When the Duchess Said Yes (28 page)

But whether she was carrying a tiny future duke within her or not, she was determined to begin acting more like a duchess herself. Taking care not to wake Hawke, she slipped from the bed, found her dressing gown, and made her way down the hall to her own rooms. She rang for Margaret, who arrived sheepish and sleepy.

“Pray forgive me, ma’am,” she said, her face still puffy and her hair drawn back beneath her cap with obvious haste. “I did not know you planned to rise at this hour, else I would have been waiting.”

“Neither did I,” Lizzie said cheerfully, “so no harm has been done.”

She
was
feeling cheerful, pushing through the new gowns in her wardrobe in search of one that would suit her purpose this morning.

“Might I help you, ma’am?” Margaret said, hovering behind her and clearly horrified by the sight of her mistress choosing her own clothes. “If you please, I might suggest—”

“This will do,” Lizzie said, triumphantly pulling out a dark silk gown, blue stripes against a darker blue. “Tell me, Margaret: what is the housekeeper’s name?”

“Mrs. Perkins, ma’am,” Margaret said, taking the gown from Lizzie.

“And the butler?”

“That would be Mr. Betts, ma’am,” Margaret said, already unfastening Lizzie’s dressing gown to help her dress.

“Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Betts,” Lizzie repeated, determined to remember the names. “Please send word that I wish to meet with them and the rest of the staff in the front hall in half an hour.”

Even stern-faced Margaret could not keep from smiling. “Very well, ma’am.”

In exactly half an hour, Lizzie walked down the long flight of steps to the hall. A long line of servants stood before her, all neatly dressed and gazing straight ahead. At their head stood the butler, Mr. Betts, a formidable Scotsman with bristling brows and a bulbous nose, and beside him was Mrs. Perkins, no less daunting in a ruffled white cap, the heavy ring of keys that was the badge of her position hanging proudly at her waist. Standing slightly to one side, to show they reported to the master and mistress directly, were Giacomo and Margaret.

There was no need for Lizzie to introduce herself. They all were well aware who she was, which was both unnerving and reassuring at the same time. Even though she knew exactly how this first meeting should go—it
should be as regimented as a minuet—her heart still thumped beneath her stays, and she couldn’t help but think of how much younger she was than nearly every one of the servants she was to oversee.

“Good day, Mr. Betts,” she said, greeting him first as the most senior of the staff. “Good day, Mrs. Perkins.”

They bowed and curtseyed, exactly as they should, and then began the ritual of presenting the rest of the staff to Lizzie. More bowing, more curtseying, more awestruck murmurs of “Your Grace,” with Lizzie smiling and nodding to each well-scrubbed face that passed before her.

She knew she wouldn’t remember all their names now, which was why she intended to ask Mr. Betts for a list to study later, when she was alone. But this would be a good beginning, and when she reached the end of the line, she returned to the front and Mr. Betts, Mrs. Perkins, and the cook, a ginger-haired woman named Mrs. McFarlane. These three were the most important people in the household, and if she wished to have a successful reign as mistress, she knew she had to show them that she not only supported their work but realized that there might be room for improvement.

“Mr. Betts,” she began, earning yet another bow. “I appreciate the care you have given to this noble house, and the respect you have shown the family’s traditions. But from time to time, I believe it a useful task to review the various tradesmen with whom the household does business, lest they, too, become traditions. Would you please prepare a list for me of all such tradesmen, so that you and I might consider it together?”

Faith, she could have been Aunt Sophronia herself, giving that little speech, but she saw the surprise in the butler’s face, followed by a new respect as he bowed again.

With a rising confidence, Lizzie turned next to the
housekeeper. “Mrs. Perkins, I am most impressed with the general tidiness of the house, especially considering how often His Grace has been away. But I wish that more care be taken with the opening and closing of the window blinds and curtains throughout the day, particularly in those rooms that face the southern sun. His Grace is especially devoted to his paintings, and I wish them preserved against the damage of the sun.”

That advice had come by way of Charlotte, and Lizzie sent her unspoken thanks as the housekeeper agreed and obviously approved. One more, Lizzie thought, and moved on to the cook. Everyone had warned her that cooks could be temperamental and impassioned, with pride that was easily ruffled—leading to disastrous results at the table.

