“Adrian, I can put up with all of this.

“I am willing to live in this marriage with nothing more from you than your polite regard. I am even willing to let go of my dreams of having a husband who loves me. But I will not lie beneath you and pretend that I am happy. I will not lie still in my bed and act as though I do not want more.”

“You do not mind the liberties I took? You would welcome them?”

She could not admit to more embarrassing truths to him. She could not…

He lifted her chin and she thought she saw mirth glittering in his hazel-colored eyes. How could a woman not enjoy being naked with a man like this?

Miranda reached up and slid her fingers through his hair. Pulling his head down, she kissed him, tasting the brandy on his tongue and letting him taste her. Out of breath, she nodded to him in answer to the question that still circled inside her thoughts.

“I would welcome them, Adrian. I would.”

He kissed her this time, and she grabbed the lapels of his evening coat to keep her balance…!

The Duchess’s Next Husband

Harlequin Historical #751

Praise for Terri Brisbin

“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”

—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden

The Countess Bride

“Brisbin woos her readers with laughter and tears in this delightful and interesting tale of love.”

—Romantic Times

The Norman’s Bride

“A quick-paced story with engaging characters and a tender love story.”

—Romantic Times

The Dumont Bride

“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Duchess’s Next Husband
Terri Brisbin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN

The Dumont Bride #634

The Norman’s Bride #696

The Countess Bride #707

The Christmas Visit #727

“Love at First Step”

The King’s Mistress #735

The Betrothal #749

“The Claiming of Lady Joanna”

The Duchess’s Next Husband #751

To Mary Lou Frank, Susan Stevenson, Jennifer Wagner Schmidt, Lyn Wagner, Mary Stella and Colleen Admirand—wonderful women, talented writers and extraordinary friends and colleagues.

Thank you for being there through the ups and downs and everywhere in between, and especially for getting me through 2003 and 2004.

Huzzah!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

He slipped inside her body with a practiced ease from their many joinings. Although she softened beneath him, she gave no outward sign that she enjoyed this now as she had in the early days of their marriage. Judging from her reactions to his movements, it was most likely less now than then.

Adrian moved them efficiently toward completion and, even as she let out a soft sigh, he offered a silent prayer that this time they might be successful in creating the heir he needed so much. For the dukedom, he prayed, as he filled her once more and felt his seed begin to release. For his family name and honor, he urged silently, as he thrust deeper within her again. For the continuation of his name, he implored, to whatever power controlled these matters.

Without a word, he withdrew from his wife. Climbing from her bed, he tugged on his robe and ran his fingers through his hair. When he heard the telltale sound of her shifting, and the rustling of the bedcovers, he turned toward the bed and nodded.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. He always said the same thing, since he appreciated his wife’s cooperation and efforts to gain an heir.

“Windmere,” she replied softly, without ever meeting his gaze.

He nodded at her and returned to his dressing room. Within the hour, the Duke of Windmere was at his club enjoying a particularly good port. And he realized, as the butler served him without him saying a word, that his life was nothing if not predictable.

Chapter One

“Turn your head, if you please, Your Grace.”

Adrian Warfield, Duke of Windmere, suffered the poking and prodding in silence. His name and position had brought three of England’s leading physicians to his home, and his inbred manners prevented him from allowing the escape of the oaths he wanted to speak. If these three men could give him no answers, his future and that of his family and dukedom looked increasingly bleak. Allowing each of them in turn a chance to examine him, Adrian grew impatient when it seemed that the appointment dragged on for too long.

Finally, finally, they stepped away and he adjusted his shirt and waistcoat. Leaving the ends of his linen cravat hanging down on his chest, Adrian waited for their pronouncement. They stood in a cluster by his desk, whispering among themselves and glancing at him as they consulted on his condition.

“Well, Doctors. What is your diagnosis?” He liked none of the expressions that met his gaze. The silence grew until it made his skin itch, and he spat out one of the curses he’d held in until that moment. “Bloody hell! Just get on with it.”

They looked to each other before facing him.

“Your Grace, we have nothing new to offer you regarding your condition,” Dr. Penworthy said. His bushy eyebrows twitched, giving him a vaguely squirrel-like appearance.

“But it has worsened?” Adrian prepared himself for the worst.

“It has, Your Grace, but not so much that we are overly concerned by the changes you presented.” Dr. Lloyd pulled out a small notebook and nodded at the desk. “An adjustment or two to the tonics you are using should be just the thing to deal with the symptoms.”

Adrian stepped aside and allowed Dr. Lloyd to sit in his chair and write out instructions to the apothecary. Although Drs. Penworthy and Wilkins exchanged glances again, neither had any other recommendations and allowed Dr. Lloyd to speak for them.

“Your Grace, do not let these changes affect you so much. We know that a nervous personality will exacerbate your lung condition.” All three nodded in agreement and Adrian scowled in response at each of them individually. Dr. Lloyd held out the paper to him with the scrawled instructions. “Take the waters a few times this summer and you will feel like a new man.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Adrian fought for control over his frustration. No need to give the impression that he had the nervous personality they’d spoken of. No need to let on that he would like to strangle them all. Anger pulsed within him, alive, potent and growing. With an astuteness that surprised him, the three older men met his gaze directly. They knew how helpless he felt in the face of his condition. And helpless was not how a man wanted to feel.

“We will see ourselves out, Your Grace,” Dr. Wilkins said softly. “We are at your service if the need arises.”

Adrian accepted their bows and watched wordlessly as they opened the door and left. Realizing that he was crumbling the paper in his fist, he smoothed it open and tossed it on his desk. Walking to the other end of his study, he looked out the window at the bright, clear day before him. Dropping into the high-backed chair near the window, he tried to release the tension that spiraled inside him. They were correct about that—allowing the anger and frustration free rein did increase the number and severity of the attacks.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds outside his house. The clip-clop of horses. The rustling of the branches of the trees in the spring breeze. The gentle calls of birds. The doctors’ voices.

The doctors’ voices?

Adrian got to his feet and positioned himself next to the open window where he could see and not be seen. The three doctors stood a few yards from him and, though they lowered their voices in a discreet fashion, he heard their every word.

“A terrible pity, really.” Lloyd?

“And nothing to be done?” That was certainly Wilkins. Adrian shifted to hear better. Who were they discussing?

“And in the prime of his life. Sad case.” He could almost picture Penworthy’s eyebrows twitching as he spoke.

“Shouldn’t he be told? I do worry about that,” Lloyd admitted in a fretful voice. “There are preparations to be made, arrangements to be handled, and so many rely on his oversight and condescension.”

An icy shiver slid down Adrian’s back and he straightened away from the aperture. Beads of sweat gathered on his own brow and trickled down his face and neck. The room had not grown hotter. Fear, plain and clear, caused his body to react to the horrible news, a sense of foreboding that grew within him.

It could not be….

It simply could not be…him.

“With his titles and lands, all the crucial details are already handled.” Penworthy continued, “A man with his status and responsibilities, and especially one with no heirs-of-his-body, has everything in order at all times. No, I think it best not to reveal the direness of his true situation.”

There was a pause, as though they were considering Penworthy’s recommendation to keep him unadvised of his perilous condition.

His condition?

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, for he must be hearing their words incorrectly. They had just assured him to his face that he was only a slight bit worse. Change his decoctions. Take the waters. They’d not warned him of his impending death.

“How long, do you think?” Wilkins asked. “Such a marked deterioration cannot be a good sign.”

“A half year? Perhaps through the winter? I cannot be more specific than that without an unacceptable amount of conjecture on my part,” Lloyd declared. “We will watch his condition and do what we can to relieve his symptoms. Especially as they worsen.”

They paused then and Adrian wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. As their words began to sink into his mind, he shook his head again. It could not be. It simply could not be.

