Excerpt: The Merry Wife of Wyndmere

Chapter One

Persephone, Duchess of Wyndmere, stared at her reflection in the looking glass hanging on the wall above the mahogany washstand. The woman who stared back at her shared the same blue-black hair and warm brown eyes, but that was where the resemblance ended.

She poured hot water from the pink and white flowered ceramic pitcher into the matching bowl, then reached for the round of lilac-scented soap and held it to her nose to inhale the subtle scent that always brought a smile to her lips.

But not today. Her worries weighed her down. After she washed and rinsed her hands, she reached for the soft linen cloth beside the bowl to dry them. Why had the weight she gained carrying their twins started to melt away, to reveal a hint of her former figure, only to come back?

Tears of frustration welled up, but she blinked them away. “Tears never solve anything,” she chided her reflection. Where was the determination and stubbornness that had carried her through the trials she and her husband endured during the first year of their married life? She sighed, knowing it had been buried beneath the exhaustion from feeding and caring for their twins. Thank heaven she could rely on their nanny, to care for and watch over her babes while she rested.

Sighing at the prominent jut of her overblown breasts, she reminded her dowdy reflection, “You have been blessed with an abundance of milk enabling you to feed Richard and Abigail.” Her mind knew her body was balancing her needs as well as those of her twins with the stubborn weight gain, but it bothered her just the same.

Stepping back, she took stock of the rest of her appearance. There was a time not that long ago when Jared could not wait to sweep her into his arms and carry her off to their bed. The joy their shared, the loving touches, the fiery passion had been all but forgotten in the terrifying weeks the duke and his guard fought to uncover the man behind the plot to steal their babes. Once the danger passed, they had shared a few precious nights together.

It had shocked her to discover that making love was far more uncomfortable after giving birth than she had expected—mayhap they should have waited a fortnight longer. But their passion and need for one another would not be denied. Her husband had been gentle—and maddeningly thorough. Together they fanned the flames of their desire until they had tasted the ecstasy they knew awaited them as they found completion in one another’s arms.

The last time they made love, Richard started wailing, and she felt the familiar tingling in her breasts as her body immediately responded to her babe’s hungry cries. To her dismay, her milk started to leak on her husband’s broad chest. She remembered his shocked expression… It must have been a warm, uncomfortable surprise.

With each day that followed, she saw less and less of him. He spent the bulk of his time handling matters he no longer discussed with her. Would he return to their bed once the twins were weaned? She had no idea.

Mayhap this was what life was like for those who married for duty and the coin to fill their family’s coffers. Once the heir and a spare had been delivered, they would be relegated to an obscure estate while their titled husband returned to his cronies at White’s, and their demireps who would once more warm their beds.

No! Jared was not like the others. He loved her. The life they were building was not on a foundation of sand—a physical attraction that would fade over time—and nor was it the coin in her dowry—once spent, forgotten. They used to share their worries, and their plans they made for the future. They shared titillating conversations over their morning pots of tea, nibbling on sweets…before Jared closed the door and locked it to nibble on her!

The knock on her bedchamber door forced her to gather her worry and tuck it away. “Come in.”

The maid hesitated in the doorway. “Are you feeling poorly, Your Grace?”

Her maid’s concerned expression added to Persephone’s frustration. She could see the question in the young woman’s eyes and had heard the rumor whispered through the servants’ side of their home. The question no one had been brave enough to ask: What caused the rift between the duke and the duchess?

“Nay, Francis. Just tired.”

The duke, his personal guard, and their staff had protected their babes from the first threat to the last. Richard and Abigail were unharmed, the kidnappers behind bars, and the blackguard behind it no longer a threat. So why did the duke maintain his distance when their babes were safe? It had to be her overblown figure, coupled with the unwanted emotional highs and lows, that had cooled his ardor. How could she rekindle it?

The maid bustled into the room bearing a tray containing a small pot of tea and large glass of milk.

Eyeing the single small pot of tea, Persephone felt her mood swing from complacent to fractious. “I distinctly recall requesting two pots of tea.”

Francis flinched at the harsh tone, and Persephone immediately regretted it.

Her maid carefully set the tray on the elegant mahogany table beneath the window that overlooked the garden, as if it contained black powder…and the duchess held the flint to create the spark that would blow it to bits. Francis paused then placed her palm against the window that looked out over the gardens. “It’s bitter cold outside. Shall I fetch your heavy woolen shawl? Merry is concerned you’ll catch a chill eating by the window.”

