Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston

Chapter Nineteen

Miles grew anxious as the carriage approached Wildwood. He had been gone more than three weeks and had missed the place. No, this wasn’t just a place.

It was home.

It had always been home in his heart. Despite being banished from it. Wildwood was in his blood.

As was Emery.

More than missing home, he had missed her. He found himself constantly thinking about her during his time away. He could hear her laugh. Picture her brow furrow as she added columns of numbers. While being shown the gardens in one of his homes, he had passed a lilac bush, its sweet scent almost convincing him that she was merely around the corner. Her absence in his life created a massive hole, one that he had no way to patch. He needed her. Her kiss. Her taste. Her lecturing him about harvest statistics and the breeding of animals. Miles had never known how empty his life was until he felt her loss.

He couldn’t help but wonder if she had missed him as much as he had her.

The carriage pulled up in front of Wildwood and a footman placed stairs down so Miles could exit. Both his butler and housekeeper waited to welcome him.

“Hello, Trottmann,” he said cheerily, the sight of his butler raising his spirits.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. Crowder arrived half an hour ago and said you would be here soon. Water is being heated for your bath.”

“And greetings to you, Mrs. Jenson,” he added.

“Will Your Grace need any refreshment?” the housekeeper asked.

“No, I can wait for tea. Make it a hearty one, though.”

“I will speak with Cook, Your Grace.”

He entered the house, the two servants following in his wake. A footman carried his trunk up the stairs.

“I think I will go to my study and see what posts have come in my absence,” he informed Trottmann. “Then I will head up for my bath. I would like a cup of tea, though.”

“I will see to it now, Your Grace,” the butler said. “Would you prefer it here or in your bathing chamber?”

“Here, please.”

Trottmann headed to the kitchens and Miles went to his study. Several neat stacks of letters awaited him, leading him to believe Emery had seen to their distribution and organization. As he seated himself, though, his eyes were drawn to a stack of pages. He lifted the first and stared.

It was a charcoal drawing—of him.

He studied it, thinking whoever sketched it was quite talented. Did he always appear so stern and severe to others?

He placed it aside and lifted the next, going through the stack one-by-one until he had viewed every sketch.

Who could have drawn these? And why?

His eyes landed on a brown leather book unfamiliar to him. He picked it up and opened the cover. The name, Garrick Notley, meant nothing to him. Turning the page, he began reading, quickly drawn into the narrative.

“Your tea, Your Grace.”

Startled, he glanced up and saw Trottmann standing there. Miles closed the journal and set it on his desk.

Holding up a sketch, he demanded, “Do you know where this came from?”

Trottmann’s reserve did him justice. “I believe Your Grace should take that up with Miss Jenson.”

What had Emery been up to while he was gone?

Sketches such as these often meant a picture had been commissioned. He remembered the artist who had come to Wildwood long ago. The man had drawn similar sketches of each Notley boy before they came to pose for their group portrait.

“Show me the portrait.”

This time, Trottmann’s eyes widened slightly. “Follow me, Your Grace.”

He trailed after the footman, who still carried the cup of tea on a tray. They went up to the portrait gallery, a place he had only seen in passing when Mrs. Jenson provided him with a tour of the house when he had first arrived.

The butler came to a halt. Miles did the same and looked to the wall.

And saw two portraits of him hanging side-by-side.

His jaw fell open and he shut it quickly. “Leave.”

Trottmann slipped from the gallery.

Miles stepped closer to the one on the right. This was most definitely him. The artist, whoever he might be, had done an excellent job in portraying Miles’ strength and authority. This was the man he was now, one who had led men into battle and come home to lead his people as the Duke of Winslow. It would hang here for all his natural life and then for generations as new Notleys came and went.

It was the one of the left which interested him more, though. Miles stood before it, curious about who this ancestor was. All the other portraits hanging in the gallery had a small plate beside them, naming the figure portrayed. Only this one didn’t.

What ancestor might this be, one whom Miles resembled so closely? It was as if someone had painted Miles as he went to a costume ball, dressed in clothes from decades ago. While Ralph and Tony had hair dark as night, as did both his parents, Miles’ hair had always been much lighter. A light brown in colder weather, it would be threaded with golden highlights during warmer months, when he was frequently outside. He had always felt a little like an outsider in his own family since they all resembled one another so closely.

This portrait of a long-ago Notley—and probable duke—let him know he truly belonged.

This was all Emery’s doing. Trottmann almost said as much. He wondered where she had unearthed the painting of his ancestor. It occurred to him that the journal he had begun reading might very well have belonged to this man. Excitement filled him. He looked forward to reading the entire contents and seeing what he might learn.

His bath had to be ready by now so he made his way to his suite of rooms. Once there, he headed straight to the bathing chamber, stripping off his clothes and tossing them at Crowder. The valet left him alone, the requested cup of tea now resting beside the tub. Miles downed it, the liquid having grown tepid, and then thoroughly soaped himself, removing the dust of the road. He soaked a few minutes longer and then called for Crowder, who brought the oversized bath sheet and helped him towel off.

Traipsing after the valet, he tossed off the bath sheet and sat, allowing Crowder to shave him. Once smooth to his satisfaction, Miles sat upon the bed, pulling on items of clothing and allowing Crowder to help him slip into others. He pushed his fingers through his thick hair, brushing it away from his face.

