A Wildflower for a Duke, page 27
“If there was giggling and hair plaiting involved, then it sounds exactly like when my cousins came to stay with my sister when we were children.” Keene smiled over his cup.
“She had a series of very bad experiences with a man many years ago. She told me about it last night and—trust me when I say this—even if I wanted to remove more clothes than my stockings, it definitely won’t be occurring for a while.”
All the good humour vanished from Keene’s face. “Damn. I am sorry, Gabe.”
Gabriel stared at the unlit hearth. “Why does it always feel like the worst things happen to the best people?” He took another sip of his slightly cooler tea.
“Probably because when bad things happen to the worst people, we don’t care enough to notice. Does the dowager know that there is now a duchess?”
“Yes, I informed her by letter the morning we arrived home, but I’m certain she’d already read the announcement by the time my letter arrived.” Gabriel pointed to one of the two identical shirts and stripped off his nightshirt,
Keene nodded absently as he turned his attention to the task of readying Gabriel for the day.
Gabriel smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from his shirt. “I am aware that I cannot keep her from my duchess forever, but I’m dreading the moment of their introduction. You know Mother; she’s rigid in her expectations and incapable of appreciating a unique mind. All the qualities that I value in Violet will be irresistible targets for the dowager's vicious tongue.”
Keene remained silent while he examined various pairs of trousers, then held up a pair. “Our duchess is stronger than she looks and leagues more cunning and perceptive than the dowager. In truth, Violet is very much like her namesake, a wildflower. They’re resilient and enduring, vibrant and surprisingly charming. They will adapt and grow no matter the changing environment, and are more interesting than any hothouse flower. It's only through random chance and the asinine opinions of society that the delicacy of a rose is considered more desirable than the wildflower’s untamed beauty. Your wildflower will fare just fine, Gabriel.” Keene Glanced at the door. “Speaking of your mother, I hear terrified maids, so she must have arrived. Let’s get you dressed and ready to conquer the world. Or at least one ageing, cantankerous aristocrat.”
***
“Eliminate this atrocious flower arrangement and find one less akin to being olfactorily assaulted by a bawdy house girl.” The dowager had cornered a young maid and was assailing her with a list of all the unacceptable details of his home.
“Welcome home, Mother.” Gabriel kissed her proffered cheek lightly. “I see you haven’t wasted any time bullying my servants. Need I remind you that you have your own set of servants to terrorise?” He gave her a warning glare, then turned to the trembling maid. “You may go, Abigail, thank you. And please leave the flowers.”
“My, you are feeling combative today,” his mother tsked.
“Not at all. I just happen to like those flowers. They have yet to say anything rude or offensive to me. Did you have a pleasant trip?” he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
“No. Every mile was an abominable torment. I am convinced the driver intentionally swerved to hit potholes along the road, none of the inns were remotely acceptable, and I was forced to let my companion go the day before I departed, so I had absolutely nothing to occupy the hours.”
“Dare I ask what the poor girl did to offend?”
“Everything about her was offensive! She had an unbearable habit of swinging her arms when she walked, as if she was trying to doggy paddle across the Thames; she made an abominable racket of clicks and clacks while knitting; and she was always underfoot.”
“Isn't it a companion's job to be underfoot?” he inquired without the slightest hint of sarcasm. He made a note to reach out to the girl and see that she, at the very least, had a character reference.
“Don’t be insolent, Northam, you know I cannot abide it.”
“Of course, Mother. Perhaps you would like some tea before you retire to the dower house for a repose?” Gabriel indicated that she should lead the way to the drawing room.
“What I would like is to meet the Duchess of Northam. You spirited her in the back door and married her the moment I left, and I’d like to determine if there is some rational reason for the unseemly haste. For instance, the sort that results in the arrival of an heir in seven months' time.”
