Brenda Hiatt (3 page)

“Ah, sister! This time ’tis I who have caught you beneath the mistletoe!” It was Lord Reginald, Hunt’s half brother, and the apple of the duchess’s eye. “Come, give me my due!” Reaching up, he plucked a berry from the mistletoe dangling at the centre of the raft of greenery above them and smilingly approached her.

Holly returned the brotherly kiss willingly. She liked Reginald, though she found him as impossible to take seriously as the duke, with his tendency to dramatics and his wildly coloured evening wear. Tonight he was clad in a red coat, red-and-white striped waistcoat, white breeches and bright red pumps. He looked like a giant stick of peppermint candy, she thought, stifling a giggle. It was a shame his hair was orangish rather than the flame red his mother possessed. That would have completed the effect.

“My, you look festive tonight,” she managed to say with a tolerably straight face after they had exchanged their peck.

“I thought it appropriate for New Year’s Eve. I have convinced Father to let me be tonight’s first footer, as well. Just west of here, red hair is considered the luckiest colour, you know.”

Holly smiled—indeed, it was hard to do otherwise around Reginald. “In that case, I will consider your kiss a wonderful omen for the year ahead.”

Reginald grinned. “I hope so. I can scarcely wait to have another niece or nevvy to spoil, as I’ve told Hunt repeatedly.” He waggled his brows and winked. Then, bowing deeply, he sauntered off to find a partner for the next set.

Just then, she caught sight of the duchess dotingly following Lord Reginald’s progress and her smile faded. Could that be why her mother-in-law seemed less than enchanted with the idea of Hunt’s producing an heir? At this moment,
Reginald was next in the succession, but any son Holly bore would preempt him. At least, Reginald himself did not seem put out by that prospect, thank heaven.

Holly forced a smile back to her lips and turned away to find Hunt. Together they would bring the duchess round in time, she thought optimistically. Noel had always said she had a knack for setting people at ease.

O
NLY ONCE
during the Christmas festivities did Holly and the marquess manage to slip away together during daylight hours. The morning after New Year’s Day, Hunt whisked her out of the house just after breakfast to show her his kennels.

“This is one of the finest packs of foxhounds in all England, if I do say so myself,” he informed her proudly. She leaned over the rail to look at the enthusiastic residents of the large straw-floored enclosure. Holly’s father had kept his dogs kennelled at one end of the barn, but Hunt had an entire building devoted to them.

“They’re wonderful,” she agreed. “Have you directed their breeding yourself?”

He glanced at her in surprise. “Why yes, I have. You speak as if you know something about it.”

She smiled, her eyes still on the hound she was patting as it stood on its hind legs against the gate. “Father kept a pack, though now we only have old Arrow. Father sold the rest to Mr. Danvers after he fell ill, but Arrow was too old for the hunt.”

“Your father was a sportsman, then?”

Holly nodded, realizing anew how little they really knew about each other. “He was nigh as enthusiastic about it as you are,” she said with a twinkle. “’Twas why he originally purchased in Derbyshire, I believe.”

“And your brother? Does he not hunt?”

Holly tried to ignore the pang she always felt when she thought of Noel, far away and possibly in danger—a danger
she was not allowed to share. “Oh, yes, he loves it. Doubtless he will start his own pack when he…returns home. He may even buy back some of the offspring of Father’s hounds, as he had a hand in their breeding.”

They continued to converse on that and other topics for another quarter hour before some of the other gentlemen came looking for her husband to form yet another hunting party while the weather held so fine.

Holly looked forward to more such precious moments once the guests were gone.

O
N THE SEVENTH
of January, the visitors finally began to depart. The decorations had been removed the day before, after gifts were exchanged and the Twelfth Cake eaten. The Christmas season was officially over.

