouth flexing into a rueful moue. “But there, you see? You have started me on my hobby horse. If you are not careful, I can bore on at you for hours.”

“I find it interesting.”

Rather than take up the invitation in her words he merely nodded and changed the subject. “Today I will show you around Chessley. It is a small village, but I believe you will be pleased with the selection of shops. Digby mentioned your maid had inquired about the modiste.”

Freddie had quickly discovered that the duke’s valet was all knowing and all seeing. “Compton is very eager to replenish my wardrobe,” she admitted.

“I will show you what there is today, and you can return at your leisure.”

Chessley was a charming little Tudor era village only four miles from Sweet Clover. It was obvious to Freddie that the townsfolk knew the duke was in residence. And it was equally apparent that they adored him.

Plimpton paused often to speak with various people—always by name—and ask after their family members.

“I am very impressed you know so many people personally even though you are here so rarely,” Freddie murmured after he’d just finished listening to a rambling description of yet another elderly, ill relative.

“It is my duty to know,” he said as he led her away from the village inn, where they had left their mounts.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes, I do.” He nodded a greeting to a passing couple garbed in the humble clothing of farmers. “It is what I was born for. I am fortunate it suits me. I am very fortunate.” Before Freddie could answer, he gestured to an adorable wattle and daub building with the distinctive diamond pane windows of the era. “Shall we go in and say hello to Mrs. Yarrow?”

Dresses and hats and gloves were displayed to charming advantage in the bow window.

“You do not mind?”

“Not at all.”

The moment they entered the small shop Mrs. Yarrow hurried over and the other two women inspecting various wares turned and curtsied.

“You honor me, Your Grace,” the modiste gushed, her eyes sliding to Freddie, no doubt taking in the details of her habit—one of the two that had belonged to Sophia—and marveling that a duchess would wear such an outmoded, ill-fitting garment.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Yarrow.” Plimpton nodded at Freddie. “Her Grace will return later in the week with her dresser to shop in more depth. Today, however, she is in need of a new umbrella—do you have some we might look at?”

His promise of future commerce made the shopkeeper deliriously happy. “Oh, what an honor! But of course, I have some umbrellas. Some just came in last week. If Your Graces will have a seat, I can bring them to you.”

“An umbrella?” Freddie murmured once they’d sat on the elegant settee that had probably never been used to sell an umbrella before.

“My servant disposed of your last one,” he reminded her.

“Ah.”

The shopkeeper returned with her assistant, both women carrying an armload of umbrellas.

Freddie was hard pressed not to laugh when they began unfurling them and the duke scrutinized each one as if the purchase was of great moment.

“This one most closely resembles the one that was destroyed, does it not?” he asked her when the shop assistant modeled a plain black one.

“Yes, that is exactly—”

“What about that one?” Plimpton asked, pointing to an umbrella that had not yet been opened.

“This is one of our newest,” Mrs. Yarrow said, eagerly unfurling a truly gorgeous red umbrella.

“What do you think of that one?” Plimpton asked, reaching for it.

“Oh. It is very…red.”

He held it slightly behind her, his eyes darkening as they slid up her person—nowhere near the umbrella Freddie could not help noticing—lingering on the bust of her habit, which was tight as Freddie was slightly larger in that area than Sophia had been. Finally, his gaze lifted to her face, no doubt as red as the umbrella now.

“I have changed my mind about only gowns in fawn. You should have one in this color,” he said in a low voice.

Memories from the night before assaulted her and Freddie gave a laugh crossed with a laugh. “Plimpton,” she murmured.

And then he did something truly shocking; he winked at her.

“We do have a lovely silk that is similar in color,” Mrs. Yarrow said, naturally mistaking the duke’s meaning altogether.

Plimpton looked amused. “You must remember to look at that material when you come back, Winifred.”

She nodded dumbly.

“We will take both the black and red umbrellas, Mrs. Yarrow. Please have them sent to Sweet Clover,” he told the modiste, finally looking away from Freddie, who felt as if she had just been ravaged by a fever.

“Oh, but the black one will be sufficient,” she said in a stupidly breathy voice.

“You will look stunning with the red,” Plimpton said, nodding at the shopkeeper and repeating, “We will take both.”

