An American Duchess Read online

  Bagley was back, wagging his tail as if he hadn’t just found trouble. He trotted around his master several times and then sat by Mr. Llewellyn’s side, as docile as a little lamb.

  Now that she knew who he was, she allowed herself to relax. “Do you always let your dog go around frightening people?”

  Tristen shrugged as amusement filled his eyes. “He’s in training. We’ve just lost the scent of a trail we’re following.” He gazed down at the dog. “He’ll get better with time.”

  “A trail?”

  Mr. Llewellyn nodded. “Aye, a poacher, but I’m not sure. My uncle believes that during his convalescence, men have become bold. I’ve yet to encounter any in person but have found the signs. Footprints. Bloodstains. Pheasant feathers. Things like that. You should keep an eye out when you travel.”

  She turned the pony and cart back in the direction toward Ashbury, not liking that news at all. She thought of Thomas and wondered how he filled his days. Not only with fish, she suspected. “Pheasants?” she murmured.

  A frown tilted Mr. Llewellyn’s brows. “That’s right. This is bird season—pheasant, grouse, partridge. But I’m sure that’s of no interest to you.”

  “Oh, and why not? We bake the finest meat pies in all of Brightshire, Goldenbrook, and beyond. If we don’t know what type of birds to expect from our hunters, how can we gather the most pleasing herbs and produce to complement the taste? I’ll be expecting some nice woodcock—after October first, that is.”

  A smile played around his lips, and he gave a slight bow. “I withdraw my narrow-minded judgment of you, Miss Aldridge, and beg your pardon. I’ll bid you good day. But please, stay on the road. There’s been more than enough evidence of poachers.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Llewellyn, but I’m from the village. The poachers are probably my neighbors and friends.” And brother. “I have nothing to fear if all they are after is game.” When his brow lowered she gave a conciliatory smile. He was only trying to be helpful. “But there have been robbers, so yes, I will be careful. And thank you. Good day.”

  Hours later, and finished with the daily deliveries, Charlotte swished the currycomb over Sherry’s coat as the mare stood quietly in her stall, munching hay. After that, she cleaned the chicken coop and collected the morning eggs, which remained untouched in their nesting boxes. She was responsible for the chickens, but since she’d been sent to do Thomas’s job, hers had remained undone. Taking the back door steps quickly, she stopped in the open threshold of the bakeshop, encountering a blast of oven heat.

  “There you be!” an angry voice snapped.

  From the square worktable inside the kitchen, Aunt Ethel, her hands deep in a large bowl of bread dough, glared at her. Her short jacket, with elbow-length sleeves, was covered by a full white apron. A blue-checkered scarf circled her neck and tucked into her bodice. The white cap atop her graying brown hair looked like a toadstool. After rising, the dough she worked now would be baked into loaves overnight.

  “Did ya deliver ta Goldenbrook too? I know how that enchantress that lives there scares ya.”

  “She’s a midwife, Aunt, not an enchantress. I’m not frightened of her.” Or you.

  Speaking back on any account was always a risk. Aunt Ethel loved to paint her in the worst possible light. Frightened, lazy, brazen. Aunt Ethel and her sister, Ruby, the woman who’d raised Charlotte for the first three years of her life, had inherited the bakeshop from their parents. When Ruby passed away from a gangrenous arm nicked by the hatchet that was used for butchering, responsibility for her children, Thomas and Charlotte, fell to Aunt Ethel. While Ethel put up with Thomas because he was Ruby’s true son, Charlotte didn’t fare as well. Ethel never let Charlotte forget that she was a foundling, not blood.

  “Ain’t you the sassy one? If I wasn’t up to my elbows in bread dough, I’d teach ya a little respect.”

  “I’m not being disrespectful, Aunt.” They locked gazes. “Give me one minute to change my clothes and refresh myself, then I’ll spell Verity out front. I’m sure she’d like a cup of tea since you were shorthanded today.”

  Aunt Ethel’s eyes narrowed.

  Charlotte made room for the basket of thirty-five eggs between the tall stack of mixing bowls and spices and extracts. Upstairs in the room she shared with her cousin Verity (and Amelia when she was home), Charlotte stripped off her soiled clothes and put on fresh.