The duchess knew she should not take out her frustration on the maid, but she could not seem to help herself. “You have neglected to answer my question, Francis.”

Every ounce of color drained from the young woman’s face as she held the silver tray to her breast as if it were a shield that would protect her. “I… We… That is, His Grace—”

“Is behaving in an unacceptable, autocratic manner! Did he have to go without his precious morning pot of tea this morning, or, for that matter, for the nine months I carried our babes?”

Her maid swallowed and shook her head.

Persephone strode over to the bellpull and yanked it. Within moments, a footman appeared in the doorway. She sent him off on a quest to return with her pots of tea.

Persephone was beyond caring what anyone thought, tired of everyone treading lightly around her—or, when she raised her voice, keeping their distance—as if she were fragile. The man Persephone had trusted to always be there for her had deserted her. Without the strength she had come to depend upon, she could not think of a way to pull herself free. Instead, she felt as if she were trapped in a bog, sinking deeper every time those around her eyed her as if she were a raving madwoman…and mayhap she was. The duchess knew she needed to regain control of her emotions and her temper. If she had to resort to sneaking down into the kitchen and preparing the tea that was essential to her state of mind and her ability to function, then she bloody well would!

She drew in a deep breath and felt her strength ebbing as it had for the last sennight. Where had the strength she had regained gone? Why was she constantly tired? Was it a malady due to birthing two babes instead of one, or was something quite serious wrong with her?

The duchess hated that she was easily vexed with anyone who tried to tell her what to do. Whether their advice was out of love and concern did not matter in the slightest. Mayhap she needed to seek the advice of someone besides Jared’s pompous physician. A woman she could trust. Her confidantes, Ladies Phoebe, Aurelia, and Calliope, were married now, two of them expecting. All of them unable to make the journey in such wicked weather.

How long had it been since she’d corresponded with Lady Phyllida and Lady Cressida? Before she married the duke, they had been her closest friends and constant companions. Would they be understanding, given all that had occurred, or would they be vexed with her?

Never letting go of her silver shield, her maid asked, “Shall I ask Merry for a tisane with her special herbal blend?”

“Just the pots of tea I requested, thank you.”

The maid dipped into a deep curtsey and closed the door behind her.

Persephone should have felt relieved at the closing of the door. Glancing about her, the duchess wondered why the soft greens and blues of the drapes and coordinating colors on the counterpane on the bed did not soothe her as they normally would. The room she used to share with her husband had been their haven, where she and her love were surrounded by colors that reminded her of the sky and the meadow around their home. It had been their shelter from the slings and arrows of the society that had become part of their everyday existence.

She sat at the table and stared out of the window at the frozen scene. Ice and snow transformed the verdant green of the park surrounding their home and gardens into a fairytale setting. She squinted and imagined she saw the Snow Queen standing with her head held high as icicles and snowflakes danced on the air, swirling about her. The queen’s eyes were the same brilliant, crystalline blue as those of the man she loved.

Vowing not to think of the man who was bent on reminding her what to do, and when and how to do it, she concentrated on the wintry scene below. Did the wood nymphs and faeries feel the cold, or did they wear coats made from layers and layers of moss and leaves? Did they brave the wintry weather or settle in for a long winter’s nap?

Sipping her now-lukewarm tea did not soothe her or prod her brain to wake. Jared knows it takes two strong pots of tea for me to wake sufficiently to face the day with any sort of good humor.

A knock on her bedchamber door had relief flowing through her—her tea had arrived. Finally!

“Come in.”

“I understand you are not pleased with your morning tray.”

Persephone shot to her feet. “Jared? I thought you were closeted with Hawkins going over his suggestions for the spring planting.”

He crossed the threshold but went no further. Hurt lanced through her. Could he no longer stand to be in the same room with her?

Her husband frowned. “I was until I was told that you refused to eat until you received your pots of tea.”

Her irritation spiked and her temper got the better of her. “Why have you insisted that I be deprived of the one thing I must have every morning in order to face my day?”

***

The duke clenched his hands behind his back before he gave in to the temptation to put them on her shoulders and shake some sense into his wife. Face her day? Was her life here so tedious? Marriage to him such a trial? Did she regret the proof of the love they made…their babes?

He schooled his features and donned the ducal expression he often employed to keep others from discovering his true thoughts and feelings. “Is there anything I can do for you, other than send up what our physician has expressly forbidden?”