“Your boots, Your Grace.”

Once the Wellingtons were in place, he stood and allowed Crowder to help him into his coat. Miles intended to seek out Emery now and learn the mystery behind the two portraits.

He took two steps and froze. Blinked. Surely, his eyes played tricks upon him.

He moved to a new painting hanging on the bedchamber’s wall and paused, tears brimming in his eyes. It was of Tony and him. No Ralph in sight. They were no longer in the library, where they had sat for the original piece. Instead, they were in the garden. He vaguely recalled the three of them sitting for one session outside before the rest of the sittings were moved indoors.

They stood in front of a gazebo, surrounded by varying blooms. Tony stood on the top step and Miles on the ground, making them about even in height. His brother looked exactly as he had in the portrait Emery had shown Miles just before his departure. What was different was Miles himself. His pose was similar to the previous one but slight alterations to his face made him seem different. The sober, earnest boy still had a bit of the serious air about him, mixed in with a small dose of one who might be a rascal. He remembered trying his best to look solemn, hoping the duke would be proud of him.

“It is an excellent likeness, Your Grace,” Crowder said. “I saw it the moment I entered your chambers. Is that a younger cousin you were painted with?”

“No. My brother. He passed away when we were quite young.”

The valet’s face sobered. “I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace. This is a lovely reminder of him, I suppose.”

“It is,” he answered, his throat thick with unshed tears.

Miles left the bedchamber, more than eager to find Emery and learn what else she had been up to during his time away from Wildwood.

*

Emery returned tothe stables after spending the afternoon visiting tenants. She had also stopped by to see Mrs. Harris, who had been ailing for a few days. As she left the cottage, Mr. Harris arrived and she spoke with him about his wife’s fever, telling him if it didn’t break by morning that Doctor Collier should be summoned.

As she approached, the first thing she noticed was the grand ducal carriage, which had been absent. Its return meant Miles was back at Wildwood. Hopefully, he would be weary from his travels and not want to talk estate business today with her or Papa. She wanted to avoid him as much as possible until she heard from Mr. Fillmore regarding his recommendation for an employment agency she might possibly use.

She had talked with Mama after she wrote to the solicitor, telling her mother why she had written to Mr. Fillmore. They had discussed the kind of positions she might be suited to do. While Emery thought the only thing she would be qualified for was a governess or lady’s companion, Mama had urged her to consider other occupations, as well, including an assistant housekeeper. Mama said many of the large households’ housekeepers had an assistant and that Emery would certainly be able to step into such a position with ease after her years of experience at Wildwood.

She told Mama she would consider that possibility and after some thought, believed it would be a better match for her skills. She had no experience with teaching children. She thought the idea of having to act as a companion to a woman in Polite Society foolish. Mama had explained that companions acted as friends and sometimes confidants to women who were lonely or often elderly. Emery couldn’t understand why a woman’s family wouldn’t take on those roles, which proved her point about her distaste for those of the ton and why she would never want to be a part of that ridiculous world.

Even if Miles belonged to it.

She handed her reins to a groom and he helped her from the saddle.

“His Grace has returned, Miss Jenson. A few hours ago,” he informed her.

“That is good to know,” she replied evenly, though just the thought of Miles being nearby had heart beating rapidly. “How is Athena doing today?”

“A bit restless. Mr. Harris thinks the mare’s time is drawing near.”

“I think I will go stay with her a while. Would you send word to my mother? I don’t want her to worry about me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll go to the house myself,” he promised. “Right after I see to Demeter.”

Emery patted the horse. “Be good.”

The groom led Demeter away and she went to Athena’s stall.

“How are you, Athena?” she asked.

The mare swished her tail in irritation and nickered.

“No, I don’t have any treat for you. I have been out riding all afternoon.”

She opened the stall door and entered, wanting to examine the mare’s teats. Sure enough, they were waxing. Emery squeezed one gently to see what the secretion would look like and then rubbed a light hand along Athena’s side.

“It looks as if you will have your foal soon, my sweet. Why don’t I stay with you and see what happens?”

Emery moved her hands lightly along the mother-to-be, speaking to her in soothing tones. Then Athena’s head went up and stilled. Emery did the same, noting the air seemed different.

“Is she close to foaling?” a familiar voice asked as the stall door opened.

She dipped into a curtsey, her eyes downcast, and then turned back to the horse, her hand gliding gently along the mare’s swollen sides.

“Yes. It could be within the hour. Certainly within the next few hours.”

“How do you know?” Miles asked. “I have never seen a mare give birth.”

He moved to Athena’s other side and began touching the horse lightly. She watched his hands, not willing to meet his eyes yet.

“It is her teats. They begin to wax close to birth. I checked her mammary secretion a few minutes ago. Instead of being clear and watery, it has already turned opaque. As it grows thicker and more sticky, Athena will be close to delivery.”

“Ah. I notice you aren’t brushing her. Wouldn’t she find that soothing?”

“No. She is very sensitive right now. She prefers a bare hand to bristles.”

The horse snorted, her tail again swishing.

“She is telling us she is annoyed,” he said. “We must be disturbing her.”

Emery let her hand fall. “I will stay with her.” She finally raised her eyes.

Miles’ gaze bore into her, so deep that she was afraid he could see into her soul.

“Then I will keep you company.”