Caroline wore black to the duke’s funeral, but no one else did. The guests had come for a party, not mourning. Wanting to be respectful, she’d asked Evaline to remove the trim from one of her dresses and to dye the gown black. The dress reminded her of the conversation she still had to have with Tristan. Last night, she’d knocked on his bedroom door, intending to ask for the annulment. When he didn’t answer, she went looking for him. She’d heard him in his study with Pennwright, talking about his father’s holdings and his political responsibilities. He’d spoken with a new gravity, and she had decided to put off the confrontation. After the burial, she’d tell him she wanted to end their marriage.
First, though, she had to endure the funeral. The duke had died yesterday and was being buried without the pomp he would have wanted. Even the sky was cold to him. Gray clouds leaked rain, enough to dampen the earth but not enough to evoke a sense of tears. Josh spoke eloquently of eternity. By the time he finished, Caroline felt stronger. She didn’t know if the duke had made peace with his Maker, but she hoped so.
Josh finished the service with a prayer. At the closing “amen,” Tristan dropped a handful of dirt on the coffin. As the breeze carried away the dust, a single clump hit with a final thud. Tristan stepped to the side of the grave to accept condolences. Caroline joined him and together they greeted the mourners. Tristan invited Freddie to stand with them, but the boy refused to be with Caroline. She offered to give him her place, but Tristan said no. She felt terrible. Of the guests in attendance, only Freddie wept.
He’d chosen to stay with Louisa and Stuart, and he was with them now, glaring at Caroline and fighting tears. He wasn’t alone in his criticism of her. All day she’d heard whispers among the Whitmore crowd. The nieces had practically run from her.
The dowager duchess had offered sincere condolences to Tristan, but her remarks to Caroline had been oddly challenging. You’ll be remembered, Duchess Willoughby, for how you handle these next few days.
Had it been a warning or encouragement? Caroline didn’t know, and she no longer cared. She felt responsible for the duke’s death. No matter what she said or did, she’d be blamed for this tragic day.
When the last guest departed from the gravesite, she turned to Tristan. “I’d like to speak with you in private, your grace.”
Tristan disliked being called your grace. He especially disliked Caroline’s tone when she said it. They’d done battle about names and titles before. In the beginning he’d wanted her to call him “major.” Now he wanted to be called Tristan. Even better, he wanted to be called “darling,” or “my love.” The last thing he wanted from Caroline was the cold etiquette of a subject or a soldier.
“You know my name,” he said. “Use it.” It was an order, and he’d accept nothing less than obedience.
She sealed her lips.
“My name...say it.”
“I don’t want to say it.” Her voice cracked. “I’d like to speak in private, perhaps in the barn—”
“All right.” They’d arranged their marriage in the stable in Wheeler Springs. The barn at The Barracks was a fitting spot to return to the promises they’d made.
Side by side, they left the knoll that had become the family cemetery and walked to the barn where she’d found the courage to learn to ride. He wanted that brave woman to rise up against the cloud of the duke’s death. Instead Caroline had the look of a waif. He didn’t want their talk to be interrupted, so he took her to the tack room and closed the door. At the river crossing, he’d coaxed her onto Cairo with peppermint and patience. Today he had nothing to offer except his love.
He took her hands in his. “I love you, Caroline. I want you to come to England with me.”
“I can’t,” she murmured.
“Why not?”
“I’ll be forever known as the woman who caused your father’s death. It will affect the children. It will affect you.”
“I don’t care, and neither should you. I’m now a ridiculously important man. The title humbles me, but it also gives me the privilege of being stubborn. It will take far more than a beautiful American wife to cause me embarrassment.”
“I’m not beautiful.”
“You are to me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t risk it, Tristan. If we don’t annul the marriage, you’ll be criticized. I’ll be a pariah—”
He suddenly understood. “I’m not the one you’re protecting, am I? You’re protecting yourself.”
“No!”
“Don’t lie. It’s unbecoming.”
“I’m not lying!”
“But you are,” he countered. “You’re lying to yourself. You want to end our marriage because you’re afraid. You love me. You love Freddie and Dora. How can you walk away from us?”