Once they’d managed to escape the woman’s effusive farewells, the duke offered Freddie his arm and they meandered down the bustling street.

“It did not occur to me until just now that you rarely wear vivid colors. Do you not care for them?” Plimpton asked. “Because you really did look lovely against that red backdrop.”

“I do like colors,” she said after a moment. “But you are correct in that I rarely wear any.” When had she stopped wearing bright colors? Indeed, she’d not worn any colors at all, other than lavender, for years. The first thing she had purchased that wasn’t gray, cream, brown, or lavender had been the pale mint green dinner gown.

A memory slowly surfaced. “I used to wear red. In fact, I had a wool coat that was bright red.” And she had dearly loved that coat.

“What happened to change that?”

Like so many things, it had been Sophia who had put an end to both the coat and her love of colors. Her sister-in-law had supervised the purchase of Freddie’s first trousseau. One of the things about being a married lady that Freddie had looked forward to was wearing whatever color she wanted, rather than white or the pale pastels that unmarried young women were permitted to wear.

They had been shopping and Freddie had fallen in love with a peacock blue habit.

“A woman with your coloring—or lack of coloring—can never wear such a vivid shade,” Sophia had said as Freddie stood draped in the lovely fabric. “You must avoid bright colors altogether. Beiges and grays are much better for you.” She had hesitated and then added the killing blow. “Wearing such a gaudy color would embarrass your husband.”

And so that is what Freddie had worn ever since: beige and gray and lavender.

“I don’t know why I stopped wearing colors,” she said when she saw Plimpton was waiting for an answer. “But perhaps this umbrella will mark a new beginning for me.”

***

Most afternoons Plimpton took care of estate business. This was not just their bridal holiday, it was also his annual visit to the estate, so there was much for him to do..

“Perhaps you might like to accompany me on some of these visits? If you have time, that is,” he had asked her the third morning at Sweet Clover.

Freddie could tell by his almost tentative question that he expected rejection. It was a small thing, but it was a clue as to what his marriage had been like.

“I always helped at Torrance Park and one of my favorite parts of living at Sedgewick was becoming acquainted with the tenants.”

Plimpton’s expression at her words had been the nearest she had seen to those he wore in the bedchamber, which told her he was greatly pleased.

Once Freddie had been introduced to the people on the estate, she felt comfortable paying visits by herself. She especially enjoyed visiting the elderly who lived on the estate. The wives of the tenant farmers were doubtless honored when she called but she knew that all their work had to stop when the duchess visited. But the older people—or cottagers as they were called—lived alone and, for the most part, enjoyed company. They were also able to tell her a great deal about her new home and even a little about her husband, although not much.

Only when she began to be drawn into the lives of the people on the estate did she realize how much she missed country living. At Torrance Park she had been discouraged from visiting after Sophia Became mistress.

At Sedgewick, she had adored visiting both the infirm and the healthy people on the estate. It had pained her to see the condition of the farms, but she had quickly learned her lesson not to mention any of the repairs that were wanted to Sedgewick.

“Your business is to provide an heir. Why don’t you see to that before taking on my job?” Sedgewick had retorted the first time she had mentioned the condition of somebody’s thatched roof. And that had been one of his kinder comments.

While their afternoons at Sweet Clover were often spent apart, their nights were always spent together.

After dinner Freddie retired to the library and Plimpton joined her after his port and cigar. At first, he had offered to play card or chess. But it was quickly apparent that the only pleasure he got from either pastime was making her happy. When she told him that she would rather read or work on her needlework, she had seen the relief in his eyes.

At ten sharp every evening he would close his ledger, put away his correspondence, and say, “It is time for bed, Your Grace.”

And then they would spend the hours between ten-thirty and two in the morning exploring each other’s bodies.

They talked as well, but the confidences Freddie had hoped would come—such as what Plimpton’s first marriage had been like—never materialized.

Every night, between one-thirty and two he would retire to his own chambers.

The one time she mentioned that he might stay, he had politely, but firmly, declined her invitation, stating that she needed her rest.

He was the perfect companion, lover, and protector.

Which made Freddie wonder why she felt such unease simmering just below the surface of those happy days.