“That poor man,” Penworthy said. “The noblest of blood cannot protect you once Death has you marked as his own.”

A moment of silence was all they spared him then. The clattering of wheels on cobblestones and the familiar sound of Adrian’s coachman calling out to his team told him that his carriage had pulled in front of the house to take them back to their respective offices. The vehicle rolled away down the street and he was left with the awful truth.

Adrian Warfield, Duke of Windmere, would be dead by the year’s end.

Time had stopped for him, but his death sentence still echoed through the chamber. Stunned by the words spoken by his physicians, Adrian could not think rationally. Scattered thoughts and memories flooded his mind as he tried to grab on to something that would make sense of this insanity.

Long ago, when discussing with his older brother the bravery of soldiers facing death, he had thought in a fleeting way of how he would handle himself if ever in that situation. Now, the courage and daring spoken of then disappeared, and a raw, gut-wrenching fear tore at him, making his legs quiver and his stomach churn.

He did not know how long the inertia of shock held him prisoner in the chair, simply breathing in and out to keep the prophesy of his death at bay. Dust motes floated before him and the sounds of the street outside his windows faded away. Aware of only the growing turmoil within, he stared off into the distance and waited for it to hit.

And, like an unprovoked punch in the gut, it did.

As the news began to settle in, Adrian stumbled to the cabinet, grabbed the crystal decanter of port and lurched from his study. Ignoring the startled looks of his man-of-business and his butler, he strode to the stairs and climbed to the second floor, where his rooms were located. Bolting past his valet, he slammed the door and locked it behind him.

He put the port down on the table next to his bed and pulled his cravat from around his neck. Tugging at the buttons, he ripped his waistcoat off and then threw it across the room. Loosening his shirt, he tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths. The coughing spasms he feared were on him instantly and he doubled over from the strength of them.

Minutes went by as hours while the very breath was squeezed from his lungs, but finally he could feel the spasms lessen. Collapsing on his bed, he pulled air into his body, fighting not to lose consciousness. The banging on the door drew his attention and he heard his valet’s loud whisper through the door.

“Your Grace? Your Grace?” Thompson’s voice was filled with concern, a concern that Adrian did not want at this moment.

“Leave me be, Thompson. I am well,” he called out.

Coughing again, he lay back on the bed’s cool surface and waited for the attack to end. A few more spasms and a number of coughs and then it ceased. Adrian pushed himself up, shrugged off his waistcoat and reached for the port. In a move that he knew would horrify his servants and his wife if they ever witnessed it, he brought the decanter to his mouth and swallowed several mouthfuls of the fortified wine.

Leaning back against the mahogany headboard, he listened to the sounds of whispering outside his door. Two—no, three—people were out there trying to decide what to do about him, and he guessed the group included Thompson, his valet, Sherman, his butler, and perhaps even Webb, his secretary and man-of-business, whose meeting had been cut short with the arrival of the physicians.

No matter. Adrian could not face them until he faced himself and accepted what the doctors had told him. And that called for the consumption of as much distilled spirits as he could handle. Or not handle. He looked at the bottle in his hand and wondered if there was enough port there for his needs. There was always the twenty-five-year-old whisky in the locked cabinet—that would more than meet his requirements.

Adrian lifted the bottle again to his mouth and drank deeply. The warmth settled his stomach and began to spread out to his limbs. Unable to face the reality of his all-too-short future, he decided to drink until the news was blotted from his thoughts.

Smiling grimly, he realized he would need to break into his late father’s private stock for something stronger to deaden the shock of the news of his own impending demise. Facing death was not as easy as he had imagined all those years ago.

Chapter Two

Miranda Warfield, the Duchess of Windmere, stood silently while her maid opened her dressing room door. Allowing a final smoothing of fabric and tucking of loosened strands of hair by her maid, she hesitated for a moment. Then, setting her feet on the well-worn path down the hall, she began the walk that would lead from His Grace’s room down to the dining room for a late supper.

Each of her days was filled with just such repetitive behavior. Rising from sleep, eating meals, dressing for engagements and going to sleep again all fit neatly into a narrowly defined schedule for the Duchess of Windmere. Pausing in front of her husband’s door, she realized that since today was Thursday, the night would end with Windmere’s weekly visit to her bed. And on the morrow, when faced with the dowager duchess’s thinly disguised question about the condition of her health, at their ritual Friday morning breakfast, Miranda could smile demurely and simply nod, saying without words that she was doing her duty to the duke in all facets of their life.

She arrived at the duke’s door and waited for his valet to open it. The slight pause expanded to several seconds and then to nearly a full minute. Startled by this change, she cocked her head and listened for any activity within. It was a regrettable habit from her past, but one that was useful at times. Loud whispers and scuffling feet were evident, but she did not hear His Grace’s deep voice. She had just decided to knock when Fisk rushed to her side.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” her efficient maid said, stepping around her and knocking on the door.

Miranda was reminded once more that she had servants to do her bidding and that something as innocuous as knocking on a door was beneath her now. Standing quietly as they awaited a response, she thought on how strange this was. It was at times like this that she longed to be the squire’s daughter once more, with little or none of the pretense needed to live this life. Shaking her head, she banished the thoughts before they could take hold.

The door swung open and, instead of Windmere, Thompson the valet stepped forward. This, too, was very strange.

“Your Grace,” he said as he bowed deeply to her.

“Thompson.”

“His Grace will be unavailable to join you for dinner, but he bids you to enjoy your outings this evening.” The strain in his voice told her that this was not usual. She swore his left eye was twitching as he spoke. Another sign of this upheaval in the normal decorum?

The two servants turned to her, obviously awaiting her reaction. Before she could speak, a loud crash and a string of rather earthy curses came from Windmere’s bedchamber. Thompson coughed loudly, an obvious yet unsuccessful attempt to disguise the words not meant for a lady’s ears. It was definitely Windmere’s voice, but she had not heard it raised in anger, as it was now, for many years.

“Your pardon, Your Grace. His Grace is indisposed.”

Decorum is more important than anything else in a duke or duchess’s life.

The dowager’s words rang in her thoughts, and Miranda knew what was expected of her. She nodded to Thompson and turned from the door. Walking down the hall and then down the stairs to the dining room, she was pleased that no one who watched her would be able to see the turmoil filling her thoughts as she contemplated her husband’s remarkable condition.

She sat in the chair, held out by the butler, and realized that the last time she’d heard Windmere yelling in anger was before he’d ascended to the title, when he was still Adrian and she was only slightly less suitable for him as a second son. Since he’d become the duke, he never raised his voice to her or expressed anything other than polite enthusiasm during conversations or engagements. This was extraordinary.

The first dish was placed before her and she took no notice of what it was. How could she when something so different had drawn her attention? Sherman repeated its ingredients, but it could have been dirt laced with arsenic for all she heard. Slicing into it and lifting the fork to her mouth, Miranda finally realized what the true surprise was.

Her husband, the Duke of Windmere, was drunk.

The food in her mouth turned to dust as she took in this insight. He had never, not in all the years she’d known him, before or after their marriage, before or since accepting the title, been drunk in her presence or within her hearing. But he was now. Miranda took a sip of the wine in her goblet to ease the food’s way.

“Is something wrong with the scallops, Your Grace?” Sherman leaned in closer to whisper the question to her. It would be unseemly if she were to complain too loudly.

“It is fine, Sherman. Please continue with the next course.”

Drifting back to her thoughts over the duke’s condition, she knew that he was extremely angry about something, angry enough to drink to excess. So angry that he was purposely breaking items in his chamber. What could have him so upset?

It is inappropriate and unacceptable for a wife to inquire about or to meddle in the affairs of her husband or his interests.

