“Not a’tall. Tiffany is the one who calls Sherring Cross a mausoleum, not I.”
Tiffany was Megan’s childhood friend, and, in fact, they’d both been children the first time they saw Sherring Cross. Tiffany really did consider it a mausoleum, but then, they’d been truly amazed at the size of the ducal estate.
“I’ve always considered it the perfect size myself,” Megan added, “even if I do get lost occasionally.”
“You do not,” he protested.
“Only once or twice.”
“Megan—”
“All right, only once, and not for long.” She grinned.
She adored teasing her husband, she really did. It worked well to get him out of the stuffy, pompous manner that had been his usual demeanor—before he met her—which he sometimes fell back into from habit. She much preferred the hot-tempered, argumentative stableboy she thought she was marrying when they’d eloped to Gretna Green. Quite a surprise to find out that she’d married the very duke—sight unseen—that she’d set her cap for last year.
“You know,” Devlin said now, in response to her teasing, “I haven’t explored the back wings of Sherring Cross in some time. They were quite private, as I recall. You’re absolutely sure they still are?”
The look in his turquoise eyes told her exactly in what direction his thoughts had gone. A tiny thrill shot through her, as it usually did whenever he looked at her with heat in his eyes. A tryst, in the middle of the day, in an unused portion of the house, sounded quite enjoyable.
“Why don’t we go and find out?” she suggested, her voice a bit huskier than it had been.
“My thought exactly.”
4
It was the grandest edifice Kimberly had ever set eyes on. She’d been to Victoria’s palace to be presented to the queen the last time she had gone to London with her mother, so she was familiar with grand edifices of the royal kind. But this, Sherring Cross, the ducal estate of Ambrose Devlin St. James, outshone any palace in sheer size, stretching out over acre after acre of beautifully manicured lawns. It was intimidating to say the least, and she was already nervous enough.
The more she had thought about her reason for being here, the less she liked it. Imagine, asking someone of such consequence as the Duke of Wrothston to assist in finding her a husband. Her father’s gall knew no bounds. And His Grace, the duke, couldn’t be any more pleased about doing this favor than she was to reap the benefits.
Nor had it been a pleasant journey getting here. It wasn’t enough that she was bone-weary from three straight days of traveling, but during that time, the carriage also lost a wheel and she had to stand around for hours while that was fixed. Then the weather turned even colder than normal for this time of year, and the little coal-burner she had in the carriage wasn’t enough to take the chill off.
Then she had a bad experience at one of the inns she stayed at, where a group of rowdy Scots in the room next to hers kept her up half the night. She had nothing against Scots herself. It was her father who denounced them all because he blamed them for the death of the woman he loved. A death that in her opinion, and the opinion of the courts, had been accidental.
Even having been reared with his sentiments—he’d never kept his undying love for another woman from his wife; it was something he brought up quite frequently, in fact—she wasn’t affected by his prejudices, likely because she felt no true closeness toward her father. Actually, she had on occasion felt that that other woman was lucky she had escaped a life with the earl, even through death. But those occasions were rare, and usually when she really detested something her father had done.
But she did have something against blatant public disturbances of the kind those Scotsmen had created that night at the inn. Three complaints to the manager and those men still didn’t quiet down. But at least her father hadn’t been there to cause a scene. As much as he hated Scots, it would have turned into an embarrassing situation, rather than just an annoying one.
It was bad enough that she had herself snapped at one of those Scots when she ran into him in the hall the next morning. The poor fellow had barely had his eyes open yet, but they were agog by the time she flounced off, after having vented her spleen on him. It wasn’t until hours later, back on the road, that she regretted her rash words. She so rarely lost her temper. Being tired, and therefore irritable, was no excuse.
And her new maid was no help. Mary took to traveling even worse than Kimberly did. Her constant complaints at every little bump, delay, or drop in the weather would have tried a saint. But at leastshehad been able to get some rest each night in the rooms she shared with Kimberly. The girl slept sounder than the dead.
And if all that wasn’t enough, Kimberly had caught a cold. Her nose was likely as red as a cherry from all the sneezing she’d been doing. Her body ached from the jarring ride. Her head felt like it was splitting apart. And protocol insisted she put her best foot forward to make a good impression on Their Graces? That was a laugh. They’d take one look at her and wonder what they’d gotten themselves into.
Yet there was no help for it. She’d arrived at Sherring Cross. Footmen in fancy livery were already stepping forward to assist her out of her carriage. And the massive front doors were swung wide. There was really nothing to do but step through them.
Under the circumstances, she had hoped, prayed even, that she would be shown to a room and could be presented to Their Graces after she’d had sufficient time to recover. No such luck. The Duchess of Wrothston herself was standing in the large entryway to greet her.
Meeting for the first time, they were both, to a degree, dumbstruck, Kimberly because she’d had no idea that St. James’s new duchess was so petite or so incredibly beautiful. But she should have guessed. She’d met the duke some ten years ago when he was but twenty, and even though a young girl would take little note of such things, she remembered him as being extremely handsome. So it stood to reason that his wife would be lovely. But this lovely?
Megan St. James defined beauty, albeit, a bit vividly. Her bright copper-red hair wasn’t a bit fashionable, yet it suited her perfectly. Her midnight blue eyes were warm, friendly. Her figure, after her first child, couldn’t have been altered much, it was so slim and ideally curved.
Beside her, Kimberly felt like a gangly dowd. Granted, there had never been much call to dress in high-fashion in her small town in Northumberland. And she had only just put away her mourning wardrobe, which meant what clothes she had left were several years old and didn’t take into account the weight she’d lost. Not that that was noticeable in the bulky winter wool coat she was traveling in; at least it hadn’t been until one of the footmen requested her coat, and wouldn’t go away until she shrugged out of it and handed it over.
As for Megan, now that her initial surprise was over, she was thinking that a new gown, cinched in properly, a new hairstyle that wasn’t so plain, and a little less color in the nose would do wonders for Lady Kimberly. She wasn’t going to be the season’s new reigning beauty, and that was too bad, but it couldn’t be helped. Not every young miss joining the marriage mart each year could be.
Things could be worse, Megan decided. At least the lady wasn’t downright ugly. Kimberly Richards was just, well…average-looking came to mind. And she did have nice eyes of a pure dark green, really beautiful the more one looked into them. It just might take a little longer than they had imagined to get her married.
Kimberly, to make her first impression more memorable, sneezed quite loudly at that point. And worse, she discovered she had left her lace handkerchief in the carriage. She was about to panic as she felt her nose starting to run, when Megan’s dimples suddenly showed up in a smile so stunning, Kimberly didn’t even think to wonder about it.
