Rain fell relentlessly from a gray and cloudy sky. It was the third spring shower in as many days, which was why Eleanor knew – or at least hoped – it would soon clear. Having gone out early in the morning to care for her animals, she was now stuck inside the carriage shed until the rain lifted.
The sweet smell of hay permeated the air, while the soft ruffle of feathers and gentle squeaks and snorts (just yesterday she’d rescued two run piglets from a sow who wanted nothing to do with them) created a lilting symphony of contended sounds. If not for her grumbling stomach – and the veritable feast of eggs and bread and sausage that awaited her inside – she would have been perfectly happy to remain in the carriage shed for half the day, if not longer. Especially since any hour (any minute, really) a formidable black coach was going to come trotting up the drive and a man she very much did not want to see was going to emerge.
Her stomach as she imagined seeing her husband again. Husband. How strange it felt to even think that word! Oh, why did the duke have to come to Hawkridge? She knew it wasn’t to see her. He’d made it very clear when he had banished her to the country that he had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. What was it he had growled at her as he’d all but shoved her into the carriage after the church ceremony was over? Ah yes, now she remembered.
“I hope you enjoy Surrey. You’re going to be there for a very long time.”
Such a romantic, her husband. Sitting cross-legged in a pile of straw, Eleanor reached behind her to draw the piglet she’d dubbed Sir Galahad into her lap. He wiggled when she scratched behind one floppy ear, his tiny wet nostrils quivering with delight, before promptly sprawling his pink body across her leg and falling asleep. Eleanor sighed. Sir Galahad had more manners and decorum in one little pork chop than the Duke of Hawkridge had in his entire body. She liked to think time had improved her husband’s demeanor, but she sincerely doubted it. In her experience men were who they were, and pampered, titled men were the worst of the lot. If only Henny hadn’t stolen her hair pin…but there was no use crying over spilt milk.
“Look Sir Galahad,” she murmured, glancing up at the window. “The rain has slowed.” Carefully moving the sleeping piglet off her lap, she tip-toed through the straw and slipped out of the carriage shed before any of her pets were the wiser.
She’d already set the bar in place over the door when she realized she’d forgotten her gloves and hat inside. Gnawing on her bottom lip she considered dashing back in to retrieve them, but that would only cause a ruckus and besides, it was hardly raining at all. No more than a mist, really.
A mist that abruptly turned into a downpour when she was less than halfway to the manor.
With a loud shriek Eleanor pulled up her dress, kicked off her flimsy shoes, and raced barefoot across the lawn. She was in such a hurry to get inside that she failed to notice the stately coach pulled by a matching team of bays sitting at the end of the drive. But when she skidded haphazardly into the foyer there was no avoiding the hard chest that greeted her, nor the man the hard chest belonged to.
Her yelp of surprise was swallowed up by a black greatcoat that smelled faintly of cigar smoke. Strong hands closed around her wrists, trapping them in a manacle like grip. Eleanor found herself tilting her head back and looking up, up, up into a strikingly handsome countenance with bold lips pulled back in a frown, freshly shaven jaw clenched tight, and brandy colored eyes flashing with annoyance. She blinked, and water spilled from her lashes to run down her cheeks in delicate rivulets as a tentative smile curved her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said contritely, wanting to at least try to get off on the right foot this time. Who knew, maybe her husband really had changed, in which case it was only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I was in a rush and didn’t see you standing there.”
“Clearly,” Derek drawled, his insufferable tone and cold sneer instantly confirming all of her worst fears. The duke wasn’t any kinder or less arrogant than he’d been a year ago. If anything, he was worse! Her smile dimming, she tried to pull her hands free, but his grip – while painless – was unrelenting.
“Let me get a good look at you,” he said, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits of enraged emerald when he began a slow, thorough examination of her body as if she were a horse standing at market.
“Are you quite finished?” she demanded when his gaze returned at last to her face.
“Quite. I must say, when I sent word of my arrival I had hoped to be greeted by the Duchess of Hawkridge, not a drowned rat that vaguely resembles the woman I married.” Releasing her wrists, he took a step back and scowled down at her, dark brows forming a rigid line of disapproval above eyes that had deepened to a rich shade of brown. “Where is your hat? Your gloves? Your cloak? And what the devil were you doing outside to begin with? It’s bloody well pouring.”
“Is it?” Eleanor said with a feigned gasp. “My goodness, I hadn’t noticed. That must be why I’m all wet.”
“I see time hasn’t dulled your sarcastic wit.”
“Nor has it cured you of your arrogance,” she retorted.
They stared hard at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look away. Trapped in a battle of silent wills, they might have stood there all day were it not for Georgiana’s sudden arrival.
