Page 31 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

“ P eggy, where is the Duchess?” Alexander asked.

The maid jumped. She had been engrossed in cleaning the rooms he had given to Celia.

Alexander stood in the doorway, running a hand through his tousled hair to tame it. He had awoken from a deep sleep a few minutes ago and stretched his limbs only to find a cool spot where Celia had been lying. After a brief search, he returned to her rooms to find her maid hard at work.

“I saw her about fifteen minutes ago, Your Grace. She was walking out of the door leading to the stables.”

“The stables? Was she dressed for the outdoors or indoors?” Alexander demanded.

“The outdoors, Your Grace. She had a package from the kitchen and a satchel, and sturdy walking boots on her feet,” Peggy said breathlessly.

Alexander turned on his heels and strode down the hallway towards the stairs. “Did she say where she was going?” he shouted over his shoulder.

“No, Your Grace. Just out for a walk!” Peggy called back.

Out for a walk with a package from the kitchen and a satchel. That does not sound like a promenade around the gardens. It sounds like a day’s walk in the hills.

He hurried down the stairs and to the cupboard beside the front door that held outdoor coats.

Glancing out the window, he threw an overcoat around his shoulders, paused for a moment, and grabbed another.

Who knew if the silly girl had dressed properly?

The rain he could see in the gathering clouds could fall before they were back.

As he slammed the door shut and began to walk towards the stables, a rustling sound reached him. He looked back and saw the letter from the Dowager Countess of Cleland on the floor. He stopped, remembering holding the perfumed letter as he’d pursued Celia up the stairs.

I must have dropped it. So, who picked it up and put it by the door? Peggy? Or did Celia see it?

Then it occurred to him that a woman finding a letter written to her husband on perfumed paper might get jealous. Celia didn’t know that the Dowager Countess was silver-haired and walked with the aid of a cane. She was well past her sixtieth year and was something of an expert in court gossip.

He crumpled the letter in his fist, tossing it aside as he ran for the door that led to the stables. Moments later, he saddled his bay mare, Persephone, and galloped out of the stables.

The cobbled path led to the front of the house, but there was a footpath that led off into the east woods. Approaching the path, he noticed signs that Celia had gone this way.

He steered Persephone to the path and slowed her to a walk, leaning forward in the saddle to scan the ground.

A broken fern told him Celia had taken a fork to follow an old fox trail.

Moss scraped from a stone by the heel of a shoe told him he was on the right track.

A wisp of cotton on a bramble steered him up Old Joffrey, the steep hill that marked the northern boundary of Finsbury.

Beyond the oak grove on top of the hill was a valley that wound into a landscape of meadows and woods.

London fell away behind, soon lost among the trees. Alexander’s breathing evened out as the sounds and smells of the city became diluted by the greenery and the smell of moss and earth. He found himself enjoying the chase, finding the tracks Celia had left and gauging her proximity.

I am hunting my own wife. What an absurdity. Or an anachronism. Perhaps noblemen in ages long past hunted people through these woods.

As he reached the round summit of Old Joffrey, he turned Persephone in a slow circle, looking for any trace of Celia.

The hill was covered in long grass that waved like a sea in the brisk breeze that wove through the trees.

The dark clouds seemed to have gathered directly overhead, becoming black with rain.

Now, Alexander grew concerned. This was no longer a pleasant afternoon ride. If Celia were caught out in the storm, she could be at risk.

“Celia!” he called out.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as an answer.

“Celia!” he called again, feeling the first fat drops of rain on his skin.

He walked Persephone through the grove, hoping Celia would have the good sense not to shelter from a thunderstorm in a hilltop wood.

On the far side, he began riding down into the valley beyond.

Then, he saw her. A figure hurrying with a parasol held over her head.

The wind was tugging at it, threatening to turn it inside out at any moment.

Her clothing was perfect for a summer afternoon in Hyde Park, but if the rain continued, it would provide as much protection as paper.

Alexander rode down the hill towards her as thunder cracked overhead, and the rain fell as though a bucket had been upturned. Persephone screamed in fright as another lightning bolt split the sky, followed quickly by a clap of thunder.

Celia ran with her head down, discarding the parasol whipped away from her by the wind. She neither saw nor heard Alexander approaching. He rode ahead of her, swinging out of the saddle and leading Persephone back towards her by the reins.