Miranda blinked as she heard once more the dowager’s voice issuing another warning about her behavior. The words were as clear as if the woman sat at table with her. Miranda sat up straighter and tried to focus on the food being placed before her; that was surely something appropriate for her attention.

But the surprising behavior of the duke had rattled her. Not that he was drunk, for she knew men drank and sometimes drank to excess. Not that he was angry, although it was out of character with His Grace’s deportment of the last several years.

No, what rattled her and made her thoughts drift into inappropriate directions was that, for the first time in such a very long time, their lives were not following the ritual and regimented schedule that had been established. For the first time, she had been surprised and a bit shocked, something that had not happened between her and her husband in too many years. For the first time in too long, the duke showed himself to be a simple man with faults and weaknesses.

Miranda shivered with a completely inappropriate measure of anticipation that there might be a real person existing within the shell of the duke. For one moment, she let herself remember the promising beginning to their marriage and to wish for a real life instead of this sham and ritual and politeness. Although she regretted whatever it was that caused the duke such upset, part of her was extremely pleased. There was life in Adrian, after all.

The morning dawned bright and clear, and the aroma of chocolate awakened her from her sleep. Sliding up in bed, she leaned against the cushions a maid arranged behind her, and watched as the morning tray of chocolate and toast was placed over her lap. Taking a sip of the thick, hot beverage, Miranda realized she still wore her dressing gown over her night rail.

Her husband had missed their weekly appointment!

In spite of his absence at dinner, she’d thought he would visit as usual, and so she’d gone to bed as she did every Thursday evening—in her night rail with her dressing gown on. Adrian would put out the bedside candle, slip under the covers, slide the gown from her shoulders and go about his business. When he’d left, she would go to her dressing room, wash, leave the gown at the foot of the bed and fall to sleep.

Shaking her head, she realized he’d not visited for the first time in months, years perhaps.

“Your Grace?” the maid whispered, curtsying as she approached the bedside. “Is something wrong with your chocolate? Should I bring you another cup?”

“No, Betsy,” she replied, shaking her head on purpose this time. “Is His Grace…still…?”

“Indisposed, Your Grace?” The young maid added the correct polite term for her husband’s condition last evening.

“Indisposed. Or has he left for his morning ride?” Miranda shifted on the bed as she asked, and placed the porcelain cup back on the tray. “The weather certainly looks favorable for a ride in the park.”

Did the maid comprehend her curiosity? Miranda tried to keep just the right tone of disinterest in her voice, but feared her underlying questions were being betrayed…to a maid.

Before Betsy could answer her questions, the door opened and Fisk stepped in. With a look at her first, her competent lady’s maid dismissed the young girl with a nod and waited for Betsy to leave before speaking.

“His Grace is still abed and did not leave the house last night after he missed dinner.”

“How very strange.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, but if Fisk thought them unusual or unseemly, she did not, would not, say so. It was amazing that the change in the duke’s behavior for one evening could throw the whole household into disarray so easily.

Motioning that she was finished with the half-eaten toast and chocolate, Miranda waited for it to be removed and then slid from her bed. Walking into her dressing room, she found her clothes laid out and ready for her. Fisk stepped into the room and, with her usual efficiency, soon had Miranda dressed, with her hair arranged, and ready to face her weekly interview by the duke’s mother.

As the door to her chambers was opened for her, Miranda realized she would never be ready to face this particular ritual in the Warfield family. At least not until she could bring the news that she carried Windmere’s heir. And with each passing month and year, that declaration seemed more and more unlikely.

The drive to the dowager’s residence a few blocks away did not take long enough for her to banish completely the questions that pushed forward into her thoughts. As she entered the drawing room and took a seat on the couch nearest the windows overlooking the gardens, she breathed deeply, trying to regain a sense of calm, a sense of her true self, before she was confronted by her dragonlike mother-by-marriage.

“Miranda.”

At the very sound of the commanding voice, Miranda stood and nodded. One did not remain seated when Cordelia Masters Warfield, dowager Duchess of Windmere, entered a room. No matter whose precedence was higher. No matter the age of those waiting or their position in society. Everyone stood when Her Grace entered. Miranda had it on good authority that even the Regent himself reacted so in the dowager’s presence.

With a posture and gait that any governess or tutor in the womanly arts would be proud of, the older woman crossed the expansive room to the large chair across from where Miranda had chosen to sit.

On another woman, the soft white of her hair and the clear blue gaze would have been inviting and warm. On the dowager, however, it only accented the harsh lines of dissatisfaction around her mouth and the coldness of that gaze.

Lowering herself to the seat, Cordelia placed herself exactly six inches from the back of the chair and laid her hands on her lap. Miranda knew it was six inches because Cordelia always reminded her of the correct posture and bearing needed by a duchess, whether in public or private.

Attempting to follow her example, Miranda sank to the couch, straightened her spine and crossed her own hands in her lap. When the dowager simply cleared her throat instead of coughing discreetly, Miranda knew she had attained the desired position. The cough was a signal to the butler to bring in the tea.

Arriving too late for a country breakfast and too early for a city one, Miranda knew not to expect more than the tea and biscuits placed before her. Cordelia hated city hours and was up at dawn, complaining liberally of the lack of fortitude in others who needed to sleep away most of their mornings. Having lived with this woman prior to her husband attaining his title, Miranda knew exactly what to expect. The dowager simply wanted a report, and then Miranda would be dismissed with as little regard as the servants were. Any pretenses of warmth and caring had dissipated as the hoped-for heir never appeared.

“How are you this morning, Miranda?” Although the dowager stirred her tea, her gaze never left Miranda’s face. She was looking for signs…of a delicate condition.

“I am well, Your Grace. And you?” Miranda looked away, giving the answer without the words. Still barren. When she turned back, the grimace still tightened the older woman’s face.

“My goddaughter will be attending Lady Crispin’s ball next week. Do you plan on attending as well?”

The subject changed neatly from a distressingly personal one to an unremarkable social one, without so much as a moment’s hesitation and without any acknowledgment of the woman’s continued disappointment. Miranda simply nodded.

“And my son?”

“Your Grace, I would not presume to know Windmere’s schedule.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed as she looked for some sign of disrespect in her words. Miranda met her intense gaze with a guileless one. “I could ask His Grace’s secretary if you wish me to?”

Miranda had aided Cordelia’s attempts to launch her goddaughter in society, and she would continue to do so. She would not hold her own anger and frustration at the dowager against an innocent girl.

“I will send word to his secretary,” Cordelia announced, standing and smoothing the elaborate morning gown as she did.

“About what, Mother?”

Miranda gave a start at the sound of her husband’s voice. Turning slowly in her seat, she watched as Adrian walked into the drawing room and greeted his mother and her with a civilized nod. One look at his gait and the way he held his head told her that he was suffering the lingering effects of his condition the evening before.

“I would appreciate your presence at the Crispins’ ball next week. It will only be Juliet’s third one since her presentation to the queen and, as family, it is appropriate for us to attend with her.” The dowager paused and passed her sharp gaze over her son.

“Are you well, Windmere?” She asked her question, but assessed her son even as she spoke. “You look rather washed out and peaked.”

Miranda examined Adrian’s appearance as well. His linen, like the rest of his garments, was immaculate as usual, and he was done up in the latest fashion. He’d recently had his longish hair clipped in a shorter style and it revealed the natural body of it as the black locks curled just above his collar. He still cut a dashing figure, as he had when they’d met, so long ago.

It was not his clothing that gave away his condition as much as the sallowness of his normally tanned complexion and the red streaks in the whites of his eyes. He looked every inch the man suffering from the aftermath of too much alcohol.