“Freddie hates me,” she murmured.
“He’s a troubled boy. He needs you more than ever. And Dora—” He couldn’t finish. The thought of his daughter losing another mother sickened him.
She knotted her hands into fists, but there was nothing to pummel except her own dreams. “You don’t understand! I stayed with Charles and he was killed. I shouldn’t have married him in the first place. If I’d been stronger, he’d still be alive.”
Tristan couldn’t see the logic. “Do you really think my life is at stake? Even my dignity? I’m a duke. No one will dare question me.”
Sadness filled her eyes. “You said that to me before, and it wasn’t true.”
“When?”
“You told me Cairo would obey you, and he bucked me into the river. Jon ignores your orders. Evaline and Noah overrule you. Even Dora has you wrapped around her finger.” With the mention of Dora, her voice softened into a lullaby. “But that’s all right because they love you. The people in England will be looking for something to criticize. No matter what you say, Tristan, the fact remains. In England I’ll be an embarrassment to you. The children will be ashamed of me, especially Freddie. I came to bring healing to you and your children, not to cause a deeper rift.”
“Freddie’s a boy.” His voice started to rise. “You can’t let a confused child guide your decision.”
“I have to think of his feelings.”
He lowered his voice. “And Dora? What about her?”
A sob broke from her throat. “How does a mother choose when her children have different needs? I hate the thought of leaving her—”
“Then don’t.”
“She’ll miss me, but she’s young. She’ll be all right. She has to be.” She shook her head. “Maybe if we had more time—”
“We don’t.” He considered delaying the inevitable, but his first conversation with Pennwright eliminated that possibility. His father’s secretary, now his secretary, had given Tristan the details on his father’s activities. The sooner Tristan arrived in England, the sooner he could end his father’s reign of terror over the people of Willoughby. For years the duke had taken advantage of the locals. Some were living in poverty. As much as Tristan wanted to stay in Wyoming until Caroline found her courage, he had a duty to fulfill. “I’m making arrangements to leave at the end of the week. Come with us.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Then what will you do?” He couldn’t leave without her. He simply couldn’t. But neither could he stay in Wyoming when he had responsibilities in England. He thought of God balancing the needs of the entire world. It was an impossible task.
Blinking back tears, she straightened her spine. “I’m going back to Denver. I already spoke to Adie. She thinks I should go with you to England, but she won’t turn me away.”
He wanted to shout at her, to quarrel and issue orders. Instead he clenched his jaw. “So it’s decided.
“Yes.”
He turned his back and paced to the door. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I do,” she murmured. “But nothing will change.”
With his temper flaring he left the tack room. He wanted to call her a coward. He settled for pacing back to the house alone. As the new duke of Willoughby, he had to meet with Pennwright. They had letters to write and arrangements to make. Unless Caroline found the courage to be his wife, the arrangements would include the annulment of their marriage.
He had tried to influence Caroline and failed. He hoped he’d have better luck with Freddie. The boy’s behavior, especially his criticism of Caroline, had to be addressed immediately. Tristan would be patient with Freddie’s grief, but he couldn’t tolerate arrogance. He needed to speak to his son even more urgently than he needed to meet with Pennwright.
The wind pulled at his coat and whipped through the cottonwoods, causing the branches to rub and squeak. Just as he reached the house, the clouds let loose with a torrent of rain. Refreshments were being served to the guests—he wouldn’t call them mourners—in the side parlor, a cozy room that should have been filled with tears and poignant memories. When he didn’t see Freddie or Louisa, he went back to the entry hall. He heard voices in the front room, entered and saw them on the divan. Whitmore was seated across from them, listening as Louisa told Freddie about Willoughby Manor, preparing him for his new life.
She meant well, but Tristan had grave concerns about the boy’s behavior. The seeds of arrogance had to be removed and replaced with seeds of honor, faith and concern for others. He entered the room quietly. When Louisa looked up, he said, “Would you excuse us, please?”
Whitmore stood and spoke for them both. “Yes, your grace.”
