The Duchess and the Dragon Page 19

  In the light. Nothing felt better in the light. Only in the dark recesses of his soul, hidden, could Drake stand this wilderness life. But Serena had changed since Christopher’s death—something inside her had matured. Where there once was simplicity was now a grave serenity, a quiet strength. He found he could not fight against her this time.

  Let it be as she said. Let them bring it into the light.

  He took the letter from her hand and swiftly tore it open. Before he had time to give it a coward’s thought he flipped the page open and began to read:

  To His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland:

  Wait . . . that was his father’s address. Was this letter intended for his father? Drake flipped the envelope back over and reread the name. It was his own. “Drake Weston, Earl of Warwick” in flowing black scrawl. He took up the page once more:

  Yes, dear friend, you read correctly. It is not too late to continue with your plan to grasp the dukedom. Much has happened since your flight. First of all, your servants saw the man trip and fall backwards over the railing of your balcony. They have testified that you did not touch him, and I believe this to be true. From your own accounting to me, you merely frightened him, which led to the unfortunate event. Furthermore, the man lived! He bled terribly, I am told, being cut in the head and having several broken bones, one being that nasty leg you described, but all have mended nicely since. All has been satisfactorily dismissed regarding this matter. Apparently, Judge Abbot was looking for you to offer you a position as royal advisor to His Majesty, at King George’s request. They were somewhat distressed to learn you and your father had departed for a trip to the continent, as I explained to them. So you see, all believe your father still lives and that the two of you are even now enjoying a tour of the colonies.

  Drake, you must see what this means. You can now return, leaving your father safely hidden in the colonies. It would further your original plan to bring home a wife and pass her off as your step-mother. After she conceives (hopefully on the voyage over), we will learn that your father has passed away . . . buried somewhere on the frontier, perhaps? Then you can marry the “widow” and run the estate until your son inherits. It is a superior plan to the original, if I do say so myself. No messy makeup and fake appearances. No gossipy servants or funeral to plan.

  All you have to do is find the right woman. Good luck, your grace, my dear Duke of Northumberland.

  Ever Your Servant,

  Albert Radcliff

  Drake’s hands were trembling. The man lived.

  The man lived!

  Just as his death had haunted Drake, so now his survival thrilled him. Drake folded the paper and placed it on the desk, but kept his hand over it, afraid it would disappear.

  “What is it, Drake? Tell me everything.”

  He looked into Serena’s worried eyes and wondered . . .

  Did he have it in him anymore, the ability to deceive, to make his own wife an accomplice to such a lie? At one time he wouldn’t have hesitated. Now . . .

  Had he changed so much? He didn’t know what to tell Serena, but one thing was clear: She could never read this letter. His hand closed around it, wadding it into a ball. With even strides he made for the fireplace and threw it in. He watched it catch and then blaze with yellow light until it was nothing but ash.

  He felt Serena’s arms slip around his waist, her head resting on his back. “I am sorry. I should not have asked thee to read it.”

  He turned, putting his arms around her, kissing the top of her head, his throat so raw, so choked with emotion he hardly knew what to say. “No, it was a good thing. I just did not want it around.” Tilting her chin up to look into her eyes, he took a deep breath and then plunged in. “It told me two things, Serena. Two very important things. We have to go back.” The first step. It was easier than it should have been.

  “Go back? To Philadelphia? But Drake, why? I know thy heart dost not love it here, but if we give it more time . . . allow the memory of Christopher’s death to fade . . .” She’d been talking fast, but slowed and, seeing his set eyes, her argument faded into silence.

  “I have to go back to London.”

  She took a step back, out of his arms. “London?” Her eyes searched his face. “But . . . why? I thought thou couldst never return.”

  Drake stepped up to her again and grasped both her arms. “Dearest . . . the letter said . . .” He stopped and allowed the joy of it to fill him, to suffuse his face and eyes. “It’s incredible. The man I thought I killed did not die! He lives! Serena, do you realize what this means? We can go back to England! I can take up my life again.”

  Suddenly, he realized it—all the consequences, advantages, and realities of being of English nobility. He wouldn’t be cheating her! He would be giving Serena everything she deserved. Finally he would be able to shower her with all the wealth and status the world had to give. He could be her provider, protector, her husband in truth. He laughed again, squeezing her tight, lifting her feet from the floor and spinning her around in a circle.

  Serena only grasped his arms, confusion in the lines on her brow. “But Drake, what does this mean?”

  He set her on her feet. “Allow me to make the introductions.” The words tumbled out, easy and sweet. Bowing his most elegant bow, he stated with relish. “Serena, dearest, your husband is a duke. And you are . . . a duchess. The Duchess of Northumberland, to be exact.”

  Serena backed away again. “Drake, stop it. Thou art frightening me.” She looked frightened, and Drake could not resist a chuckle. “I am sorry, Serena. It must seem madness, but please, if you will sit down I will explain everything.”

  Pale and wide-eyed, she sat, hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Drake told her the truth.

  Most of it.