“I am fine, Mother. Just tired,” he said. Meeting Miranda’s gaze, he seemed to be waiting for her to reveal the truth. When she simply nodded, he continued, “I am not certain of my plans over these next few weeks. I must go to Windmere Park to deal with some…business, and I do not know when I will return.”

He saw his wife’s eyes narrow at his hesitation and waited for Miranda’s questions. They did not come. But of course not. Miranda had been trained as the perfect lady by his mother, and would never question him in public. And since being under the dowager’s tutelage, she did not question him in private, either.

How would she react to the news of her impending widowhood? Would she react at all? Now was not the time to present such information. First, Adrian knew, he must sort through the practicalities and legalities of what his death would cause, and then he would speak to her about it. Or mayhap the physicians had the right of it—better not to know too far ahead of such a dire circumstance?

“When Parliament is in session? I thought you were keen on speaking to some of the issues,” his mother said. He could see that she definitely wanted to press him on this, but her unwavering control over something as trite as curiosity did not wane.

With her steely gaze on him, he tried to organize his thoughts in spite of the pounding in his head, the churning of his stomach and the stinging in his eyes. Dragging a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath before answering.

“There are estate concerns which I must resolve, Mother. I will miss only a few sessions while protecting our family’s interests in the north.” He played the trump card in his hand—family matters—ruthlessly.

Then, to his horror, a cough welled up deep inside his lungs. Walking to the door that opened to the gardens, and trying to appear nonchalant, he lifted his hand to his mouth to cover the worst of it. For once, Providence heard his plea and no more followed the first.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Miranda’s soft voice drew his attention, but he kept his back turned. “I have no pressing engagements here in town.”

Had she any idea of how brandy-faced he’d been last evening? He remembered cursing his fate in rather loud and vulgar language…had she heard? With so many uncertainties ahead of him, Adrian decided he should make this trip alone.

“There is no reason for you to give up the Season at its height for the dull country, my dear. I shan’t be away for more than a week at the most.”

He faced her now and noticed the brightness of her blue eyes and the fullness of her lips as her mouth formed a moue, as though she was disappointed in his decision to go alone. Any reply she would have made was interrupted when his mother coughed lightly and stared at Miranda. Some unspoken communication was shared in that moment by the two women, and he watched as Miranda sat up straighter, if that were possible, and closed her mouth, her lips now forming a tight line.

A memory flashed through his mind and he saw Miranda at their first meeting. The only daughter of one of their neighbors, a wealthy landowner with a minor title, she had been invited to a country dance at his family’s estate. Drawn by her vivacious personality and her welcoming smile, he had asked her to dance. He could still see her dark blond curls, hanging down to her shoulders, shimmering and gleaming in the candlelight as they’d danced. She’d been generous in gifting him with her smiles, and they had laughed through the steps of the dance, then gone in to supper together.

Her standing, with the sizable portion she would bring to him in their marriage settlement, was deemed high enough for his status as the second son of a duke, and their marriage was accomplished the next year, even before his brother and the heir of the family married. Shrugging off the past that could not be changed, Adrian realized that he was staring at her.

Uncomfortable with what haunted him from his past and what faced him in the near future, Adrian nodded at his mother first and then his wife. “I fear I have much to accomplish before I can be on my way.” Retreating into good manners, he bowed to them and walked to the door, which was opened for him by a footman. “Good day to you both,” he said as he left, feeling for the first time a certain trepidation at leaving Miranda in the clutches of the dowager.

Chapter Three

Once Adrian left, there was nothing else to say. The dowager would choke before admitting to a curiosity about her son’s motives or activities. Their weekly encounter was at an end, and Miranda tried not to let her anticipation at being released from the dowager’s presence show. She placed the half-empty cup of tea back on the table in front of her and stood. Tempted to demonstrate her precedence over the dowager, Miranda instead decided that respect for her elders should win over her internal desire for the deference that should be afforded her due to her title.

Until Miranda produced an heir, or even a daughter, the dowager would see her as the still-less-than-acceptable wife of a second son. No power on earth could change her regard, or lack of it. Lowering her head in a courteous bow of sorts, Miranda walked to the door of the drawing room and hesitated only a moment as Cordelia’s ever-efficient butler pulled it open.

Every week, after such a visit, Miranda found herself fighting the urge to tear her bonnet from her head and run screaming down the street like a madwoman bound for Bedlam. Years of practice won out and she stepped across the walk and climbed into the waiting carriage. As she took her seat and Fisk entered and sat opposite her, only a slight tremor in her clasped hands belied the blank expression she knew she could affect when needed.

And it was needed now.

“When you walk and sit as though you were wearing cast-iron stays, it tells me you have visited the dowager.”

Miranda tried not to laugh, but the irreverent attitude of her friend ruined her efforts. Letting out an uncommon giggle, she smiled and removed the bonnet from her head.

“My stays are of the regular sort, I assure you, Sophie,” she said, still smiling as she sat down on the paisley-covered chair. “Though I do confess to never allowing myself to relax when in the presence of Her Grace.”

Her schoolroom friend held out her second cup of tea this morning, but this one Miranda looked forward to enjoying in informal company. Only a viscountess, Sophie was not considered by the dowager to be an appropriate companion for the Duchess of Windmere. But their friendship had been forged in the trials and challenges of the Hayton Academy for Young Ladies. The teachers there, as well as the owners, were as formidable as Her Grace, Cordelia, Duchess of Windmere and, without knowing it, they had prepared Miranda well for the constant struggle of living up to such lofty expectations.

However, where Sophie’s marriage had become one of joy and the felicity of a good bond, Miranda’s had not quite lived up to her girlish hopes and dreams. The Viscountess Allendale’s life was filled by an attentive husband, two lovely sons, a London house and their country estates. The emptiness of her own was glaring by comparison. Something must have shown through, for Sophie reached out now and patted her hand.

“A rough visit, then?” Sophie offered a smile. “It could be a blessing somehow that Her Grace is dependable for something. If you are looking to ruin someone’s happy mood, you certainly know where to send them.”

Sophie’s green eyes softened with concern. Pushing her loosely-gathered brown hair behind one shoulder, Sophie shook her head at Miranda, undermining her own belief in the words of rationalization she offered.

“I cannot imagine what has me so blue-deviled today,” Miranda replied. Sipping the tea, she waited for her nerves to settle. “Her Grace was no different than any other time.”

“Will she return to the country soon? I do not remember her staying in town this long before.”

She shook her head. “I fear not. Juliet was presented and is having her first season. Her Grace will persevere until she has secured a suitable offer for her cherished goddaughter.”

Surprised at the bitterness that entered her voice, she continued, “But Windmere is returning to the country.”

“Windmere? Leaving while Lords is sitting? I did not think he shirked his duty.” Sophie looked at her and tilted her head. The narrowing of her gaze was never a good sign for Miranda. “Something else is wrong here. I can feel it.”

“As I said, I am simply out of sorts this morning.”

Miranda smoothed her hair and leaned farther back into the seat cushions. Sophie on the scent of something new and intriguing was more persistent than Lord Bernard’s champion hounds. Miranda should have gone directly back home after the encounter with her husband. One look at the intensity on her friend’s face told her that it was too late for evasive maneuvers.

“What happened with Windmere?” Sophie’s voice was soft with concern.

“He got drunk and missed dinner….” Miranda stopped herself before revealing the more private appointment he’d missed.

“Men always drink. I’ve seen Windmere drink a fair amount before. That is really not surprising.”

Miranda looked at her friend. “He was completely foxed. Carrying on in his chambers, using vulgar language and throwing things. Even his valet tried to shield me from it. I do not remember him ever in this condition.”