Someday Tristan would be accustomed to hearing those words, but today he felt the cost of doing his duty. “Thank you.”
Louisa said goodbye to Freddie, then left arm in arm with Whitmore.
Tristan sat across from his son and took in his formal appearance. Dressed in a tailored coat, the one stitched by the duke’s valet, he looked like a miniature version of the duke. Only his eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, belonged to a child. Freddie was angry and hurt, and he wanted to blame someone. Tristan understood because he’d grieved his father’s love for years. He’d been just like Freddie until he’d made peace with himself and God. Thanks to Caroline, he’d even made peace with the duke. The irony of what he had to say struck him as poignant.
“I know you’re angry, Freddie.”
The boy shot daggers at him.
“And I realize you blame Caroline for the accident.” Tristan paused. When Freddie said nothing, he continued. “She’s not responsible for what happened. Your grandfather was riding too fast. He made the decision to cross the stream without slowing down.”
“But she was in the way! She made him fall.”
“I don’t agree,” Tristan said reasonably. “But suppose she did. If by accident she made the worst mistake in the world, what do you think we should do?”
“I hate her!”
“Does that solve anything?” Tristan could have been talking to himself. Had resenting the duke done any good? None at all, but he saw a chance to do some good now. “Your grandfather and I didn’t get along. In my opinion, he made mistakes. Some of them were as serious as the one you think Caroline made. Even so, I forgave him.”
“I’ll never forgive her.” The boy shoved to his feet. “She’s common and she’s stupid!”
“Freddie!” Tristan would tolerate anger but not disrespect. “You owe Caroline an apology.”
“No!”
The boy ran out of the room and up the stairs. Tristan stood but let him go. He could only hope that time would open Freddie’s eyes to the truth. The alternative—that the anger would fester and grow—troubled him deeply. What did a father do with a stubborn child? He knew how an officer disciplined a soldier, but Freddie was troubled and grieving. Patience seemed to be in order, so Tristan returned to the parlor where the guests were waiting for him.
As he entered, he heard murmuring about the accident. The nieces were being particularly critical. So was Blackstone. The dowager sat by herself, listening to the gossip and fanning herself as if the air were stale. She saw Tristan and summoned him. “Your grace!”
“Yes, Dowager?”
“Where is your wife?”
“She’s—” Tristan hesitated. Telling the dowager that Caroline was hiding in the barn would do not good at all. “She’s indisposed.
“I see,” the old woman said. “That’s unfortunate.”
She’d issued a warning of sorts. Unless Caroline faced the gossip now, the accident would become fodder for rumors for months to come. Tristan wanted to stop the criticism, but despite what he’d said to Caroline, even a duke couldn’t control scandalous talk. The only person who could vindicate herself was Caroline. He’d planned to cancel the remainder of the house party, but now he wondered if he should insist she keep her obligations.
He addressed Dowager Somerville. “May I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Would you be terribly scandalized if we resumed the house party as planned?”
She gave him the haughtiest look he’d ever seen. “Your wife is currently an object of scandal. What do you think you should do?”
Tristan had no doubt whatsoever. Caroline needed a chance to redeem herself, both in the eyes of their guests and in her own opinion. “Thank you, Dowager. If you’ll excuse me, I have an announcement to make.”
“Of course.”
He cleared his throat for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
The room silenced immediately. He could have been addressing soldiers instead of aristocrats.
Tristan lightened his tone. “You came to The Barracks for a party, not a funeral. As you know, we have plans for a wedding. I see no reason to deny Jon and Bessie a celebration. The ceremony will be held as planned, and there will be a reception with music and dancing. No one is to wear black.” He paused to let the order sink in. “I’ll pay my respects to my father in England. That was his home, and it’s where our grief belongs.”
He glanced from face to face, daring people to question him. No one said a word. He’d issued an order and it would be followed. He supposed being duke had some advantages, though the person who mattered most wasn’t in the room. “Very well,” he said. “The house party will continue as planned.”
