The Duke’s Twin Lust by Lorena Owen
Chapter Four
The carriage wound through the long driveway of Chidswell Manor, flanked on both sides by evergreens so tall they blocked out the rest of the world. James glanced out of the window, a sense of calm and relief flooding over him. Everything would be all right here; he knew it. His Aunt Martha would help him, Rebecca would grow into the lady he knew she could be, and the strange woman in his arms would recover, allowing him to solve the mystery of how she came to be alone and injured.
For their entire journey, he’d been silent in contemplation, periodically looking down at the beautiful miss curled against his body. He’d seen attractive women before, of course, but there was something about this woman, something inexplicable that drew him to her.
“Thank goodness we’re here before dark,” Rebecca muttered, half to herself as she stared out of the opposite window.
“No thanks to you,” James said, equally avoiding her direct attention.
Rebecca turned to him with a renewed energy and asked, “Do you think Aunt Martha will have prepared us supper?”
“I’d be astounded if she hadn’t had her housekeeper arrange something,” he said. “She understands propriety and social etiquette.”
“Do you think it’ll be chicken?” she asked. “I hate chicken. As if there could be a more boring food in the world.”
James turned and shot her a look. “You’ll eat and appreciate whatever she provides,” he said. “There’s no need to be quite so spoiled. You’re not a child any longer, Rebecca.”
Rebecca flopped back in her seat and crossed her arms, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. James scoffed at the sight. She made the expression so often it was a wonder she didn’t stay like that. The carriage slowed to a stop, and a footman opened the door, his face registering surprise to find James cradling an unconscious woman in his arms. James stood and stepped out, allowing his sister to be assisted by the servant.
James stepped down onto the gravel pathway and looked up at the house. He’d always loved it here, ever since he was a boy. His mother, Aunt Martha’s sister, brought him here at least twice a year, and he’d been treated like a little prince, having ruled in a manor that no man had lived—at least, not as master of the house anyway.
It was a grand old house, built of carefully laid gray stone in the old style, with double doors in the center made of the deepest oak and adorned with a shining brass knocker. There were no less than ten-and-eight windows along the front of the house and more at the back. Aunt Martha had an elegant sense of style and beauty that touched every room in her home with timeless grace.
“Your Grace?”
Snapped out of his reverie, James turned to look at the footman. Rebecca hovered just behind him, and at the back of her, the great door to the house had just opened, and the butler peered out.
“Yes?”
The footman looked confused for a moment and James realized he must have missed the original question.
“Would you like me to carry your, umm, burden, Your Grace?”
James looked down at the woman. She was still unconscious, but she looked peaceful, angelic almost. He felt a wave of something come over him, a sense of protectiveness, ownership even. It was disconcerting to feel that for a woman he'd never even spoken to, whose name he didn’t know.
“No,” he said, “I shall take her, thank you, Harry.”
James found liked the way her slender body felt in his arms, and as he climbed the three low steps that led to the entrance, he looked down at her flawless skin and the gentle fluttering of her eyelashes.
“Welcome to Chidswell Manor, Your Grace,” the butler said, meeting James at the door. His eyes were wide with astonishment as he looked from James to the prostrate woman in his arms, then glancing at Rebecca..
“Thank you, Beaumont,” James said, angling in through the door, careful not to hit the poor girl’s head.
The stoic butler had served at Chidswell Manor since before James was born. Though his flesh was now lined with wrinkles, and his hair a dignified gray, Beaumont still stood tall, ever the consummate professional. James always respected the man's dedication to the manor and Aunt Martha.
“Would you like to lay the young lady on the couch in the drawing-room, Your Grace?” Beaumont asked, showing no sign that he was curious about the situation.
James marveled at Beaumont's professionalism. James had turned up with an unconscious and young woman, and the man didn't bat an eye. James moved through the entry hall to the drawing-room to a plush sofa. Then hesitated. He had been holding her for so long, he was almost reluctant to let her go.
He flushed at the thought and shook it off. His protective impulses must be derived from the sense of duty and honor ingrained in him from birth. It was natural for him to feel responsible for the well-being of the poor woman they had rescued.