Frowning, she thought back to the words he’d yelled, but his efficient servant’s coughing had covered most of them. She smoothed her skirts over her legs before looking back at Sophie. Skipping over the more personal details, she went on. “Then this morning he unexpectedly announced that he was leaving for Windmere Park and would be gone for some days.”

Sophie stood and walked over to her chair. Pulling a small stool alongside, she sat down on it and took her hand.

“Did he harm you, Miranda? You may tell me not to inquire, but did he hurt you during his attentions?”

“Sophie! How can you ask such a question?” Miranda tugged her hand free and moved back from the viscountess. “Windmere would never raise a hand to me.”

“I wasn’t speaking of his hands, Miranda. If he were drunk when he visited you for…conjugal intimacies, he could have done much harm. Are you well?”

She could feel the heat of embarrassment enter her cheeks. They had never spoken this candidly about such a topic, and Miranda was not certain how Sophie even knew.

“Come, Miranda. I know what your life is like since your husband became Duke of Windmere,” Sophie whispered more softly. “You both take the responsibilities and duties to the limit of serious, and your days, as set out by the dowager’s designs, are ruled by conformity and regularity. You once let it slip that he visited your bed on Thursdays, so it is not so unusual to expect it would be every Thursday.”

“He did not visit last evening.”

“Did he visit her?”

“The dowager?” Sophie’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. Miranda then realized of whom she spoke: Windmere’s mistress. “Of that, I have no idea.”

“Have you told him that you care?” Sophie asked.

“I do not know what you mean. I care not that he has a mistress. ’Tis the way of things.”

“John does not have one.”

Miranda glanced at Sophie and met her direct gaze. The dowager had made it quite clear that men of Windmere’s rank were expected to have a woman available to satisfy their baser needs. And that it was no concern of Miranda’s. Although their marriage had started out differently, Adrian’s move to the title had changed many, many things, including the physical side of their marriage.

“It is unseemly for a wife to…” Miranda began, quoting one of the dowager’s favorite admonitions.

“It is unseemly for a wife to ignore these signs of which you speak and act as though nothing is wrong. Miranda…” Sophie took her hand once more “…I would not encourage you to investigate this unless I was convinced that you are interested in your husband’s well-being and that of your marriage. You were so filled with life and anticipation when you first married. You had such a joie de vivre, and I thought that Windmere returned your feelings.”

“That was so long ago, Sophie, and so much has changed between us,” she said with resignation.

Any hopes she’d had had been eroded by each new responsibility and new duty of being a duchess married to an important peer of the realm. So many depended on him that she’d learned to stand back and become what he needed the most: a wife who understood her place. Now, they were both so changed from the man and woman who’d stood before the rector at Windmere House and exchanged marriage vows. And she was not certain that either of them could go back to the people they had been, even if they wanted to.

“If that were true, you would not be in the least bit perturbed by anything he did or said or did not do.”

Sighing, Miranda stood and walked toward the door of the drawing room. If nothing else, she was curious. Surely it was only that? Gathering up her bonnet from where she had tossed it, she placed it back on her head, securing the ribbons beneath her chin, and tugged on her gloves.

“I will return home and see if he has left yet.”

“A fair beginning. Call upon me if you need any assistance. Anything,” Sophie called out to her as the door was opened.

Sophie had done enough already, Miranda suspected. As her carriage moved through the streets of Mayfair toward home, she began to silently practice the words she would use to inquire as to any difficulties the duke might be facing. It had been so long since she’d permitted herself to ask personal questions of him that she feared even knowing how to phrase them.

And what if the problem involved Windmere’s mistress? Should Miranda simply turn away and let it be? How could she overcome the embarrassment and humiliation of having brought up such a personal concern?

News from the butler, however, gave her all the time in the world. Adrian had left word that he was out for the remainder of the day, would return very late this evening—no need to wait for him—and that he and his valet would leave for Windmere Park at dawn. She could send word of any problems to him there, through his secretary.

How exactly did one ask one’s husband through an intermediary the types of questions she was considering? Miranda spent most of that and the next few days pondering her next move and then decided that, in the proper way of things, a wife did not ask. But she also decided that she would. If there was any chance, no matter how slight, of peeling back the layers and reclaiming the man she’d married, it was worth the risks.

Three days after the duke left London for their estates in the north of England, the duchess received a note from her friend that caused her to send her own polite regrets to Lady Crispin and to the dowager. It would appear that neither the Duke nor Duchess of Windmere would be present for the ball on Saturday next, after all.

Chapter Four

Adrian watched out the window of his study as work on the estate continued as usual. His breathing had eased now, but he’d suffered two attacks during his travel here. Usually, the air felt easier to breathe in the country than in London, where the ash and dust and fog could make it rather uncomfortable. So long as he stayed away from the stables and the gardens, he remained free of those attacks the physicians and apothecaries called “hay fever.” It was the others, the more virulent, breath-stealing ones, that seemed to be on the increase.

The last seven days had been grueling for him—first traveling north to Windmere Park and then the extensive review of all his estate and family documents. If his steward here thought it strange that he should appear and demand to see all the records, he would never say so. They’d ridden to outlying farms, visited the rector in the village that lay on his property, and spoken to many of his tenants. Repairs and some changes to the summer and autumn crops were planned where needed. A larger selection of books was ordered for use by the rector’s wife to teach the children of the village.

The most difficult task yet lay ahead of him. His solicitor should be arriving either this day or the next, and Adrian would review and update his will. Although his title and most of the accompanying estates were entailed, he still had some discretionary properties and funds. He would feel better once those decisions and arrangements were made for everyone who depended on him for support or a living.

Turning from the window, Adrian picked up the glass of wine and drank from it. He’d learned the hard lesson of overimbibing the night he’d discovered his fate. His stomach had remained unsettled for days, and he’d had to stop several times on the road north to empty it rather forcefully. No, he would rather face his future, limited though it might be, with a clear head and a calm stomach.

It would be a few hours until supper even with the earlier country hours, so Adrian decided to walk down to the lake. He mentioned his intent to the butler as he picked up his hat and made his way through the house. Using a side door in the blue drawing room, Adrian followed the path that led away from the house to the larger of the two lakes in Windmere Park.

The sun beat strongly and its heat could be felt, in spite of the cool breezes that moved through the trees surrounding the lake. Seeking refuge from the strongest of its rays, he found a well-spread chestnut and sat down next to it, leaning against its stout trunk. The irony of facing his own impending death, even as every living thing was moving toward bloom and maturity, was not lost on him.

As was his custom, he reviewed the list of unaccomplished tasks left to him on this trip and realized that in his haste to leave the city, he’d not had the latest concoctions made up. The crumpled papers were most likely still in the pocket of his coat, where he’d shoved them the next morning. There was an apothecary of some experience whom he usually frequented some miles away in Newcastle, but also a woman in his own village who had gained some measure of good repute as a healer. Perhaps he would visit her.

Adding it to his mental list, he moved on to the next item. The estate and his personal papers were in order. Everything would be ready for his…demise. Adrian pulled off his hat and, tilting his head back, closed his eyes.

How did one approach this? Never an overly spiritual or religious man, he did not feel compelled to seek out a religious advisor. He trusted that the rector would perform the necessary rites with the solemnity Adrian deserved. When his symptoms worsened and he was convinced the end was nearing, he would speak to the rector about it. But not now.

The matters of the entailed estate were handled, those of his own properties and will would be, and the only ones left were…his family. His mother and his wife.

His mother and his wife.

Shaking his head, he knew there would be no way of avoiding those subjects once his solicitor arrived. Although the estate documents included arrangements for both of them, he would verify the specifics and clarify what each woman could expect for an income and home after his death.

What would become of each of them? The strange thought formed in his mind and he knew that it was the thing that bothered him the most.