Though Holly had expected to feel mainly relief at the end of the holidays, she was surprised to feel a pang of regret. For the rest of her life, she knew she would associate the Twelve Days of Christmas with her initiation into womanhood, with love, with happiness—and with Hunt. Still, life would surely assume a more normal flow now, allowing her and Hunt the time—finally—to really get to know each other.

“I hope the news from Russia continues good, sir,” said Hunt in parting to Lord Matherly, one of the last to leave. “When I join you in London this spring, we may be ready to forge a new treaty, after all.”

Holly stood beside her husband, listening intently, as she always did when anything to do with the war or politics was discussed. It happened all too infrequently in her hearing, she found. But Lord Matherly’s next words, while indisputably related to the war, filled her with dismay rather than satisfaction.

“Spring!” he said in surprise. “Did Wickburn not tell you? Castlereagh requires all of us in Town almost immediately to put plans together for a meeting with the Prussians and Austrians in April.”

“Immediately? But—”

“I know you’d hoped for a bit of a honeymoon, m’ boy.” Lord Matherly smiled at Holly, his expression sympathetic. “But these things can’t be helped. A man in your position—and your father’s, too, of course—” he glanced hastily over to where Wickburn and the duchess were speaking with Lady Matherly “—has to expect these demands as we forge new alliances. War waits for no man, I’m afraid.”

“Well I know it,” replied Hunt. Holly thought he sounded bitter.

Lord Matherly went to join his wife, and Hunt turned to her. “I’d hoped nothing like this would arise before spring,” he said ruefully. “It was one reason I wanted us to marry now, rather than wait, for there seemed a greater possibility of interruption or delay later.”

“Can I not come to Town with you?” she asked eagerly. “I should like to meet all of the diplomats.”

Hunt sadly shook his head, reminding her forcibly of Noel. “Not this time. Wickburn House has only a skeleton staff right now, and I’ve had no chance as yet to look about for a place of our own. I shall be back in time to escort you down for the Season, though, I promise. You’ll be quite a hit with the old men of the Foreign Office, unless I miss my guess.” He managed a strained smile.

Touched by his obvious reluctance to leave her, Holly forced herself to smile back. “What precisely is it that you do in the Foreign Office, Hunt? You have never told me.”

His smile twisted slightly, but he answered readily enough. “Despite what Matherly says, I’m not so indispensable, really. Just one of numerous deputy foreign ministers. For the most part, I oversee aspects of wartime communications and occasionally intelligence.”

“Intelligence?” Holly echoed. “Do you mean spies? How very exciting!” Could Hunt possibly know something of Noel? She wished she dared ask, but of course she had given Noel her word.

But Hunt only laughed. “Not nearly so much as you make it sound, I assure you. By far the preponderance of my time is spent moving mounds of dull papers from one stack to another. But you needn’t worry your lovely head over it, my dear. When you do come to London in the spring, I shall introduce you to far more amusing diversions.”

Though she was a bit nettled by his condescension, Holly let the matter drop, for the Matherlys were leaving and she was called upon to play her part as under-hostess.

Holly and Hunt tried hard to spend as much time together as possible during the two days before he and his father left for London, but he was frequently busy with last-minute estate business—business he had thought to have months rather than days to conduct.

“Brother, I always knew the government was heartless, but this goes beyond anything they’ve done yet,” said Lord Reginald to Hunt the morning of his departure, as they descended the stairs together. “Cannot this business wait till a more propitious time? I don’t like to see you abandoning your new bride this way, and neither does Grandmama. She told me so last night.”

“She has told me so as well, at length.” Hunt sighed. “And she is right, of course, though it was she who was so insistent I marry this year. But what can I do? Duty calls.”

“I believe you think too much of your vaunted duty,” remarked Reginald.

Hunt scowled at his half brother. “As you think too little of it?”

Reginald spread his hands wide. “I do try, you know. Occasionally Grandmama even trusts me to construct a menu or attempt some other task that won’t suffer too much from my absence of mind. But generally she loses patience with my feeble efforts and sends me back to my canvases.” He shrugged, with a self-deprecating grin.