“Mrs. McFarlane,” she began. “I understand that His Grace has left most meals to your choosing.”

The cook’s mouth worked uneasily. “Not quite, Your Grace,” she said. “That is, when His Grace returned from the Continent, he sent down a brief list of courses that he approved, ma’am, with orders for me to prepare them as I saw fit. Mostly dishes that His Grace had preferred as a young gentleman, ma’am.”

Lizzie nodded, trying to look sympathetic. At least now she’d an explanation for why she and Hawke had been dining on meat pies and sweet puddings fit for schoolboy tastes.

“While those dishes have been most agreeable, Mrs. McFarlane,” she said carefully, “I could see how a cook of your talents, in this house, might long to prepare more, ah, adventuresome fare.”

At once the woman’s eyes brightened. “I would indeed, ma’am,” she said. “If it pleases you, ma’am, I could prepare a menu of new dishes for your consideration.”

“I would like that very much, Mrs. McFarlane,”
Lizzie said, relieved. “Considering how much time His Grace has spent abroad, a few dishes in the French manner might be—”

“Where the devil is everyone?” roared Hawke from upstairs. “Giacomo, you dog! Why is it I ring and ring and no one moves their lazy ass to come?”

Immediately Giacomo looked to Lizzie, silently pleading. He couldn’t go tend to Hawke without her leave; he couldn’t even ask permission.

“You may go, Giacomo,” she said quickly, and with a hasty bow he raced around her and up the stairs.

But too late.

“Lizzie!” Hawke bellowed. “Lizzie? Where in blazes is my wife?”

He appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing his gold-striped banyan and obviously nothing more besides. His hair was wild and uncombed and his jaw unshaven, and he glared with fierce incomprehension at Lizzie and the line of now terrified servants.

“Lizzie,” he said, scowling down at her. “What the devil are you doing here?”

She smiled warmly up at him, recognizing his fierceness as the usual result of still being half asleep.

“I am addressing the staff, Hawke,” she said. “I wish to make your household more orderly for your sake.”

“Why?” he asked, still scowling.

“Because you are far too busy with your own affairs to be troubled by household matters,” she explained, “while I, as mistress of this house, should be tending to them.”

He tipped his head to one side, regarding her with sideways skepticism. “Is this my mother’s doing?”

“Not at all,” she said firmly. “It is my own.”

He grunted, shoving his hair back. “Will you be at it much longer?”

“I believe I’m almost finished.” She turned to Mr.
Betts, Mrs. Perkins, and Mrs. McFarlane. “Have you any further questions of me?”

“No, ma’am,” Mr. Betts said solemnly. “However, I am certain I speak for all of us in saying how happy I am to welcome Your Grace to Hawkesworth Chase.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Betts,” Lizzie said, so genuinely touched that she pressed her palms to her cheeks with surprise, and to keep from crying. “Thank you all.”

“Lizzie,” Hawke said, “whenever you are done, I wish you to dress for riding in Rotten Row.”

“Riding?” Lizzie repeated, her voice rising higher with eager delight. She had enjoyed this time alone with Hawke, enjoyed it beyond measure, but she’d likewise enjoy the chance to go elsewhere with him. And if they were heading to Hyde Park, she might be able to persuade him to call at Marchbourne House on the way, so she might see Charlotte and the children. “In Rotten Row?”

Hawk made a noncommittal grunt. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Barely recalling her duchess self, Lizzie glanced back to the servants, still waiting upon her wishes.

“Thank you all,” she said quickly. “Now—now you may go.”

As they scattered, Lizzie ran up the stairs to join Hawke on the landing. He was still scowling, and she wished he’d tell her how well she’d done addressing the servants, but most likely he’d do that later, when they were alone. Besides, she was too excited to let it bother her now.

“You do mean riding horses, Hawke,” she said, “and not in some stuffy carriage, don’t you?”

“If you wish,” he said. “I trust you ride as well as you row?”

“Better,” she declared. “You will marvel at my new scarlet habit, Hawke, and the most dashing black hat
with a great curling black plume. Let me call Margaret to put out my—”

He caught her arm. “Not yet,” he said. “No one dares show their face in the park until noon. Since we’re up at cock’s crow, we’ve hours before we need dress.”

“Hours?” she said, smiling slyly. She slipped her hand inside his banyan to find his warm skin and lean, muscled torso beneath the silk, like unwrapping a splendid present. “However shall we pass that time, I wonder?”

Being married to Hawke, she didn’t wonder at all. But though they retreated back to his bedchamber exactly as she’d expected, and though her sober blue gown was soon left in a rumpled heap on the floor along with his banyan, there was something oddly off about their lovemaking. His early morning grumpiness persisted, and though he pleased her in bed and she him, she couldn’t help but sense a disgruntled undercurrent simmering away beneath everything he did or said. She tried her best to coax him from it, yet still he persisted in being sour-tempered, and for the first time since they’d been wed, she was almost relieved to be able to leave him to Giacomo’s ministrations and retreat to her own rooms to be dressed by Margaret.

For her own part, she was in an excellent humor. Her first address to his servants—no,
her
servants now, too—had gone much better than she’d expected, and she was both proud of herself and relieved to have survived it. She could scarcely wait to ride with Hawke in so public a place as Hyde Park, and she hoped there would be plenty of her friends and acquaintances there as well so she could display her handsome new husband. Besides, who could be out of sorts when dressed in a brilliant red habit with polished brass buttons?

Lizzie smiled at her reflection in the glass as Margaret carefully thrust extra-long pins into her plumed black hat and through her hair to make sure it stayed in place
while riding. She adored this hat—shining black silk with a narrow brim to the front over her eyes like a jockey’s cap, and an extravagant curling black ostrich plume on the side of the crown—and she’d be loath to have it bounce from her head to the dirt.

“There you are, ma’am,” Margaret said, giving the hat one final pat. “You’ll do His Grace more than proud in the park.”

“I hope so.” Lizzie sighed. “At present His Grace is behaving like a sullen small boy determined to pout, and it is not pleasing.”

Margaret shook her head in sympathy. “Men are men, ma’am.”

“That’s vastly wise of you, Margaret,” Lizzie said. “Men
are
men, and more fools are we women for tolerating it. I must hope that Giacomo will have said the magic Italian words to him to make him more cheerful.”

But one look at Hawke as she met him showed that not even Giacomo’s magic had worked. It was doubly hard for Lizzie to bear because she’d never before seen him dressed for riding, and the effect was undeniably breathtaking. At least it claimed
her
breath, seeing him in close-fitting white buckskin breeches, top boots, a pale gray coat, a darker gray waistcoat with gleaming silver buttons, and a black cocked hat. She doubted any male could wear a pair of buckskins with more elegance, nor would the customary colors of a country gentleman’s attire suit anyone better than Hawke.

If only he’d smile …

“I like you in red,” he said, his gaze sweeping so frankly over her that she blushed to match the wool of her habit. “I’ve never fathomed why a woman dressed as a soldier in regimentals is so beguiling.”

“Because it’s not really a uniform,” she said, glad he’d taken notice. “Only the color and the facings and the
buttons are the same, really. Besides, a soldier doesn’t wear stays or petticoats.”

“Yes, and they don’t have breasts, either,” he said. “Every man in the park will be looking at you.”

“I only care for one,” she said as winningly as she could, yet still he didn’t smile.

“I regret that you’ve pinned up your hair,” he said. “This is the first day since we’ve been wed that it’s not unbound.”

“I can’t leave it down, Hawke, not for riding,” she protested. “It would fly all around and smother me, not to mention terrify the horses.”

He grunted, that dreadful, noncommittal grunt of his that could still speak volumes without a single word. “As you wish. The carriage is waiting.”

Because their house was so far from Hyde Park, they rode in the carriage to the park’s stables, where Hawke’s grooms would have their mounts saddled and ready. It was not that long a drive across the town, and on every other drive that Lizzie could recall with Hawke, he’d made sure the time passed with pleasurable swiftness.

But today he simply sat across from Lizzie like a beautiful, virile lump, so deep in whatever was plaguing him that he’d only answer her queries with a yes or no. They weren’t taxing queries, either—most regarded the weather—so by the time they finally reached the stables, she felt as if she’d been trapped on a voyage from one side of the world to the other.

At least he’d more to say about her horse, a neat small bay with a black mane and tail.