His distant, twice-removed cousin Robert would inherit the lands and titles and, since he already had the prerequisite heir-and-a-spare, the dukedom would go on. A pang of regret pierced Adrian then and he tried to discover its cause.

Never meant to inherit, he had come almost reluctantly to the titles and the powers and the responsibilities of being Duke of Windmere. And the primary responsibility after taking control was to produce an heir. In that, he and Miranda had failed. Perhaps that was the source of his discontent? No son of his own to inherit? Not even a daughter to convey everything entailed to a son of her own?

Racking his brains would make no difference in this. He picked up his hat and stood, dusting off his clothes as he did. Tugging the hat into place, Adrian began the walk back to the house. He suspected that once his solicitor arrived and everything was in order, his mind would cease struggling with the questions and ramifications of his death, and he could seek out ways to spend the time he had left.

Dinner and the rest of the evening were spent in quiet reflection as he examined his life. When sleep would not come, he walked the halls of Windmere House. He visited rooms he’d not seen since his childhood and was surprised to find that some of his toys were still stored in the nursery, waiting for small hands to find them. From the window of the bedchamber where he’d spent his visits home from the university, he spied the tree that had been the site of many adventures for him and his brother.

Dawn found him as restless as the night before, so he called for a horse and rode over the lands that had been his for such a short time. Only when the sun reached high in the midday sky and the loud protestations of his stomach could no longer be ignored, did he return to the house for rest and food.

The butler woke him to inform him that a coach had arrived from London. No instructions need be given about the hospitality required for guests at Windmere Park, so Adrian sent word that he would see Anderson at dinner. Spending time in the country had its advantages, the foremost in Adrian’s mind being that of earlier and less formal meals. His household knew his clear preferences, and that, coupled with the fact that most of his neighbors were in London, assured him of uninterrupted time with his solicitor.

Now, drinking a glass of claret in the drawing room, he awaited the man’s arrival. A clamoring outside the door drew his attention and he turned as the footman opened it, admitting not his solicitor, but his best friend.

“Parker! What are you doing here?” Adrian stood and strode over to his unexpected guest.

“Your cryptic note about your sudden departure did more to inflame my curiosity than to appease it, so I am here.” Parker accepted a glass of claret from the butler. “Is it nearly time to eat? We did not stop for a noon meal.”

Adrian looked to the corridor but saw no one else. Had Parker traveled with the solicitor then?

“As soon as Anderson arrives, we will go in to dinner. I’ll have them set a place for you.”

“Anderson?” Parker shook his head. “The man sent word that he is delayed in London and will not arrive until tomorrow. Surely we need not wait that long?”

At Parker’s dry wit, Adrian shook his head. “I received no such word.”

“I am, I fear, the messenger in this, Windmere. I ran into him at your house in London and have now delivered the message to you.” Parker held out his glass and watched as it was filled again. “Where the devil is she?” Walking to the door, he peered out.

“She?” Alarmed, Adrian turned to the door. “Who did you bring here?” Surely not. Surely, Parker would not have brought….

“Here now! If your thirst is not overwhelming, we can go right in,” his friend was saying.

“Good evening, Windmere. My apologies for holding you up from your meal.”

Miranda.

She stood in the doorway, with an anxious frown on her brow as though waiting for his anger. Relieved that Parker had not brought Caro as he’d suspected, Adrian walked to greet his wife.

“I did not expect you, madam,” he said, lifting her hand and touching his lips to it. “I said there was no need to accompany me here.”

He felt her shiver at the sharpness in his voice. He needed time alone to deal with his fate and did not want the complications that a wife presented. However, he could ascertain her reasons over dinner and send her back to the city on the morrow. Before he could say more, Parker pushed Adrian aside and offered Miranda his arm.

“He said the same thing to me, Your Grace, and you can see how much weight I gave his words. Come, the butler has assured me that dinner is ready.”

After a glance at him and a moment’s hesitation, his wife laid her hand on his friend’s arm and off they walked down the hall, following the butler to the private dining room. Indeed, his staff knew of the changes to his plans, for three places were set at the oval table, all to one end, as he’d requested for the two originally planned. He watched as Parker escorted Miranda to one of the side chairs and then took a place opposite her. Adrian then sat in the chair at the end, with his wife on his right and his friend on the left.

At his nod, the butler and his assistant began serving the meal. Parker shoveled food into his mouth at an alarming rate. Without stopping for more than a breath or a swallow of his wine, he devoured two bowls of cream of lobster soup along with a small loaf of bread. When there was a slight delay in serving the next course, he continued to tear a slice of bread into pieces and push them in his mouth.

“Are you certain you only missed one meal?” Adrian asked. Parker did not even have the decency to look embarrassed at his behavior.

“Traveling the long roads here over these last… How many days did it take us, madam? Four?” Parker mumbled the rest as he finished chewing.

“It did take four days, although we arrived a bit earlier today than I had thought possible,” Miranda replied softly.

Irritated by their friendly manner and the very fact that they were here, Adrian snapped out what he’d wanted to ask from the first moment.

“Why are you here, Miranda? I told you that this trip was simply to handle some family business. There is no entertainment here. No parties or luncheons to attend. No balls to dance at. I would think that the amusements of the city would have held your attention longer.”

The room grew silent and even the servants paused in their actions at his tone. It was only the briefest of pauses, but he marked it. Parker choked as he chewed, and then swallowed loudly and washed his food down with another mouthful of wine. When he cleared his throat, Adrian got the message. For Miranda’s part, the only reaction to his rude words was a slight fluttering of her eyelashes and her refusal to meet his gaze.

Any response was interrupted by the arrival of the next course. Plates of roast venison and leg of lamb were placed on the table, as well as boiled turnips and sauces for all the dishes. Adrian took up the carving knife and cut slices of the meats for each of them. At Parker’s glare, he added a few to his plate. It was as he cut into his own food that Miranda answered his question.

“I have felt a bit overwhelmed by the demands of the Season, Windmere. I thought a short respite to the country might do me well.”

“Overwhelmed by the dowager’s demands, more likely,” Parker interrupted. Pointing at her with his fork, he continued, “And now that she is sponsoring that chit in her first season, I would guess she’s dragging you from one end of town to the other.”

“That chit? What do you know of my mother’s social activities?” Adrian felt the odd man out in this discussion.

“She cornered me ever so politely at Lord Hanson’s soiree and made it clear that as your friend and close associate, I had a duty to help bring out the chit—excuse me, Miss Stevenson.”

“And your reply?” Adrian asked. It wasn’t often that someone got the better of Parker. Of course, his mother was, candidly, quite formidable when she desired to be so. And she’d made no secret of her desire for a successful launching of her goddaughter into polite society.

Parker blinked several times and frowned at him. “What do you think I told Her Grace? I agreed, of course.”

Not to be deterred from his original question, Adrian turned back to Miranda. “Are you well?”

A hint of a blush tinged her cheeks and the corners of her mouth rose in a slight smile as though she was intrigued at some private thought. Then she met his gaze and shook her head. “I am well, Windmere. It is just that your mention of the country reminded me that, at times, I find it so much less tiring than the tedium and closeness of town.”

Adrian winced at the formality of her address. He sensed that the one expressed was not her only answer. But, in company, even just Parker, he decided he would not press her for more. To articulate more concern than necessary would make her presence into an issue. And it would make it seem more important than the inconvenience it was. It was a simple case of not having the solitude he’d anticipated when he’d journeyed north.

He turned back to his food and silence filled the room, interrupted by Parker’s occasional chomping noises. How had the man made his way in polite company? A few minutes later, filled from the hearty and flavorful food, Adrian pushed back and suggested that they proceed to the billiard room. Although Parker looked as though he would argue, he swallowed the mouthful of food he had just forked in and nodded.