Gabriel halted mid-step, turning about slowly. “She is unavailable at present. You will meet the duchess at her leisure, and when you do, you will, I trust, be the picture of politeness. As to how and why our nuptials came about, you shouldn’t trouble yourself with those details. Come. Let's have tea. You can describe those cathedral-sized potholes in greater detail.”
“Where’s my granddaughter? Off frolicking in the fields dressed in a potato sack, no doubt.”
He increased his speed. The faster Gabriel could choke down a cup of tea, the faster this would be over and he could join Violet for a picnic and to gather strawberries from her old garden. She would likely be in the goat paddock waiting for him by now. Certainly those stubborn old goats were preferable to this one.
“She is with the duchess, wearing a sky blue frock with a bit of lace about the collar. All the potato sacks are being laundered at the moment.” He settled on the settee across from his mother, then immediately rose to tug the bell pull. Please, God, let the tea be ready. A maid entered promptly with tea for two and a broad assortment of scones and biscuits on a three-tiered silver tray.
“Thank you, Mary. Would you care to pour, Mother?”
“I will never understand how you learn all their names. Or why you bother. I daresay it embarrasses them to have that kind of attention.”
He lifted a scone and sunk his teeth into it aggressively. “It’s politeness, Mother. And I don’t know all their names.” He did, actually.
“Your duchess …” She stared at her tea as if it had wronged her in some way. “I understand she is the widow of one of your tenants, and not a young widow.” Her forehead wrinkled on the word young, as if she had discovered an insect crawling inside a bite of fruit. “I’m told she is the impoverished daughter of a baronet? I cannot fathom how she fell so far as to find herself a tenant farmer. What were you thinking? You have a dukedom to consider. A dukedom that requires a lady of childbearing age to provide you with an heir and a spare. That is her principal duty as your duchess. Did you learn nothing from your last abysmal attempt?”
Of all the mornings to have this conversation. His fingers froze on the handle of his cup as the scone in his mouth turned dry and crumbly, abrading the inside of his throat. “I believe I was thinking that I wanted to marry her, Mother, and that my decisions are not contingent upon your approval. Your reference to Emma and Violet as if they’re broodmares is tasteless, and I will not have it.” His tone hadn’t altered in the slightest. Gabriel had been raised to remain unflappable in the face of antagonism, but he felt himself toeing the limits of his self-control at the thought of his mother causing Violet distress. He took a gulp of tea to soothe his throat, then continued. “I would joyfully welcome children of either sex, but I rest easy knowing that Michael is a competent heir.” Ruefully he examined the still half-filled beverage. Damn it. Why hasn’t it emptied?
“I hear she has a son. A troubled boy,” she prodded.
“Zach is a kind, perceptive, brilliant artist. He and Nora are very close, and I am gratified that he has been so accepting of my guidance as a stepfather. I have enjoyed getting to know him.” Gabriel took a massive gulp of tea and skewered his mother with a glare. Fragile from the evening prior, he felt ill-equipped today to catch the daggers his mother so thoughtlessly hurled. Not that the dowager cared about his emotional well-being.
Gabriel’s needs as a human, rather than a title, had never warranted his mother’s notice. Although he had tried to hold tightly to the moments where her behaviour hinted at maternal care, those flashes had been fleeting and few. As a boy, he’d searched for crumbs of connection from her and always returned hungry. He wondered in passing why he still bothered trying to appeal to warmth she didn’t seem to possess. And yet, here he was again, searching.
“I care about them, Mother. They make me happy.” The admission emerged quietly, hesitantly. Like a wild rabbit showing its soft underbelly to a fox, knowing he would soon be gobbled up for his poor choices. It was a final plea to the mother who must have been buried beneath layer upon layer of impenetrable dowager. He waited for the lash of her words, confident they would come.
“It does not signify. You're flesh and bone, and will one day be dust. The dukedom will carry on for generations. Every choice you’ve made has been utterly and unequivocally selfish.”
