Claiming the Duchess (Fitzhugh Trilogy Book 0.5) Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Algernon House

  Four years later

  Clarissa almost could not recognize herself in this dress.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the fabric or the construction—it was a simple day dress of wool poplin—but oh, the color, like a glorious sunrise, set off by trimmings of cobalt blue.

  The saturation of the hues was intense; her younger self would never have worn such eye-wateringly brilliant colors. Then again, her younger self hadn’t had to wear mourning for two entire years.

  But as of today, her regulation mourning period had ended and she was once again free to dress as she wished, dance as she wished, and even marry as she wished—if she wished it.

  A few days ago she had said as much to Miss Kirkland, confessing that the house party she was hosting at Algernon House was actually a secret plot to assess all the gentlemen of her acquaintance for matrimonial possibilities.

  Clarissa had been joking, of course, but perhaps not entirely, for she had invited Mr. Kingston, and he had arrived at Algernon House an hour ago, according to her servants. She had seen little of him since their first meeting, but she had not been able to put him out of her mind—and there was no better time than now to find out whether there was anything to substantiate the spark that had ignited in her all those years ago.

  She walked to the open window. The fruit trees in the kitchen garden had begun to bloom, the soft buzz of honeybees hard at work vibrated the air, and the breeze that fluttered the curtains, though still cool, carried the first shimmer of warmth.

  Spring had returned.

  A movement caught her eye. A rider charged across the expansive grounds, weaving amid copses of chestnut and hazel. He followed the bank of the stream that bisected the large meadow behind the house. And when he whipped off his hat, the wind rushing past him ruffling his thick, glossy hair, she bit her lower lip at the sharp dig in her chest, as if her heart had been dented.

  Mr. Kingston, in the flesh.

  Her logical mind knew that she was doomed to disappointment: She had not forgotten that even in the days immediately following their meeting, she had felt let down by his reticence and his seemingly resolute lack of interest in her. But whether one happened to be a wife deprived of a husband’s affection or a widow shut off from society, the nights were often long. And in the dark, all alone, her thoughts had too often turned to Mr. Kingston.

  This house party, for example, she had thought about for an entire year. The house was so big. Even with dozens and dozens of guests there would still be sections devoid of occupants, where her footsteps would echo as she walked down a long corridor.

  What if she were to come upon Mr. Kingston in such an empty corridor? What if, as they passed each other, instead of nodding politely, he reached out and took her hand? And what if he then lifted her hand to his lips?

  At least she was somewhat realistic in her fancies, not attributing to Mr. Kingston any kind of romantic verbiage that she had never heard from him. Only a silent, simmering passion.

  It was possible, wasn’t it?

  “I had no idea you could stare with that much intensity, Stepmama,” said a voice at her elbow.

  She started. “Christian! When did you come back?”

  “Just now.” The current Duke of Lexington was lanky, handsome, and all of two days past nineteen.

  “What happened to Port Mulgrave?”

  He was supposed to spend the last few days of his Easter holiday on the North Yorkshire coast—with his father’s passing, he was no longer restricted to the quarry or just the countryside surrounding Algernon House for his excavations.

  “Terrible weather on the coast, and the locals don’t expect it to improve anytime soon. I will have to content myself with the quarry—there is an amphibian skeleton that might prove interesting.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be off, then. And don’t worry about rearranging the seating chart for dinner—I shall feast in the splendid solitude of my room.”

  “You should be more sociable,” she admonished. The boy was perfectly amiable in private, but terribly aloof before company.

  He grinned at her. “The Duke of Lexington will be as sociable as he chooses to be—and not a bit more. Especially not with the ancient crowd his stepmother prefers.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. He pecked her again on the cheek and sauntered out.

  She had been a new bride of seventeen when she’d first met him, a sturdy, bright-eyed little boy of four. Now he was a man nearly full-grown and she a widow thirty-two years of age. Where had all the years gone? And when?

  Her attention returned to Mr. Kingston, who had dismounted and was leading his horse along, his hat dangling from the fingers of his free hand. The gait of that man, unhurried and confident—and the way the fabric of his trousers moved with each fluid step…

  She blew out a breath of air.