“Celia, we must find shelter. We can’t remain outdoors in this weather,” Alexander said.

Celia’s damp hair was plastered to her head. Her dress similarly clung to her skin, the fabric becoming translucent. Her breasts were discernible, as were her hips and navel. Alexander flung the coat around her shoulders.

“I did not know it was going to turn so bad,” she replied, taking his hand.

“I could have told you, had you asked me. But you left while I slept,” Alexander replied.

“I wanted to walk in the countryside. I thought you would understand. Like you said, I am a city girl at heart.”

“You certainly pick your moments,” Alexander said.

He looked around the hillside, whose vibrant greens had become washed out, dismal grey under the rain.

Another flash of lightning made Persephone’s legs quiver.

Alexander braced himself for the thunder that would drive the animal into a frenzy.

He seized the reins with both hands and braced his feet.

When Persephone reared at the thunderclap, he was lifted off his feet.

He landed with a bone-jarring thud and vainly tried to calm the animal as she fought to bolt.

Thunder reverberated through the hillsides, and Persephone dug in her hind legs and ran. Alexander was dragged, desperately trying to release the reins. He landed face down on the hillside as the horse ran at full gallop, soon lost behind the sheeting rain.

Celia ran to his side, kneeling beside him as he gasped for breath.

“Alexander, are you hurt?” she asked, brushing sodden hair from her face.

He shook his head, climbing to his feet only to feel sharp pain splinter through his ankle. He clutched at it, collapsing onto one knee.

“My ankle. A sprain, I hope. A broken bone if my luck is out.”

“Well, we cannot stay out here,” Celia said.

“You think?” Alexander shot back. “I wish I had your woodcraft.”

Celia draped his arm over her shoulder. “Lean on me,” she told him.

With effort, he managed to get to his feet.

“Go down the hill. If this field were used for sheep, there might be a shepherd’s hut somewhere nearby. I am almost positive sheep roam this entire valley,” he said.

Celia proved surprisingly strong, as he found he could put little weight on his ankle. The boot around it began to feel tight, a sure sign of swelling, which in turn meant an injury.

After a few minutes, and with both as drenched as if they had fallen into a stream, a dark shape appeared ahead of them. It was a lean-to made of wood and filled with straw for bedding. Persephone huddled beneath, as did half a dozen white-bodied, black-faced sheep.

They reached the shelter, which was thatched with mud and more straw. It was dry beneath, and the bodies of the animals produced a heat that made the water steam off them.

Alexander collapsed into the straw, and Celia fell down next to him, red-faced and breathing hard. He found himself laughing.

“What is so funny?” Celia asked.

“I just remembered one day when I decided to walk from Cheverton to Chelmsford when I was a boy. It seemed such a short distance on my father’s map and a very straightforward road.

I ended up sheltering from a storm in a pig pen and was mistaken for a vagrant by the farmer, who summoned a Justice of the Peace.

I was sent to a workhouse near Barking for a week before my father freed me. He was mortified.”

“A pig pen?” Celia echoed, astonished.

“Yes, it was the only shelter for miles. It was either that or dying of exposure.”

“What happened when you got home?”

“My father eventually congratulated me on getting as far as I did. My mother hired a tutor to teach me geography.”

Celia laughed. “On one of my excursions, I ended up being paid to ride a racehorse at Ascot. The animal was a wonderful gelding named Henry, and his owner was the Duke of Connaught. I was in a tavern in Debtford when I was approached to be a jockey, due to my slight build. I was leading when my wig flew off my head and my long hair was revealed to all. I was taken into custody by a shocked constable and driven back to London. I gave my address as Cheapside and jumped out of the carriage on Piccadilly,” she recounted, shifting in the straw to find a comfortable position.

Alexander watched her body shift against her soaked dress. Celia noticed him noticing.

“Why did you run away?” he asked.

“Why? Because I did not want them to discover that I was the daughter of the Earl of Scovell. I knew Father would send me away to the countryside, to Aunt Hilda and Uncle Cuthbert.”

“No, I do not mean in your story. Why did you run from our bed?”

He looked at her earnestly, unable to stop himself from tracing the line of her lean but luscious figure. He reached out, running his hand down her side and over her hip. She put her hand atop his, stopping him but not removing his touch.

“I did not want to become another mistress,” she said.