His insides recoiled but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked into his cup. With overwhelming relief, he found it empty. “I have a busy schedule today, Mother. Thank you for the tea. You may see yourself out.” He bowed respectfully and fled with practised calm.
***
Having finally collected all the ingredients necessary for her task, Violet settled onto a milking stool behind a long, craggy oak table in the goat stable. Beside her, the rusty hinges of the door groaned. She turned, expecting Gabriel, but found a stoop-shouldered Nora instead. Her feet dragged as if the motivation to complete the journey had trickled off somewhere along the way.
“Good morning, Nora!”
“Good morning.” Nora echoed back identical words but with none of the enthusiasm. Like a pencil-drawn replica of vividly painted artwork.
Violet set down the knife she was preparing to use to decapitate a fish, and turned to give the youngster her full attention. “You look like a raincloud, little one, what has your water vapour so suspended and heavy?” At Nora’s questioning glance, she rephrased the question: “Why so sad?”
Nora picked up another stool, set it across from Violet, and plunked down with a grunt. “It’s nothing important. Hardly worth bothering with.”
Resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Violet gave the statement consideration. “I beg to differ. If it has the ability to make you upset, then it is important. Little bothers have the annoying tendency to turn into big bothers if we ignore them and let them grow.”
Nora scrunched her skirt in a fist, then let it go, smoothing the little creases with her fingers. “I was with Zach, and he was attempting to show me how to draw a chicken.”
“Ah, Zach can be a difficult act to follow when it comes to art. I once tried to draw a boat, and he thought it was a sea monster. Zach doesn’t understand the concept of pretending to be impressed when he is not.”
“It’s not that. I don’t care all that much that I can’t draw, but I wish I was really amazing at something, anything, like Zach is. Naturally good at it, like I was made to be that way.”
Violet picked up the knife and balanced it on its tip where it hovered for an instant before crashing down with a plunk. “I’m not sure I would wish that for you.”
Nora frowned.
Turning away from the table once again, Violet scootched her stool closer. “When you are born as a sword, and it’s obvious that’s what you are, you seldom consider that you might enjoy being something else. And so that becomes your identity from the moment you are created. If you’re lucky, you actually enjoy it, like Zach. But either way, it’s hard for a sword to ever imagine being anything different.”
Nora made a considering expression and leaned forward in her seat.
“But, if you are born a stick, you might try your hand at being a sword one day and part of a tree fort the next. Maybe you will decide to be a fishing pole, or a cricket bat, or the handle of a paintbrush… or all of those things during the course of your life. My point is, a stick is only limited by its own imagination, while it takes a great deal of courage for a beautifully crafted sword to transform into something new. And the world will always consider him to be playing at a person he is not.”
Nora sat up tall in her seat, a thoughtful smile playing across her face. “That makes sense. Like Father. His lot in life was etched in stone before he even wet his first nappy.” She giggled. “Grow up. Treat everyone beneath you with cold disdain. Marry someone equally rude and have a house full of snobby children to do the exact same thing all over again for the next generation.”
Violet laughed. “Exactly so.”
“And instead, he falls in love with a bluestocking goat farmer, drinks scotch with his valet every night, and raises a daughter who gets to be a stick instead of a sword.”
Violet swallowed hard at the introduction of love to the conversation, but nodded eagerly anyway. “And had he been born an ordinary man himself, no one would ever question those choices. But he is a duke, and so a great deal of bravery and stubbornness is required to make, and to live by, those choices each day. You may be whatever you wish to be. You may be a thousand different wonderful things in your lifetime. Your father and I will support you as you explore exactly who it is you want to be. Yes, you will always be the daughter of a duke, but that's not everything that you are. Create poorly drawn chickens merely for the joy of it, discover what you excel at, and then, from those things, choose only those that also excite you. Maybe in doing so you will encourage Zachariah to see beyond the end of his paintbrush as well.”
Nora beamed. “I’m so glad I came to talk with you. I suppose I could have sought out Papa, but … somehow I knew you were the person who could help me feel better.”