  He explained how, fearing for his life, he had fled London and boarded a ship as an indentured servant, how his money was stolen and his health robbed to the very brink of death. He told her the truth of how he came to be indentured. Then he told her about his life before the accident.

  It was in this telling that the madness began.

  He told her of the life he had lived, and the life they would now share when they returned to London as the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland. It didn’t seem important that she thought him the duke and not his father. It was perfect really, now that he considered it. She was so innocent of the ways of the world. She would never understand what he had to do. But no matter, for it would be an easy deception.

  After a few carefully chosen social events where she would appear with him as his stepmother, he would take them to Northumberland where she would give birth to an heir. The sooner she became pregnant, the better, of course. For anyone to believe the child was the duke’s, she would have to conceive in the next few months. But Drake had little doubt he could make it so. They had time before the journey and the ocean voyage. Then, after the babe was born and they announced his father’s death, the will would be read and circumvented by the presence of a legitimate heir.

  And if Serena ever learns the truth?

  He pushed the caution aside. He would convince her it had all been necessary. No . . . their son would convince her. What mother wouldn’t do anything for her son to inherit such a title and estate?

  Oh, indeed he was back. A changed and better man for his hardships, yes, but back and alive again, not buried in this wilderness coffin awaiting a slow, guilt-ridden death. He would make everything—his life and now hers—a dream come true.

  SERENA SAT IN silence, unable to comprehend and yet knowing. It all made so much sense now. She had always known he was like no one else, had always suspected he was of the English nobility. But a duke. God help her, she had never entertained such a thought. And she, a duchess! She wasn’t sure she even understood what that meant.

  Sudden, overwhelming tears struck her. “I cannot be a duchess! I am still a Quaker at heart. I cannot go to London. What shall I do in London?” She looked up at him with all the helplessness
that she felt.

  He sat down beside her, gathering her cold hands into his. “Thou wilt make a wonderful duchess. Quaker or not, Serena, you are my wife and I love you. You must come with me, take your place in the world at my side. I will guide you.”

  “But . . . how does one be a duchess? Drake—” she stopped alarmed. “May I still call thee Drake? Is there some special address I should be using?”

  Drake laughed. She was so delightful. “Of course you may call me Drake. Others will address us both as ‘your grace,’ but family and close friends use first names.” He gathered her into his arms. “You have no idea how wonderful it will be. I have seen your world . . . now let me show you mine.” He leaned back to look into her eyes. “Serena, trust me in this. Let me show you my world.”

  Something inside her said no, that this was wrong. But he looked so happy . . . and she hadn’t seen that look very often, nearly never. She found that she would do anything to make it permanent.

  Even ignore the counsel of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  LONDON

  Ow!”

  Serena jerked as a pin stuck the delicate skin of her wrist. She stood, precariously balanced on a three-legged stool, while seamstresses swarmed about her. A “fitting” they called it. Serena wondered if the flames of hell would come now or later. Such decadence. Such luxurious fabrics, one yard of which cost more than her father made in a year. The laces and furs and jewels.

  What was she doing here?

  She was being fitted for a court dress, for her presentation to the queen of England. Never in all her wildest imaginings had she thought to someday be in such a place. Her hands brushed across the skirt of her gown as she stared at her reflection in awe. The underskirt, or chemise, was heavy, gold brocade with a lighter cream fleur-de-lis design. The overskirt and bodice were done in deep blue silk. The overskirt was draped back and away, providing a teasing glimpse of the magnificence of the chemise, gathering at the sides and attached in the back. The bodice was a triangular stomacher, the blue fabric inset with real jewels of amber, diamond, and sapphire. The magnitude of the wealth she was wearing made her want to shriek with both terror and delight.

  The still-sane part of her thought of the poor she had seen in the streets of London, the orphans and the widows and the starving. The other part of her swelled with wonder and . . . something else . . . a feeling of astonishment that she could look so beautiful, like a princess from some faraway land, as though this dress revealed some part of her that she’d never known existed.

  She blinked into the mirror, feeling like two different women, and wondered which would prevail.

  Her stays were so tight she could barely breathe. Standing before the full-length, gilt-edged, peer glass in her own private dressing room—which was connected with the large bedroom she and Drake shared—Serena swallowed hard, gulping as much air as she could. Don’t let me fail Thee, God. If this is a test . . . I do not want to fail.

  “Your grace, could you turn?”

  Madame de Bourbor, whom Drake assured her was the best dressmaker in all of England, demanded more than asked. Serena had little doubt what Drake said was true. Since their arrival she had had little choice but to trust his vast knowledge in every way. She might hardly recognize her husband these days, but she was sure he knew whatever it was he was currently about.

  Her husband.

  Serena attempted another deep breath and turned as directed, thinking of him, of this strange and glorious creature she had married.

  Her husband.

  A vision of him in his “duke’s clothing” (as she thought of his raiment) rose to mind, sending a warm shiver over her. The changes in him since returning to London had been nothing short of astounding. It wasn’t just the clothing or the extravagant townhouse on Berkeley Square, where they now lived. When Drake asked her to let him show her his world, she’d had no idea the scope of such a world.