Two days from now, Jon and Bessie would take vows. The marriage would be celebrated with a meal and dancing, and Caroline would have a chance to shine. His wife would wear her finest gown and he’d dance with her. He could only hope it wouldn’t be the first and only time.
Two hours after supper, Caroline was huddled on her bed, her knees pulled to her chest and her neck bent in defeat. Rain beat on the window in uneven rhythms, and the wind shook the house. The Indian summer had disappeared in a day, and winter loomed on the storm. She thought of the duke’s fresh grave and how it would turn to mud. Mud took her back to the day she’d buried Charles. Good friends had refused to stand with her. Bessie alone had stayed at her side. Soon she’d lose Bessie. Her sister would become Mrs. Jonathan Tate, and Caroline would return to Swan’s Nest.
A knock sounded on the storage room door. It had to be Tristan. She dreaded another quarrel, but she’d been expecting him. “Come in.”
He walked into the room, stood at the foot of the bed and put his hands behind his back as if he were inspecting a soldier’s barracks. “Has Evaline spoken to you?”
“Not since this morning.” She’d talked to the housekeeper about assisting the Whitmores with their packing. She expected the exodus to begin tomorrow and she welcomed it.
“Then you’re not aware of a change in plans,” he said firmly. “The Whitmores aren’t leaving.
“Why not?” Intimidated, she pulled her knees tighter to her chest. They’d always met on his territory. Tonight he’d invaded hers. “We can’t possibly continue with the house party.”
“We can, and we are.”
“That’s scandalous!”
“I don’t particularly care.” He seemed rather pleased, a reaction that unnerved her even more. “Our guests are staying for Jon and Bessie’s wedding. As planned, we’ll have a celebration. You will not wear black, is that understood?”
When she didn’t answer, he went to her wardrobe, flung open the doors and pulled out a pink gown with a draped skirt and gold rosettes. She loved the fabric, mostly because it accentuated the pink tint in the diamond ring on her finger. Common sense told her to slip it off and give it to him, but her hands felt encased in stone.
Tristan held the gown to the side and gave it a shake. The satin whooshed and shimmered in the lamplight. “I like this one.”
So did Caroline. She’d expected to wear it to the dance at the close of the house party, but the duke’s death made the color inappropriate. “I couldn’t possibly wear that gown, not now.”
He hung it back in the wardrobe, the wide skirt on full display. “You can wear it and you will.”
Without another word, he walked out of her room and into his, leaving the doors open with an invitation of sorts. Whether the invitation was to continue the argument or to reconcile, she didn’t know.
She stared at the pink dress until her vision blurred into a dream of dancing in Tristan’s arms. She thought of the dream game with the children. That night she’d believed their dreams could come true. With her heart pounding, she studied the satin folds. Wearing the gown would take courage...but courage didn’t guarantee victory. She’d found the courage to cross a river on Cairo and she’d fallen. She’d dared to ride in a race, and she’d caused an accident. She’d put her fears aside and married Tristan, and now her heart was breaking.
She stared at the door to his room, aching to swallow her pride and go to him now. She wanted to believe he didn’t care about gossip or her imperfections, but she knew their marriage would be a constant thorn. Even if she did everything right, Tristan would pay a price and so would she. So would the children.
“Help me, Lord,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to do.”
When no answer came, she decided to go to him. Silently she rehearsed what she had to say. I care for you, Tristan. But not enough to go with you to England. She imagined taking off the ring. This belongs to Dora. The mention of the child sent tears to her eyes and she wondered if she could even speak. Someday you’ll marry again, and she’ll have a mother. And Tristan would have a wife. He’d be as happy as Jon, who had made Bessie’s dreams come true long after she’d given them up.
Caroline had dreams, too. The ring on her finger suddenly felt tight, a reminder that many of her dreams had come true and that she’d lose everything unless she found the courage to stand up for herself.
She looked again at the dress, then at the open door to Tristan’s room and she knew... She couldn’t wear black to her sister’s wedding. If the pretty gown caused ridicule, she’d know where she stood with the Whitmores and all of England. She’d know if she could cope with the pressures of being Tristan’s duchess. For now, the ring would stay on her finger.