  Out front, Verity was waiting on a customer, so Charlotte took a damp cloth and began to wipe the empty bread shelves that had been full this morning.

  “You’re back,” Verity said, giving her older cousin a smile once the woman walked out the door. “I’m glad. You’ll never guess who came in.”

  Charlotte tipped her head, waiting. Verity liked to drag out the telling.

  “Well, don’t you want to know?”

  “Yes, please tell. If not one of our usual customers, I’m stumped.”

  “That handsome gentleman. You know the one. With a mess of brown hair and eyes that speak of romance. I almost fainted when he came through the door.”

  Charlotte stopped wiping. “The duke’s cousin?”

  “Yes.” Verity’s chestnut curls bounced under her kerchief as she nodded. At seventeen, she was one year younger than Amelia and three years younger than Thomas. “I almost lost my voice when I asked him what he wanted. Oh, Charlotte, he’s so attractive. Have you ever seen the like?”

  “What did he buy?” Charlotte couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “Two raspberry tarts, just like before. What do you think that means? Some kind of message?”

  Oh, Verity, you have the heart of a romantic. What will we do with you? “Two raspberry tarts? That he has an appetite, and raspberry is his filling of choice.”

  Verity waved her off. “You’re no fun, Charlotte. I like to pretend he comes in to see me. Is that so wrong?”

  Charlotte walked over and draped a loving arm across Verity’s shoulder. “Of course that’s not wrong. And who knows. Maybe you’re right.”

  It could be true, she told herself as Verity melted into a pool of delight. Hope kept one’s spirit alive. Gave something to dream about other than the hardships and unhappiness of each passing day. She’d not steal that from her cousin.

  “Charlotte!” Aunt Ethel shouted. “Get out there and get us a cockerel for supper. Wring its neck and pluck it clean. I’ll do the rest when I’m finished here.”

  If only there were a way to tell her aunt that Thomas would most likely show up with a string of fresh trout, and save the cockerel to live another day.

  “Go on,” Aunt Ethel continued. “It’s the second Tuesday of the month. Amelia comes home from Ashbury to spend the night. I’ve made a currant cake with sour milk frosting and cinnamon biscuits. Light a fire under your feet, you indolent girl. One night a month ain’t near enough time to spend with my darling daughter.” There was some muttering Charlotte couldn’t make out. “Amelia’s made something good of herself. Just think, working at the castle.”

  Verity shrugged despondently at Charlotte, knowing she fell short in her mother’s eyes as well.

  “Charlotte, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Aunt Ethel. Going right now.”

  Charlotte passed through the kitchen and was about to leave out the back door when the town crier, an orphan boy of ten, bounded past her into the kitchen waving a small piece of paper over his head.

  Aunt Ethel gasped in surprise.

  At the sound of the commotion, Verity poked her head in from the front.

  “What’s the news?” Charlotte asked. What else can go wrong today?

  “The Duke of Brightshire has been found—in America, no less! Ship docked late last night in Portsmouth. Tomorrow he’ll be on his way to Brightshire! And bringing an American duchess with him from a place called Coloradee.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emma Brinkman Northcott gazed out the opulent train car window as a tangled mass of feelings churned inside. In Portsmouth, after they’d d
isembarked the ship, she’d been told that the next morning a train would transport them to Cranbrook, where she and Beranger would have a suite at a local hotel so they could eat and rest and prepare for the last leg of their journey. From there, a coach sent from Ashbury Castle would carry them the rest of the way to Brightshire.

  To her disappointment, Emma hadn’t been able to see much of Portsmouth in the darkness, but this morning, boarding the train, the sun had peeked over the horizon in splendid pinks and reds, and she’d been treated to a storybook land of quaint cottages with thatched roofs, tiny cultivated rose gardens, and tidy barns. Her spirits leaped to life—here before her was her future. The train chugged through golden grain fields of ripe wheat, oats, and other crops. There were black-and-white dairy cows, picturesque villages dotted with stone buildings, colorful doors, flower boxes, and women dressed in neckerchiefs, bloomers, and darling little hats.