Reluctantly, Hunt grinned back. After all, it wasn’t Reg’s fault he had to go to Town. Besides, he had never been able
to hold out against his brother’s clownish charm, not even when, as a rapscallion of five, Reg had dumped a box of bath salts on his fifteen-year-old brother’s head, severely deflating Hunt’s adolescent self-importance. Looking back at his brother, he said, “You and Grandmama take care of Holly while I’m gone, all right?”

Reginald nodded. “Of course. But here they are now.”

Holly and the dowager came around the corner at the foot of the stairs just as Hunt and Lord Reginald reached the bottom. “I should have known I’d find you together,” Hunt said, reaching out with one hand to gently stroke his wife’s rose petal cheek. “Has Grandmama put you to work already?”

He deliberately kept his tone light, for he knew this parting was as difficult for Holly as for himself. Their lovemaking last night, and again early this morning, had been especially tender. She was proving even more apt a pupil than he had dared hope. Hunt ached for what he would miss while he was gone.

“There is quite a lot to be done, it appears, after the upheaval of the holidays,” Holly said, smiling tremulously up at him. “Grandmama was showing me where the medicines for the charity baskets are kept.”

“’Twill be a welcome change to have a willing—and
capable
—assistant,” said the dowager briskly. Though she frowned ferociously at Reginald as she spoke, her eyes twinkled merrily. “Don’t know that I’d have ever encouraged your dabbling, m’ boy, had I known how incompatible art is with
real
work.” The duke and duchess appeared at the head of the stairs just then, and the dowager converted whatever other remark she’d been about to make into a cough.

“Have you sent to have the carriage brought round yet?” called Wickburn as they descended.

Hunt nodded. “It should be at the door in a moment.” He turned back to Holly.

“I can trust Grandmama to keep you busy in my absence, I suppose.” He tried again to smile, but seeing her standing there so valiantly, he suddenly crushed her in an embrace, surprising himself as much as everyone around them. “I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can,” he whispered, then kissed her almost fiercely. She responded instantly, but he reluctantly let her go. There was no point in frustrating them both.

“You must do whatever is required in Town,” she replied with commendable bravery, her chin high, though her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I have plenty to learn here to keep me occupied for however long it takes.”

The duke and duchess were beside them now, and Deeds, the butler, was announcing that the carriage was at the door. With a final swift kiss and a murmured endearment, Hunt accompanied his father outdoors, regretting, for the first time in his thirty years, the path his life had taken.

E
VEN WITH
H
UNT
, the duke and all the guests gone, Holly found that her time was nearly as occupied as it had been during the holidays. True to her word, the dowager launched her into an intensive course of study on the responsibilities facing a future Duchess of Wickburn.

“I passed eighty last year, my girl, so you’d best take advantage of my advice while you may,” the dowager said more than once when she perceived Holly’s attention slipping away from routine management tasks. “I won’t be here forever, you know.” Watching the vigorous old woman as she deftly arranged the contents of a food basket for one of the poorer tenants, Holly found that rather hard to believe.

Though her mind frequently strayed to Hunt and their brief time together, Holly absorbed fact upon fact from the dowager, learning both by listening and by doing.

“Much of the routine business was allowed to slide during the holidays,” the dowager informed her as they inventoried
the plate and silver. “We have some catching up to do.”

Indeed they did, Holly found: medicines and necessities to deliver to the poorer families, inspections of the various servants’ work. She was amazed at how intimately involved the dowager was in such tasks, tasks that her own mother, and Blanche, who in recent years had taken over the management of the household, always left to Mary, the housekeeper.

In addition, she learned many aspects of estate management, for as the duke and Hunt had been so frequently abroad on diplomatic missions over the years, the dowager had taken on those duties, as well. Holly was also required to learn the names of all the servants, from the haughty Norris, groom of the chambers, down to little Alice, the under-scullery maid. She rather doubted that the current duchess could name a single one of the lower servants, and she took pride in her growing ability to do so.