Violet blinked to keep the tears from swimming up in her eyes. “I’m glad you came too.”
Nora threw herself into Violet’s lap, choking her with an enthusiastic, bony-armed hug. Violet happily returned the embrace. “Now, would you like to help me with a little fish dissection? We can talk about the organs and bones as we go along.”
Chapter 28
G abriel felt certain his mother would suffer apoplexy if she knew his “important business” involved “field labourer work” and basking in the company of his wife. Knowing it would vex the dowager made an already pleasant task that much more enjoyable. Like a soggy dog shaking off water, Gabriel actively shook off the sadness his mother had inflicted and hurried off with eager, jaunty steps.
A putrid aroma, rather than his beautiful duchess, greeted Gabriel as he approached the goat stables. Grimacing, he fought to restrain the urge to tie his cravat about his nose and mouth.
“Violet?” he called out. “What is that God awful sm—” His voice cut away as he discovered Violet perched on a stool, elbow-deep in a tub of disgusting, gelatinous soil. She looked up at his approach, her expression warm and teeming with unabashed joy. Gabriel took half a rolling step back and covered his nose with his hand despite feeling completely charmed by her greeting.
“Oh, hello,” Violet chirped. “Isn't it wonderful!”
“Is this your way of maintaining some physical distance?” He laughed and shook his head, only then noticing Nora nearby with a pile of fish bones. She was crouched, with a look of deep puzzlement on her face, as she attempted to reassemble the skeleton into some terrifying hybrid beast from her imagination.
“Good morning, Nora,” he added with a nod.
“How was your mother?” Violet asked, returning to her rudimentary and somewhat savage hand mixing.
Gabriel glanced at Nora. “Every bit as snide and disdainful as you might imagine. And I have a healthy respect for that imagination of yours.”
His brief glance, and the promise of further boring adult conversation, were sufficient encouragement for Nora to gather her bones within a makeshift pocket of her skirts and make a hasty exit. “I’m off to see if I can tempt Zach into a ride this morning.”
Gabriel nodded, watching her leave, then returned his attention to Violet.
He forced himself in the direction of her repugnant concoction. “The dowager terrified every member of my staff, belittled helpless flowers, and somehow managed to imply both that you trapped me into marriage by becoming pregnant and that you are too old and barren to be of any real use as a duchess. I didn't bother to point out the impossibility of those two statements being true simultaneously.” Picking up a wooden spoon, he stabbed at a glob of wet, murky soil. “And that was all before tea.” He forced a smile, dropped the spoon, and shifted directly behind Violet, placing his hands on her hips and peeking over her shoulder into the cauldron.
“Oh, she sounds deliciously ruthless! Like a great, powerful cat who toys with a mouse before slitting it straight up the centre with a claw. Except you're not much of a timid mouse, are you?” She tipped her head back against his chest with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“I can be mouse-like,” he whispered in her ear, enjoying her nearness now that his nose had adapted to the stench.
Gabriel had come to the conclusion that constant, gradually-increasing physical contact with Violet would be the ideal way to ease them both into the idea of intimacy … like the incremental rise in the water temperature of a lobster pot, except with a less macabre result.
The collective ton deemed it gauche to show any affection toward your spouse in public, but he had always disregarded that reigning opinion with Emma, and he was finding that it came every bit as naturally to disregard it with Violet. Casually gliding his fingertips along the creamy inside of her arm, stroking the pad of his thumb across her wrist, seizing every opportunity to press his hand to the small of her back … It would be no hardship to allow his fingers free rein of all the acceptably benign but lovely parts of her body. That is, when she didn’t smell of fish entrails. Gabriel intended for his touch to become as familiar and welcome to her as the breeze across her skin. Hopefully Violet would invite him back into her bed tonight, allowing him another opportunity to demonstrate his unflappable restraint and his devotion to the respectful care of her body.