  Everything from the villagers to the buildings and farms looked as if they belonged in a fairy tale. Things here were so different from her home in Colorado! Long, rambling ranch houses were replaced by stone cottages. Dirt roads were now cobblestone streets. Stock horses, so useful for gathering cattle, were now draft horse giants pulling heavy-looking wagons. And the overall feel was old, very old, ancient. Had her American roots begun somewhere here?

  She sat back and closed her eyes. The last few months had been an incredible dream come true. When she’d met Beranger North on a business trip to Santa Fe, she’d had no idea that the handsome mining expert with the slight accent and two different-colored eyes was really Beranger Northcott and destined to inherit a dukedom. Beranger hadn’t known himself until his uncle, Lord Harry Northcott, arrived to take him back to England to claim his title as Duke of Brightshire. He and Emma had wed that same night, transforming her instantly into the Duchess of Brightshire. That had barely been a month ago. The thought was still so unbelievable.

  For a moment, she felt a pang of longing for the four sisters she’d left behind. She imagined them being here with her. Lavinia would be cooing over the women’s charming hats, Katie venturing off the road at each stop to inspect the types of trees that grew in England—because of the type of lumber they would produce—Mavis would chronicle every aspect of the voyage in her journal, and Belle would be alive with excitement over the different breeds of horses that filled the pastures and streets.

  “Your Grace?”

  The moniker almost felt like a joke. Emma didn’t fit the role of Your Grace, Duchess, or anything else. But she was determined to try. Coming to England and accepting the roles wouldn’t be fair if she and Beranger wanted to change everything. That wasn’t the point. They both intended to adhere to customs as well as they could.

  And yet there were so many customs to remember, so many protocols to follow. Curtsy, bow, incline a head? Look here, don’t look there. How she wished for just one of her sisters to help soften her arrival.

  Alone in her and Beranger’s luxury sitting car, Emma watched Gertrude Bucket, the woman Lord Harry had hired in Boston to make the voyage to England with them and tutor Emma on English propriety, make her way down the rocking passageway, being careful to keep her balance. The slight, middle-aged woman was the embodiment of decorum. She followed Emma around like a lonely puppy dog, whispering dos and don’ts in her ear often enough to make Emma want to scream. Gertrude made Emma feel like a country bumpkin, which wasn’t the case at all. Emma and her sisters had been raised in Philadelphia, first by their mother until her death, then by guardians; they’d all graduated school and had socialized to some extent in genteel society. Then, last year, they’d inherited one of the largest, most successful cattle ranches in Colorado when their father passed away. The Five Sisters Ranch.

  “Miss Bucket, you found me,” she joked, hoping for a smile.

  The woman just stared, a bemused expression on her face. “I most certainly did. As I specifically mentioned before, you should not be anywhere on this train alone. It’s unseemly.” An upward motion of her hand was the signal Emma should sit straighter and lift her chin.

  Begrudgingly, Emma complied. “But I’m in our private car. I’m safe.”

  “I’m always available to accompany you.” Gertrude gave her a stern glance as if she thought Emma a child. “You told me you were going to lie down, and I just came from checking your sleep car. When you weren’t there, you gave me a start. Please be more considerate in the future.”

  “Emma, my love, there you are.”

  As usual, Beranger’s appearance chased away her misgivings. Never once when she was in his arms or by his side did she have any uncertainties over leaving her family. Only when they were parted, and she was left alone with her thoughts, or alone with this woman who whittled down the remains of her confidence, did she wonder if she’d made a mistake thinking she could live up to the expectations of a duchess.

  “Please excuse us, Miss Bucket. Emma and I would like some time alone.”

  Gertrude didn’t look pleased she’d been supplanted. A watch appeared in her hand like magic, and she clicked open the lid.

  “Teatime has arrived, Your Grace,” she said, emphasizing the title. Gertrude didn’t like Beranger being so informal with his bride, and had told him so—but only once. “The duchess has yet to grasp the significance of the ritual. This is our last teatime before we arrive. Would you not like her to practice yet again? You’d not want her to flaunt her ignorance to proper society.”

  Emma saw Beranger tense.