“Why does the duchess never accompany us to the village?” she asked at one point, when she had grown comfortable enough with the dowager to indulge her habitual curiosity. Holly had expected to miss Maman, as this was the first time in her life she had been separated from her, but she found Hunt’s grandmother often filling her role as confidante.

“Camilla!” responded the dowager with a snort, her hands buried in the pungent dried herbs she was mixing for a restorative tea. “She can’t be bothered with this humdrum stuff. She’s far too busy primping and making calls to learn the
real
responsibilities required of a duchess. But there! You’ve made me say what I shouldn’t, for she did bring happiness back into Wickburn’s life after dear Marian’s death. For that I suppose I must be grateful to her, though it’s hard to forgive what she did to Hunt.”

“To Hunt?” asked Holly curiously, wondering if this were what Lady Anne had referred to.

“For years he wouldn’t accept her taking his mother’s place,” the dowager told her. “Not until he reached his teens and began to develop a fondness for Reggie. Then he did make an effort, but she’d have naught to do with him—fair pushed him away, and he little more than a child. It’s a good thing I was here, or I’m not sure what he’d have done. But there! I’m rambling on again. Hold this cheesecloth for me while I sift the herbs into it.”

Holly let the subject drop and went back to work. It was apparent that this constant activity, and the sound knowledge that she was needed, were what kept the dowager young. Holly wanted to believe that was the reason the duchess made no move to assist the dowager but was coming to see that the current Duchess of Wickburn was an idle, vain and rather silly woman who had little interest in what went on beyond her own little world.

While Holly could have forgiven her that, for her own mother and sister were not so very different in that respect, she doubted now that she’d ever fully forgive her for what she’d done to her stepson. He’d needed a mother so badly. Gradually, through snippets dropped by the dowager, a picture emerged of Hunt’s teens and early adulthood, when he was alternately flattered and repulsed by Camilla and largely ignored by the duke—a picture that tugged at Holly’s heart.

As January passed into February and winter gradually loosened its hold on the countryside, Holly also began to understand for the first time that far more was involved in being a successful woman than making a brilliant match or being admired by others. There was success in being useful, in gaining self-respect.

Still, there were times when she grew despondent, missing Maman and Noel, and especially her husband. How could she complete his transformation into a happy, outgoing man when he was more than a hundred miles away? When he and the duke finally returned to Wickburn on the
first of March, she flew ecstatically out of the door to greet him.

“Welcome home, darling,” she cried, flinging herself into his arms as he stepped from the travelling coach.

Not until he stiffened slightly in her embrace did she recall his reluctance to display affection in public. Through her conversations with the dowager, she had come to know her husband extremely well. Unfortunately, Hunt had not had the same advantage. Suddenly embarrassed, she started to pull back.

But he stopped her. “I vow, I’ve never had so warm a welcome before.” His smile was slow, as though he was out of practice. “It makes leaving almost worthwhile. I missed you, my Holly Berry.” With just one sheepish glance at the assembled family and servants looking on, he bent his head to kiss her.

“W
E LEAVE FOR
L
ONDON
in two days’ time,” Hunt commented over breakfast a few days later. He had a huge stack of correspondence beside him, but was for the moment ignoring it to smile tenderly at her. “Would you care to stop for a day or two in Derbyshire to visit your mother?”

Holly had been basking in his undivided attention in the empty breakfast parlour, since Hunt had been unbelievably busy about the estate since his return, but at his question she gasped with delight. “Oh, may we? I must admit I have been just the tiniest bit homesick. And it would mean so much to Maman, I know.”

Already she had begun to view her earlier life with the rosy tint of nostalgia for a simpler time. Forgotten were Blanche’s slights, her mother’s occasionally tiresome chatter. To relax in her old home for a few days, with Hunt by her side, sounded heavenly. And…perhaps there would be word from Noel.