  He crossed a stone bridge and turned onto the path that would take him to the stables. If he looked up, he would see her before the open window, lusting after such inconsequential qualities as the shape of his brows, the width of his shoulders, and the—

  He looked up, as if he had known all along that she was there. Her hands gripped the windowsill, but she did not look away.

  Their gazes held until he disappeared behind a bend in the path.

  Clarissa remained at the window until a knock came at the door. It was a footman, delivering a letter from Miss Kirkland.

  My dear Duchess,

  I am more than a little surprised to see you thinking of marriage so soon—somehow I had received the impression that it might be years yet before you willingly walk down the aisle again.

  Are you certain you are ready?

  But I suppose you must be, if you have already invited all these gentlemen—and ladies, of course—to Algernon House. In light of that, I shall reverse my earlier decision: It seems I had better be there, since the occasion is turning out to be far more momentous than I had thought.

  Yours devotedly,

  J.M.K.

  Clarissa exclaimed in both surprise and delight. Miss Kirkland, as it turned out, was something of a recluse who always found excuses to decline Clarissa’s invitations to meet. Had she known that a little misunderstanding concerning her matrimonial intentions would bring Miss Kirkland to Algernon House, Clarissa would have made such jokes much sooner.

  P.S. I fear that in person I shall prove to be a sore disappointment. With pen and paper I am at ease; in the solitude of my own company my thoughts and ideas flow without obstruction. But before others it takes me the greatest effort to string two words together, and more often than not my words emerge awkward and off-putting.

  P.P.S. By the time you read this, I should already be on my way.

  P.P.P.S. And if I should say anything to upset you terribly, please do believe that I have never meant to hurt you—or to put our friendship in jeopardy.

  The first postscript Clarissa had more or less expected—one did not become a recluse by being perfectly at ease in the company of others. The second postscript had her smiling. The third one, however, made her frown. They had written more than a thousand letters apiece to the other, exchanged countless ideas and gifts, and enjoyed years of closeness—intimacy even. And Miss Kirkland was afraid that Clarissa would take offense because she was less than accomplished at small talk?

  Clarissa read the letter once more, then carefully slipped it into a thick portfolio dedicated to their correspondence—the third one, in fact, such had been the volume of their dispatches.

  As she often did, after filing away Miss Kirkland’s latest, she extracted another letter at random, to see where they had happened to be in their years-long conversation on life, love, and everything else under the sun.

  It was a letter dated shortly after the duke’s passing.

  My dear Duchess,

  I daresay I have no idea your state of mind just now, having such an enormous change thrust upon you all of a s
udden. But if I may, I’d like to offer you a few words of counsel.

  Do not be shocked if you are struck by a greater grief than you had anticipated, for no matter what, His Grace was and will always be the man you once loved.

  Do not let futility seep into your heart that in the end there was no grand reconciliation to make up for years of neglect and casual cruelty.

  And do not let guilt bother you, should relief—or even hope—wash over you. The duke breathed his last because of the will of God, not because his wife wished she could start her life anew.

  While no one can predict what the future will bring, rest assured that I pray fervently for your happiness, and long to do what I can to help ease you into your new life and many new possibilities.

  Yours devotedly,

  J.M.K.

  It never failed to move Clarissa, this particular letter—the fineness of Miss Kirkland’s understanding, the stalwartness of her support, and, between the lines, the unspoken but staunch optimism that things would turn out all right.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Yes?”

  A footman bowed. “Mr. Kingston would like a moment of your time, Your Grace, if it is agreeable to you.”

  Her chair scraped audibly as she rose.

  In their entire acquaintance, Mr. Kingston had never sought her company. But a man acted very differently, did he not, when he perceived carnal curiosity on a woman’s part? Her long gaze upon him from the window—had he interpreted it as an invitation? Was this why he wanted to see her now, when he had been otherwise content to not approach her and not speak to her?

  In her mind she experienced a silent, unsmiling Mr. Kingston pressing her against a wall, his body hard and muscular, his kiss ardent, almost bruising.

  Her heart thumped. She took a deep breath. “You may show Mr. Kingston to the solarium. Tell him I will be there shortly.”

  Chapter 3