  “We appreciate your dedication, Miss Bucket. You can take tea with Lord Harry. He’s in his suite reading and will enjoy having someone to converse with.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Please turn the latch as you go.”

  She gave a slight bow and hurried away, locking the door behind her.

  “You’re incorrigible,” Emma whispered for his ears alone. “Lord Harry will kill you if he finds out you sicced Gertrude on him.”

  Beranger lifted a shoulder, and the lopsided smile, the one that made her fall in love with him, appeared.

  “But he won’t find out unless you tell him.” His eyes, one blue and one green, sparkled with mischief. He lowered his face to hers.

  With a hand to his chest, she pushed him back. “Don’t.”

  His brows shot up.

  “Not after last night on the ship. How can you even think of kissing me? I’ve never been so sick in all my life.”

  “Oh, I can think of that, and a lot more, my darling wife. Is this not our honeymoon? And since last night was spent on violent seas, preventing any honeymooning from going on, and since now we are safe in this train car, and the door is locked, I thought I might entice you.”

  He brushed his lips along her shoulder and then up to her ear.

  She sighed and leaned into his body, feeling the luscious pool of heat warming inside. “But what will Lord Harry think?” She was barely able to get the words past her lips.

  “That we’re honeymooning,” he whispered.

  “In that case . . .”

  Emma tried to relax, but troubling thoughts kept popping into her head. What would England be like? Would the people there approve of her? If she didn’t learn fast enough, would she hinder her husband? Be an embarrassment to him, as Gertrude implied?

  Beranger lifted his head from her neck. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m enjoying myself.”

  He straightened and studied her long enough for heat to spring to her face.

  “I’m frightened,” she finally admitted, sorry to have ruined the mood.

  “Frightened? Of what? We’ll be in Brightshire tonight. Nothing to be worried over.”

  “What if I’m a terrible duchess? What if I let you down?”

  “You could never let me down, Emma. Be an American. That’s who I fell in love with. Be yourself and you’ll win everyone’s hearts, not just mine.”

  His searching gaze eased away her fears.

  “If you say so
, Your Grace,” she whispered teasingly. She ran her hand over his broad chest, all the while pressing closer. Taking the initiative, she brushed her lips across his and then softly kissed each corner of his mouth. “Your every wish is my command.”

  The light was back in his eyes, and more, something much deeper and indescribable. Soon they were swept away on a wave of desire.

  Later that day, as Emma slumbered beside him in the rocking coach they’d boarded in Cranbrook, Lord Harry and a sleeping Gertrude Bucket on the seat opposite, Beranger turned in wonder to gaze at his wife. All his years in America, he’d never imagined he might have what he’d found with her. The thunder of true passion. The melding of two hearts to such heights that after each time, he was left in wonder and thanksgiving. He could hardly believe such happiness was real. Before her, he’d never known what true love was.

  Strawberry locks framed the face of an angel, and long lashes rested against her creamy, soft cheeks. If they were alone, he’d be tempted to take her back into his arms. Instead, Beranger glanced out the window to watercolor splashes of orange and red tingeing the horizon. The familiar sights of England, of his homeland, couldn’t dispel the unease he carried inside him.

  After his mother died when he was just an infant, Beranger had been taken in by his father, William Northcott, Duke of Brightshire, who’d been willing to acknowledge the illegitimate boy as his own. The decision had infuriated his wife, Radella, the duchess, and her fury had soured the very air Beranger breathed for the first thirteen years of his life. The woman had seemed formidable to a small boy, but she had also been frightened of him, convinced, because of the different color of his eyes, that he’d brought a curse with him, one that was preventing her from conceiving another child after her firstborn, Gavin. She’d used every trick to drive Beranger away, and his father seemed to turn a blind eye to her measures. Then, at thirteen, Beranger overheard the duke finally capitulating to his wife’s requests to send Beranger to Italy. That night, Beranger stole a horse from the duke’s stable and, with only a knapsack and handful of money, rode to the harbor and sold his freedom away for four years as a deckhand aboard the Destiny. At seventeen, he arrived in America a free man and proceeded to make his own fortune in the gold and silver mines.