Chapter Five

Miranda had looked away as she finished her words, not wanting to allow her lack of candor to show. Luckily, her husband seemed to give up on his chase for ulterior motives at her appearance here. At least, he had for now. Finished with her food, she dabbed at her mouth and laid the napkin on the table. She rose as the footman held her chair, and walked behind Adrian to the masculine sanctuary he favored so much when here at Windmere House. She wondered if he knew that billiards was a favorite of hers and that she played frequently…when he was not present.

She took a seat near the fireplace and watched as her husband and his friend chose their weapons from the rack of billiard sticks. They exchanged typical boasts about the upcoming game and even placed bets on the outcome. Tea arrived and she sipped hers as the even match went on.

“Would you be completely offended if we removed our jackets, madam?” Parker asked some minutes later. “I know it’s terribly informal, but…” His words drifted off and he smiled that infectious smile of his as his hair fell into his eyes once more. He tossed his head to shake it back into place.

“I am certain that my constitution and sensibilities can withstand such an informality, sir. Only as long as we are in the country, of course.”

“I told you she would be game, Windmere. Now nothing, not even too tight a fit, will stop me from defeating you,” Parker boasted, as he shrugged his jacket off and tossed it on a nearby chair.

As she watched, her husband removed his, too, but instead of carelessly throwing his, he folded it and laid it over the back of a chair. Without their jackets, it was an easy thing to compare them. Both men were tall, with Parker having several inches over her husband. Both were muscular, but Adrian’s build was a leaner one than his friend’s. She could well understand that after seeing how much food Parker ate in a given day! In coloring they were opposites, with Adrian being the dark-haired one and Parker the blond Adonis.

After spending four days on the road with him, Miranda decided Parker definitely reminded her of the Adrian she’d known early in their marriage. An irreverent sense of humor pervaded his personality and behavior, but at the heart of it was a man of honor and caring. Drinking the now slightly warm tea, she wondered when Adrian had changed. She placed her cup back on the side table as she thought about it.

Not in the year they’d spent engaged to be married and not in the first year of their marriage, either. He was still the same outgoing man even during the terrible time of his brother’s death and their year of mourning. It was after they’d put away the colors of official grief that something changed deep within him.

Instead of resisting the dowager’s every command and directive, Adrian accepted them. Instead of plotting his own course for the dukedom he’d inherited, he followed the one left by his father and brother before him. Instead of the affectionate relationship he and Miranda had had, he began to distance himself from her, insisting that his mother’s ideas of the proper way to do things were what he wanted for them.

Pulling herself back from her woolgathering, Miranda watched as the match drew closer. Startled as he laughed out loud at some whispered threat from Parker, and pushed him away to the other side of the table, she enjoyed the moment of camaraderie between the two of them. Not accustomed to seeing him so, she wondered why he hid it from her.

Why did he not let down his guard with her as he did with his friend? Was she the only one from whom he’d withdrawn this side of himself? Did he share this with his mistress?

Laughing.

Spontaneous.

Playful.

Caring.

Attractive.

Miranda’s stomach roiled as the uncontrolled thoughts forced themselves forward. This kind of introspection did no good and now she felt truly sick as images of her husband and his paramour flashed fleetingly through her mind. She knew what the woman looked like—someone who disdained Miranda for her humble origins and had wanted to embarrass her had pointed out Mrs. Robinson in the park one day. She’d passed the woman by without any acknowledgment, of course, but she’d seen her clearly.

“Call for her maid, if you please.” Her husband’s voice broke into her reverie. Blinking to clear the now-gathering tears from her eyes, she saw that their game had stopped and they were both watching her.

“You see, Parker. It is as I suspected. The duchess is not well.” Adrian approached and crouched down before her. “Her complexion is now turning green.”

Parker rang for the footman, who was sent off for Fisk. Then he walked closer, squinting as he leaned down to her. “Was it the soup, do you think? Something spoiled at dinner?”

Miranda took a deep breath and shook her head. “I think that I am simply overtired from traveling. If you will excuse me,” she said as she stood, or tried to, for her legs would not hold her up. Pausing for a moment and allowing Adrian to offer her his arm in support, she took in another deep breath and felt her head clear a bit. “I will seek my chambers and recover more thoroughly from the journey.”

Parker backed away and allowed Adrian to escort her to the door. Fisk arrived and Miranda was released into the maid’s efficient and meticulous care. She turned to take her leave and noticed Adrian’s quiet scrutiny. He did not ask anything else of her, but wished her a good night’s rest and nodded as she turned away.

It was as she drifted off to sleep that she realized it was Thursday evening.

Day was full upon them when Miranda next opened her eyes. Even the drawn curtains at each window could not disguise how high the sun was in the sky. Guessing it to be early afternoon, she pushed the covers aside and slid from the bed. As her feet touched the carpet, the door to the hallway opened and Fisk entered.

“What time is it?”

“Half past one, Your Grace. The duke gave orders that no one should disturb your rest,” she said as she held out a dressing gown for Miranda to slip into. “The house does not have its full complement of staff, so it was easier than most times to insure that you would not be disturbed.”

“Is the duke busy?” Miranda tied the gown and sat at her dressing table, allowing Fisk access to her hair for arranging. “Something simple, if you please.”

“His Grace has been closed up in his study with his solicitor since early this morning, Your Grace. Other than a call for some food and wine to be served to them there, no one has seen or heard him.”

Their lives did not intersect much at any time, least of all in the country, so Miranda decided to invite the rector and his wife to dinner. Tempted to include her husband, she hesitated, for his opposition to her presence was quite clear. She would stay out of his way for a day or two and then see if she could approach him with her questions.

“If the weather is as fine as it looks from my window, I plan on taking advantage of it and sitting out in the gazebo. Would you have Cook send some chocolate and a roll out to me there?”

“Of course, Your Grace. Should I join you there?”

Fisk stood and helped her out of her night rail and into a yellow day dress that had short sleeves and was trimmed in white ruffles. After taking the proffered matching bonnet, Miranda shook her head. “There is no need. You may remain inside.”

Miranda picked out a book she’d been intending to read and walked through the house, out a side door, and found the gazebo surrounded by pleasant sunshine. Once her chocolate and roll arrived, she sat quietly and read the book she’d chosen.

Actually, she tried to read, but irritating and bothersome thoughts kept creeping into her mind. Finally, she put the book down on the table and considered her options.

She’d learned over the last four days of travel that there were many things about her husband that she did not know. Lord Parker had regaled her during their time in the carriage with tales of his and Adrian’s visits to the various Windmere estates and other places in England. Even a hunting lodge in Scotland that Miranda did not know the Warfield family owned. When he’d looked embarrassed about having mentioned it, she knew it was used for the type of event a wife was not invited to attend.

She’d learned last night that her husband could be stubborn and secretive. Something was indeed going on, and he did not want her interference. His words clearly told her she was an inconvenient interruption to his plans.

The wind blew a loose curl free and it fell into her face. Miranda tugged off the bonnet and laid it on her lap, rearranging the curl.

She’d also learned, by her own weakness and reaction to the thought of his more personal relationship, that she would not be able to broach such a subject with him. They’d adjusted over the past few years to a certain level of marital involvement, and, although it was not the warm and personable one she’d dreamed of having with her husband, it was clearly his choice.

She smiled at her own folly. A momentary lapse in the duke’s behavior did not mean he wanted things to change. It meant that he was simply a man. She should have waited for something more significant than one night’s overindulgence to signal a change in him…or a crack in his ducal veneer.

“You do make such a lovely sight, Your Grace.”

The words and Lord Parker’s approach startled her out of her thoughts. “My lord, you surprised me.” Shading her eyes to see him in the bright sunlight, she realized she had no bonnet on.