  So much had happened since Drake read that letter.

  They had sold the farm in the Shenandoah Valley to a nice Quaker family who promised to make of it all Christopher had hoped. It was hard to leave and yet a relief of sorts. They were meant for something different. Back in Philadelphia they had visited briefly with Serena’s family, explaining everything that had happened. Her mother and father had showed little shock to find their daughter married into the English nobility, knowing all along that there was much more to their son-in-law than an indentured servant. They were saddened to see Serena off to England but acknowledged she must follow her husband. The two of them had sent Serena and Drake off with kisses of goodwill at the dockside.

  The journey was much easier than the one Drake had taken over a year ago. With money, Serena learned, anything could be had. His name and title reinstated, Drake took charge. They boarded one of the king’s own vessels, taking possession of a comfortable cabin complete with feather bed, servants to wait upon them, and French delicacies to dine upon.

  Upon reaching London, her breath caught at her first sight of one of the world’s largest cities. The harbor was at least as busy as Philadelphia’s but different; it seemed busy in an ancient way, as though all knew their business better. The people here spoke in her husband’s accent, even the dock hands, though their sound was more coarse. But they treated Drake with deferential bows and ran to and fro to fetch him his heart’s desires. Serena realized something along those docks: Drake’s title, just the name they called him, that alone generated respect. It didn’t matter what he did or how he lived his life; he was a duke.

  It was all so foreign. She’d clung to his arm like a child, hating that she felt so helpless, feeling that whatever ground she had gained, whatever growing up she had done after Christopher’s death, was gone like a puff of smoke. This world was as unknown to her as the silversmith shop and the farm had been to Drake. Now he was the confident one. They were now in his world where they were sudden royalty and everyone around them bowed and scraped for no other reason than the accident of one’s birth.

  A hired carriage had taken them from the busy harbor, down the cobbled streets to Berkeley Square. On the ride Serena glimpsed the sorry side of London. Dirty children ran like rats in the narrow alleys. Dark and dank little houses lined the side streets, and everywhere were hucksters with their carts. It was such a frenetic place, so alive with the business of trying to make a living. Serena was appalled and enthralled by turns.

  They had finally reached Berkeley Square, where the wealthy and titled resided in three-storied brownstone houses that lined the square. Like the king’s own guards, the stately homes stood ready to cast judgment on any who didn’t belong. Serena had floated through the front door of the duke’s home, as if riding on a cloudy dream. The entrance was more of a salon than a hall. A polished black-and-white marble floor gave way to snowy white walls, complete with Roman columns and inset arched cases. Six gilt armchairs, done in gold and white velvet, flanked the walls. A black velvet settee with matching scrolling gilt edging sat against another wall. Chinese urns of dark-hued richness, as tall as she, stood guard on either side of an arched doorway that led to a short hall. A domed ceiling was intricately plastered, with a brilliant chandelier its central jewel. It was a room designed to impress and intimidate.

  It accomplished both. Serena had been overwhelmed.

  Further down the hall was a feast for the eyes, with landscape paintings in soft greens and blues, a thick carpet running its length. There was a library filled with alcoves of books, a sunny yellow breakfast room, and a gallery with family portraits and valuable works of art. The main drawing room was done in sapphire blue and gold. The ballroom boasted a huge domed ceiling. And in the back was a well-hidden kitchen.

  Upstairs Drake had been eager to show her the master bedchamber and the deep four-poster bed with heavy velvet curtains. It was a dark, private world inside those walls of fabric and Drake had been more sure of himself there under that silk counterpane, had shown her things he seemed to have
forgotten across the sea.

  As smooth as water running over a rocky outcropping, that was Drake’s manner now, and as powerful as a waterfall. Serena marveled at how well it fit him. She no longer wondered at his black moods and stony silences of the past—all was explained in the reclaiming of his identity. This man, so sure, so confident, but now with a hard-won kindness and new appreciation for those things beneath his notice before . . . this was the man she had married. If she thought she loved the shadow that Drake had been, she was ensnared, spellbound by the real thing. Gorgeous

  . . . powerful . . . confident . . . he was any woman’s fantasy.

  And he was in love with her.

  She had no doubt of his love. He proved it a hundred times a day since they had moved into the brownstone bearing the ducal seal above the front door. Each day held new surprises, planned and executed with exacting care—all for her. Today she would be fitted for a new wardrobe, then take a curtsy class, something she’d only been convinced was necessary by a detailed description of her presentation to the queen. A short rest time would be followed by an intimate dinner with Drake. That evening they were to attend an opera at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. Serena had never even seen a play, and tonight she was going to the opera and sitting in a private box with her husband, the duke.

  It was all as in a dream.

  SERENA DESCENDED THE stairs a little breathless, still trying to get used to the confining stays and tight bodice of her evening gown. She felt as though she’d been transformed into someone else while she was sleeping. She wasn’t sure she liked it—or more accurately, was afraid she liked it too much. What kind of woman wore finery such as that in which she was draped? What kind of woman wore her hair elaborately coiled, with one long, provocative curl dangling over a shoulder.