“I was assured I would be able to return to my regular diet of—”

The duke cut her off. “I have spoken with him recently, and he has changed his mind.”

Every ounce of color bled from her face. He did not reach for her, didn’t dare touch her for fear he would lose his head and give in to the desperate need that had its claws in him. Bloody hell! It had been too long since they made love. That brief taste after they thought she had healed sufficiently from the birthing had not quenched the desire he had kept a tight leash on for the last months of her pregnancy. His need had him pacing late at night, but the knowledge his babes needed her more kept him at a distance. Anyone could see she suffered from exhaustion. But God, how he was tempted to toss her onto the bed and sink into her welcoming warmth…losing himself in the ecstasy they used to share.

The hurt in her eyes pulled at him, but he could not give in when his physician had agreed with his concerns, insisting that the duchess maintain the mild diet previously prescribed with the hope she would regain her equilibrium and sunny personality.

He dug deep to regain his ironclad control. The need to be alert at all times, on guard, protecting Persephone and their babes from the bastards who had been dogging his heels from the moment he assumed the mantle of duke, was essential. There had been too many attempts on his life…hers…and their babes. He would not rest until he put his latest plan into place and hired more men to see to their protection.

Thank God for Patrick O’Malley and the men comprising his personal guard. They were now spread between his estates and those of his two closest cousins, protecting his immediate and extended family.

His contacts—Captain Coventry, his London man-of-affairs, and Gavin King of the Bow Street Runners—were in constant communication, apprising him of any hint of a threat against himself or his family.

Exhausted from the strain of being constantly on guard, he’d been at his wits’ end on how to deal with his wife’s malaise and mood swings. They seemed to culminate after the threat of kidnapping had been removed. Shouldn’t the removal of that threat have eased her mind and prompted his loving wife to return to his arms—and his bed?

“My head aches,” she said. “I believe I shall lie down.”

“But you haven’t eaten.”

“I’m no longer hungry.”

“Our babes will be in a few hours’ time. The physician has warned that you must eat to keep up with our babes’ needs. As a precaution, he has recommended two suitable wet nurses from the village.”

The stark pain on his wife’s face gutted him, but he would not allow his wife to fall ill, nor let his babes go hungry. If she could not gather herself enough to think of them, then by God, he would!

The physician had advised him to be firm, but encouraging, with his wife. But when she stepped around him, putting even more distance between them, his gut churned and the lid on his anger blew off. Words he never intended to say, in a harsh tone he instantly regretted, burst from his lips: “I shall ask Mrs. O’Malley to send for the wet nurses at once, as you do not seem to care whether or not you are able to feed my children.”

Instead of the reaction he expected—where Persephone would fly into a rage at him, which he would counter by capturing her in his arms, soothing her with promises of anything she desired, as long as the loving woman he married returned to his arms—his duchess, who had become more of a stranger every day, walked away from him.

Guilt grabbed him by the throat. He had been autocratic, not encouraging. Harsh when he should have been compassionate.

Swallowing against the tautness of his throat, he stated, “I will speak to Mrs. O’Malley at once and return to my meeting.”

His wife did not bother to respond, nor did she slip beneath the covers. She lay down on their bed and faced the wall.

Good God! Was this the end of their marriage? He wanted to get a response from his wife—angry or happy; he would take either.

“I shall be leaving at midday.”

Persephone bolted up in bed and stared at him. “Leaving?”

He noted the worry in her eyes and decided then and there not to tell her how long he planned to be away—or why. “I have business to attend to in London.”

Let her wonder if he planned to take up residence at their London town house, or if it would only be for a short time to handle urgent business.

“How long will you be gone? What of our children’s safety?”

Pleased that she had roused from her malaise to question him, he replied, “I couldn’t possibly entertain a guess. I have a number of issues that I have neglected, due to circumstances beyond my control. O’Malley and my guard will protect the children. If something arises, O’Malley knows to send word.”

He should beg her forgiveness because of his inability to keep the bloody kidnappers from their door. But he would wait until he had the opportunity to speak with her for more than a few moments in passing.

Until then, the Duke of Wyndmere would do what those in his family had always done: protect the family name, keep the coffers filled to pass down to the next generation, and assume his seat in the House of Lords.

If his life be devoid of love from the woman his soul cried out for, then so be it. His children depended on his surviving and doing everything in his power to provide for their future.

 

 

 

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