“Derek! You’re here at last!” The dark haired beauty swept across the foyer with enviable grace. Stepping between husband and wife, she subtly nudged Eleanor out of the way before draping her arms around her brother’s shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “How exhausted you must be after such a long and arduous journey.”
“He only came from London,” Eleanor couldn’t help but point out. “It’s not as if he just sailed across the Atlantic.”
“Maybe not, but it appears as though you have.” Georgiana’s nose wrinkled. “Why are you sopping wet? And what is that smell?”
“I don’t smell anything,” Eleanor said defensively even as she lifted a damp strand of hair and took a quick sniff. Aside from the faint smell of hay – a scent she found quite pleasant – she detected nothing odorous. But apparently she was the only one.
“My sister is correct,” said Derek, stepping away. “There is a certain…aroma…emanating from your general direction. Please bathe and make yourself presentable before dinner.”
Effectively dismissed, Eleanor was only too happy to make her escape. Walking quickly out of the foyer, she made a quick detour to the library where Henny was dozing on a pillow in front of the fire and carried the yawning hedgehog up to her private bedchamber. Then, because a late morning nap seemed like an absolutely splendid idea, she stripped down to her linen corset and drawers, settled Henny beside her on the bed, and, lulled by the gentle smattering of rain against the windows, promptly drifted off to sleep.
Well that hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. Grinding his teeth together in frustration, Derek stalked into his study and slammed the door in his wake, a loud indication that he was not to be disturbed.
In anticipation of his arrival the large room, trimmed in mahogany and dark blue drapes, had been swept, dusted, and polished with beeswax. Not a small undertaking given the long wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves and heavy leather furniture, but his staff was nothing if not well trained. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his wife.
He had hoped a year in the country with Georgiana might have civilized Eleanor, but if her mud-splattered dress and mop of wet hair were any indication she’d gotten worse instead of better. He had come to Hawkridge expecting to be greeted by a woman who at least resembled a duchess in appearance if not demeanor. Instead he’d gotten a wet street urchin who had looked as if she’d been dragged in off the streets of St Giles.
Sitting heavily behind his desk, he poured himself a glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair. He stared hard at the ceiling, studying a narrow crack in the white plaster as he wondered how the hell he was going to woo a wife that was more wild than tame.
Derek knew he would be well within his husbandly rights to force himself upon her, but his stomach rebelled at the thought. If their marriage was consummated – when it was consummated, he corrected as he sat up and took a sip of brandy – Eleanor would be a willing participant. He’d make sure of it. After all, underneath all that mud and behind that shrewish temper was a woman like any other. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was charm a woman.
She’ll be eating out of my palm before the end of the week, he thought confidently before he finished the rest of his brandy and prowled to the large bay window overlooking the east lawn. If not for a heavy fog he would have had a clear view of the stables. Instead the only thing he could make out through the hazy gray mist was the bronze weathervane perched atop the largest barn. A fiftieth anniversary present from his grandmother to his grandfather, it was a large destrier in full gallop. Every year his grandfather had seen to it that the weathervane was taken down and polished, but since his death it had gone untouched and a faint patina had begun to set it, giving the stallion’s mane and tail a greenish tint.
Absently drumming his fingers along the wooden sill, Derek turned around and let his head fall back against the cool glass with a dull thud. Five years he’d been the duke, and some days it still felt as though his grandfather was standing around the corner, just waiting to lay into him with a blustering diatribe about how much of a disappointment he was. No matter what he’d done, it had never been enough to earn the late duke’s approval…or his respect.
The cantankerous old bastard had made it very clear he wished it was his son inheriting the title instead of his ‘worthless wastrel of a grandson’. He’d snarled the words so many times that they’d become imprinted in Derek’s subconscious, and more than once he could have sworn he had heard the raspy whisper of his grandfather’s voice late at night when the halls were dark and the moon shone bright.
Hawkridge Castle may have been the pride and jewel of the dukedom and where he’d spent most of his childhood, but it would never be home. Not as long as his grandfather’s memory continued to lurk in every shadow and corner.
Pushing away from the window, he returned to his desk and picked up a quill pen. If he was going to be stuck in this Godforsaken place for the undeterminable future, he might as well make the best of it. His solicitor usually took care of his business correspondences, but the man’s wife was expecting a child any day so he had been unable to leave London which meant Derek was – at least temporarily – in charge of his own affairs. Having always had a good head for numbers and a fluid hand, he didn’t mind the extra work. In fact, it was just the distraction he needed.
A distraction from ghosts.
A distraction from piqued mistresses.
And, most importantly, a distraction from red-haired wives with waspish tongues and the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen…