Confessions of a Duchess. Nicola Cornick
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villa whose garden bordered Laura’s own, was standing in the hall and peering through the door of the drawing room. She had a straw bonnet on her corn-colored hair and was clad in an extremely pretty cream-and-yellow-striped muslin gown with matching pelisse.
Laura liked Alice very much. Miss Lister had been ostracized by most of village society, especially those who were keenly aware of rank and status and were appalled that a woman reputed to be a former maidservant had come into money, bought herself a fine house and come to live amongst them. Such events went much against the natural order and the good ladies of Fortune’s Folly were not prepared to give Alice countenance. Then Laura had arrived, the biggest fish in the small pool of Fortune’s Folly, and she and Alice had become friends immediately. Laura liked Alice because she was neither servile nor ingratiating and she told things exactly as she saw them whether speaking to a duchess or a stable hand alike. Laura, surrounded by toadies for much of her life, found it refreshing.
“I did knock,” Alice said. “I thought perhaps you might be down by the river this afternoon—” She stopped. “Oh! You have been in the river.”
“How did you know?” Laura inquired.
“You have a strand of pond weed in your hair. What happened?”
Laura sighed. “I am not quite sure. I was in the rowing boat and I lost an oar, so I tried to paddle back with the remaining one but ended going in circles instead.”
“Never try to paddle with only one oar,” Alice said. “It does not work.”
“As I realize now. I grabbed at a branch and would have been able to steady myself, except that it broke and I drifted into the middle of the river and went over the weir.” Laura paused. Had she imagined that someone had given the boat a hefty push? She had seen nothing, for the sun had been in her eyes, but she had thought she had heard footsteps…
No. That had to be pure imagination. She pulled herself together as Alice gave a gasp and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Laura, no! You were not injured?”
“Fortunately not,” Laura said. “I should have jumped in and swum ashore but after I bumped my head I felt too sick.” She took a deep breath. “It was lucky that Mr. Anstruther was on hand to pull me out.”
There—she had mentioned Dexter’s name with barely a pang of emotion and felt proud of herself. In a little while, possibly months but hopefully only days, she might even be able to think of him without that complicated mixture of guilt and longing.
“Mr. Dexter Anstruther?” Alice said, eyes wide. “The mysterious gentleman who is staying at the Morris Clown Inn?”
“Yes. He was fishing nearby.”
“I thought so,” Alice said. “I passed him just as I arrived. He was wet and carrying several fish. That explains a great many questions I was asking myself.”
“Such as?”
“Why there was a pool of water on your front step and damp footprints in the hall for a start.”
“You have a talent for investigation,” Laura said. She hoped that Alice’s powers of deduction did not extend as far as working out what she had been up to with Dexter Anstruther in the warming room. She hoped none of her feelings showed on her face.
“I do.” A frown wrinkled Alice’s brow. “Mr. Anstruther is a little odd, do you not think?”
Odd was not a word Laura would have used to describe Dexter. Wickedly handsome, sinfully tempting and very dangerous perhaps, but never odd…
“Laura?” Alice had her head on one side and was looking curious. Laura gave herself a mental shake.
“In what way is he odd?” she asked cautiously.
Alice waved a hand about in a vague way. “Oh, I am not sure. I sometimes think that he behaves like an older man, for all that he can be no more than seven and twenty.”
“He is only six and twenty, actually,” Laura said, before she could stop herself. “What do you mean, older?”
“He seems very grave,” Alice said, “and responsible.”
“He may seem that way,” Laura said, “but it was only a couple of years ago that he was spoken of as one of the most reckless libertines in London.” A fresh wave of guilt assailed her. She had a terrible fear that Dexter’s fall from grace had been her fault. “Though he was extremely responsible beforehand.”
“Before what?” Alice’s bright gaze was penetrating.
Before I took his virginity and ruined his character…
Laura swallowed hard. “Before…um…Before he became a reckless libertine.”
“So he was responsible before, and responsible after, and something happened in the middle that made him behave differently,” Alice said thoughtfully. “I wonder what that was?”
“Yes, I wonder.” Laura moved a few of the ornaments on the dresser at random.
Alice’s bright, intelligent gaze was fixed on her face. “Anyway, how do you know?”
Laura’s confusion grew. “How do I know what?”
“Mr. Anstruther’s age. How do you know he is only six and twenty?”
“Because I know his mother,” Laura said, seeing that she needed to crush this line of conversation if she did not want to give away her feelings utterly. “We are of the same generation.”
Alice was diverted, as Laura had hoped she would be. “Oh come now, Laura, that must be nonsense,” she said. “You cannot be much above thirty yourself!”
“I am four and thirty to be precise, my child,” Laura said. She felt woefully irresponsible, for all her years. A bare thirty minutes before she had almost made love with Dexter Anstruther in her own drying room. How reckless and foolish—and, if she were honest, how utterly enjoyable—had that been?
But Alice had not finished with the subject yet. She lowered her voice and glanced conspiratorially over her shoulder. “The on dit is that Mr. Anstruther works for the government, you know.”
“There is no need to whisper,” Laura said. “Hattie and Rachel are upstairs and there is no one else about except Carrington and Mrs. Carrington, and they are as deaf as two posts.”
“You don’t seem very interested,” Alice said, crestfallen. “The trouble with you, Laura, is that you are so perfectly reserved and composed. Nothing seems to ruffle your calm. I suppose it is the natural consequence of being a duchess.”
“I am good at concealing my feelings,” Laura allowed. “That is the natural consequence of being a duchess.”
She privately reflected that she had not been either reserved or composed in Dexter’s arms. Wanton and abandoned were more accurate words to describe her state. But then Dexter was the only one who had unlocked a wild and passionate sensuality in her that she had never imagined existed. She had known passion in other areas of her life—no one who rode as hard as she did or took up the cause of injustice as fiercely as she had done could consider herself to be truly meek and conventional—but she had never imagined that she could make love with such unrestrained ardor. With Charles the idea had been laughable. With Dexter it was a wild reality.
But now for Hattie’s sake as well as her own she knew she must turn her back on Dexter and all that might once have been. She had to be the perfect dowager duchess once more, restrained and cool, gracious, a little distant and reserved. Violent passion was in the past.
Alice had brightened again. “At any rate, that was not what I came to talk about. Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?”
“I shall go and make it myself,” Laura said, moving toward the servants’ stair.
“Is Mrs. Carrington having another of her bad