“Pardon for barging in on you here, Your Grace. I’ve been bumping around the house and grounds and not having much success finding anyone else. Well, at least anyone who is not engaged in some earth-shatteringly important endeavor that cannot be interrupted.”

He looked confused and then laughed. “Not that your activity here is not as important—that is, not as…”

Miranda held up her hand to stop him. “I took no offense at your words,” she said, pointing to an empty chair. “Join me if you care to.”

As they slipped into a pleasant conversation about the estate, Miranda realized that she’d spoken more to Parker in these last few days than she’d spoken to Adrian in years.

He tugged the curtain aside once more to watch her. From his study he had a clear view of the gazebo on the western veranda and its occupants. His wife had been alone for some time before Parker had joined her. They seemed to rub along quite companionably. Parker had told him of the journey north from town. Although she still looked pale, Miranda did appear recovered from whatever had ailed her last evening.

“So, that is the extent of the settlement for the duchess? No property, no title?” Adrian turned to face his solicitor.

The terms of the will and the entailment were not a complete surprise to him—without a male heir to inherit directly, everything moved to his grandfather’s other line. His mother had also inherited an income from her eldest brother, so her future was quite settled.

Miranda was a different sort of problem. With her widow’s jointure, she would live closer to the edge of genteel poverty than to the standards to which she’d become accustomed. When they had married, her dowry had replenished his family’s depleted coffers and allowed him, on his accession, to make much needed improvements on the grounds here, as well as on the other family estates. Her father, overwhelmed by the prestige of joining his with the exalted Warfield family and Windmere name, was not overly concerned with carving out a protected settlement for Miranda. And he’d been willing to pay for the privilege of his daughter marrying even the second son of the esteemed Duke of Windmere.

Within a few years, changes unthought of and certainly unanticipated had occurred, and the second son held the title. And after his death, she would have a small allowance and be granted a place to live on the grounds of Windmere Park. As the widow of the previous duke, with no family to take her in, she would be an outsider.

Still an outsider.

As she’d always been.

Turning back to the window, he watched her talk quite animatedly about something with Parker. Then she stopped and her smile disappeared. Instead, she stared pensively out toward the lake and nodded her head at whatever question she’d been asked.

It was only a thought at first. Then it tickled Adrian’s conscience and drew his attention. He watched as some sadness overtook her, and he found himself opening the window. For what, he knew not. Drawing away, he tried to discover the source of his discomfort.

“Your Grace? Should I continue?”

“Let us break for a bit. I should like to walk to clear my head,” he said, nodding at the man.

Anderson agreed readily and gathered his papers into neat little piles before standing and bowing to him. Adrian waited for him to leave his study before opening the door that led out to the gardens. Striding quickly, he approached the gazebo and listened to the conversation.

“Rubbish!”

“I assure you, Parker, though it may sound as though I boast, I could do it.”

“An affront! That’s what it is. An affront to my honor,” Parker replied with the theatrics of a man intensely insulted.

Adrian’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked the obvious, drawing their attention at once as he approached. “What could you do, madam?”

He stared at her and she placed her bonnet back on her head and then stood to greet him. He had enjoyed the sight of the wind catching little tendrils of her hair and pulling them free of the arrangement that her maid had done up. Part of him wanted to tear the hat off and run his hands through her hair, loosening it until it fell below her waist. His body took no more than a moment to respond to the feelings engendered, with a clear message of intent. Blinking, he shook off the odd thoughts and turned his attention back to his wife’s boast.

“Your duchess claims that she could best me in a game of billiards. Is that not audacious?” Parker said, offering a bow to Miranda. “Couldn’t be true, could it, Windmere?” His friend looked horrified as he contemplated the very thought of it.

“Is it true, Miranda? I have not seen you play in many a year.” Adrian realized it was before their marriage and before his mother began her campaign to make Miranda a suitable wife for a man bearing the Warfield name.

“I did not mean it as a challenge, sir,” she began. He watched her eyes light with a mischief he had not seen recently, and she nodded to Parker. “But it is a fair statement of my abilities.”

Adrian walked to where she sat. “It would seem the only fair thing to do is to offer Parker the chance to defend his honor. Rather than an appointment at dawn, would you be willing to settle for billiards after dinner?”

“Actually, I have an engagement for dinner this evening. Could we play later?” Miranda looked at Parker for an answer.

“Are you having guests or going somewhere?” So used to having separate schedules and social engagements, Adrian had no idea of hers.

“The rector and his wife are coming here, Windmere. You are welcome, of course.” She had not hesitated, so he felt the invitation was genuine. He also had not known that she was on social terms with Reverend Grayson and his wife. “I did not ask because I did not want to interfere any more than I have with your business here.”

He almost answered with a quick excuse, but she turned her gaze on Parker then and he was not certain he wanted his friend there without him being present, too.

“And you, as well, Parker. You might enjoy meeting the Graysons.”

Parker turned a bit pale and shook his head. “I appreciate the invitation, of course, but meeting with a parson is not my idea of entertainment.” He shot Adrian a look that implored Help me out of this situation, and Adrian laughed.

“I would enjoy that. Shall we plan on holding the challenge at, say, nine this evening?”

Miranda smiled and looked from him to Parker and back. “Nine it is, then.” She stood and so did Parker. “I will not keep you any longer, Windmere.” With a nod, she picked up the book on the table and walked back to the house.

She had just closed the door when the coughing erupted. Deep spasms racked Adrian’s chest and, as he turned away from the gazebo, he groped in his jacket and waistcoat to find the small bottle of syrup that usually quieted them. Tugging off the small cap, he leaned his head back and poured some of the thick, brown concoction into his mouth, then swallowed. Lowering his head, he looked into the face of his friend. In his haste, Adrian had forgotten all about Parker.

A few more coughs escaped before he felt his chest loosen and calm. Searching for words to make light of his symptoms, Adrian opened and closed his mouth. To his surprise, it was Parker who spoke first—in a tone much too serious for a lighthearted rogue of his nature.

“Your cough has worsened?”

“It is just the flowers. Hay fever, the physicians are calling it,” Adrian said, trying to brush aside any concerns.

“No, Adrian. It has worsened. I have noticed it lately. You have more of these spells and I have witnessed you drink from that bottle more times now than even a few months ago.”

Startled at the familiarity, Adrian shook his head and tried to deny the assertion. “It is just this time of year.”

Parker walked closer and spoke in a quiet voice. “I know there is more to this than you willingly will admit. Just know that I am here for you if you need anything.”

His gut tightened as he realized the importance of this. Parker had noticed the changes. Who else had?

“Do not add disclosure to your list of concerns. We are in each other’s pockets. I could not help but notice. Others who see you occasionally have not.”

Adrian turned back and looked at the path that Miranda had taken.

“The duchess is another matter altogether,” Parker added.

“What do you mean?” Had he given himself away that night when he’d been drunk and rambling? Although Thompson assured him nothing had been heard by the servants or the duchess, he was not so certain.

“I had an opportunity to get to know her more during our travels here. I think she senses something is wrong and does not know what to do about it.” Parker stepped away. “Is something wrong?”

Not ready or willing to part with the secret yet, he simply changed the subject. “Anderson is waiting inside for me. Will I see you at dinner?”

The dismissal was effective. They both took a polite step back and nodded. Turning away, Adrian felt some measure of guilt clawing at him. After too many years spent distancing himself from friends and family, as was befitting someone in his station of life, his mother would say, he now did not know how to bridge those distances.

He returned to his study and remained there, closed up with Anderson, reviewing the remaining papers and documents so important to his demise and what would follow. When his solicitor excused himself with plans for a walk and then a dinner tray in his room, Adrian went and prepared for dinner. Anticipation within him grew as he thought about the evening that lay ahead.

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