James eased her down, careful not to get blood on the pale blue velvet of the sofa even though the blood had long ago stopped flowing. Beaumont, the footman, and Rebecca looked at him in puzzlement as James tenderly touched the woman's face. Realizing what he had done, he cleared his throat, pasted on a smile, and turned back to them.
“Is everything all right, James?” Rebecca asked. Her brows furrowed. “You seem a little….”
She didn’t finish her sentence and James realized she was unsure what to do next.
“Quite all right,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together. He turned his attention to Beaumont. “Where is Aunt Martha?”
Beaumont opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a voice boomed behind James and he swung around.
“She is here,” Aunt Martha said, slowly stepping into the room and beaming at them. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see you both here—and looking so well.”
“Aunt Martha!” Rebecca cried with glee, throwing her arms around their aunt, completely forgetting her previous protests about visiting the county. Aunt Martha, for her part, was taken aback by Rebecca's enthusiasm. She patted the girl's back once then moved away from her.
“It’s as if you are still acting like a child, young lady,” Aunt Martha said disapprovingly. “Anyone would think you hadn’t been taught proper comportment at all.”
“Believe me,” James said with a deep sigh, “we’ve tried our best, but without—”
“A proper female presence,” Aunt Martha finished for him. “Indeed. It must be difficult on you, my poor James. And that is exactly why you have made the excellent decision to come to me.”
James smiled with relief as she approached him. She raised her hands and held his face before pulling him into a sedate embrace, one much different from the exuberant one she received from Rebecca.
“It’s good to see you, Aunt Martha,” he said into her ear.
“And you, lovely boy. It’s been far too long.”
Lady Martha Spencer, the eldest daughter of the Chidswell line, was now nine-and-forty years of age and despite convention, she was unmarried and lived entirely alone, controlling her own wealth and estate. She had foiled her father’s plans to see her married off to a wealthy nobleman decades ago and proved herself more than adept at managing things by herself. By the time he died, the old man had come to appreciate his unconventional daughter and happily left his estate and wealth to her as it was unentailed.
Martha was a short woman, though what she lacked in height she made up for in girth, with a wide waist and an even more expansive bosom. Her gray hair puffed out around her head in a cloud, and her face was thick with powder, but her bright blue eyes sparkled as much as they did when she was young, and she had a vibrant energy within her.
She was naturally jolly. She laughed often and was amicable and gregarious. But she was also a force to be reckoned with, holding both power and influence among the ton.
As she pulled out of James’ embrace, she glanced over at the woman on the couch and frowned.
“I was unaware we had an extra guest,” she said, shooting James a disapproving glance.
“Yes,” James said, taking a deep breath, his own eyes settling on the woman. “It was something of a surprise to us as well, truth be told. We found her lying in the road, about five miles from the inn where we slept last night.”
“And you thought she might like a visit to Chidswell, did you?” She teased.
“I couldn’t very well leave her there, could I?” James protested. “She might have died.”
Aunt Martha pursed her lips before breaking into a smile. “A saint, just like your mother was,” she teased.
“It was both our decisions,” Rebecca said eagerly, clearly not wanting to be left out.
“Of course it was, dear,” Aunt Martha replied. “But we don’t know anything about her. What if she is a thief? Or a murderer?” She continued dramatically.
“And what if she’s not?” Rebecca retorted.
Aunt Martha chuckled, the sound thick and throaty. “Well answered,” she said. She turned to the housekeeper who had come in just after her mistress. “Agnes, prepare a bed in the servants’ quarters for our guest. She can stay in Maggie’s old room for now.”
“Very well, my lady.” Agnes curtsied before disappearing into the bowels of the house.
“So you’ll let her stay?” James asked, aware of how hopeful he sounded. He silently prayed that they thought him eager to be a good citizen rather than anything else. After all, that was the case.
Wasn’t it?
Yes. That’s what it was, and nothing more. James wouldn’t allow himself to think more, especially not when he hadn’t even spoken to her.
Aunt Martha smiled gently. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll let her stay. But only until she is recovered. I'm sure she is expected by someone. Such a pretty young thing couldn’t be all alone in the world.”