A Ravishing Redhead (Wedded Women Quartet) Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  Margaret had been married to her husband for eight months, sixteen days, and – if her calculations were correct, which they almost always were – approximately two and a half hours. During those eight months, sixteen days and (approximately) two and a half hours she had seen her husband a grand total of one time. At their wedding, no less, where he had arrived drunk, slurred his vows, and sealed her fate with a sloppy kiss that had landed on her left earlobe instead of her lips.

  She did not blame him for imbibing in a bit too much whisky before walking down the aisle. She would have gladly gotten drunk herself had it not been for the watchful eye of her mother, but Arabella Combs, knowing full well the willful nature of her eldest daughter, had kept Margaret under lock and key until it was time for the ceremony to begin.

  Arabella had carefully planned out every miniscule detail for the ‘wedding of the season’ (as it was now referred since no one else of social significance had gotten married since that fateful November day) well before the bans had even been read and she had been determined not to let anything – or anyone – ruin it.

  “Well you certainly got what you wanted, Mother,” said Margaret to no one in particular, for no one in particular was around. “I am wed to a Duke, and one day your grandchildren shall carry titles higher than your own. I hope you are happy, for I am not, and I fear I never will be.”

  Rolling over onto her stomach, she swatted at a piece of grass that threatened to tickle her nose and dropped her head on one lanky arm. Overhead the summer sun beat down unmercifully and she wished she had not forgotten her bonnet. Now her freckles would be blatantly obvious, when before they had only shown in certain light, and her red hair would turn even redder – though how that was possible, she had no idea; she just knew it would because that is what her mother always said – and she would look like a heathen. A tall, freckle faced, red haired heathen.

  “Oh who the bloody hell cares,” she grumbled, for it was true. No one but the servants saw her, and since they had yet to complain about her new habit of wearing boy’s clothing she highly doubted they would raise a fuss over a few freckles. Besides, freckles and red hair were not the worst of her worries.

  Since her wedding Margaret had been stranded at Heathridge, a five hundred acre ramshackle estate that belonged to her new husband. She did not mind her isolated surroundings so much as the boredom that came with them. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. No mischief to make. Her three closest friends had stayed for as long as they could after the wedding, but they all had their own lives to get back to.

  Catherine was pregnant again with her fourth child, Josephine was touring the continent with her lover, and Grace was preparing for her own wedding to the very ill suited – in Margaret’s opinion – Lord Melbourne.

  “I could wither away and die here and no one would notice,” she sighed dramatically. Flopping over onto her back, she shaded her eyes against the sun and chewed down on her bottom lip. What she needed was a new adventure. Something to occupy the hours between breakfast and dinner. A new horse to train, perhaps.

  For a moment Margaret’s entire face lit up, until she remembered her husband had run off with every cent of her rather extensive dowry right after dumping her at his rotting excuse of an estate. She still did not know if he had intentionally stranded her without a penny to her name, or if the thought had simply not occurred to him to set up an allowance for his new wife before he took off for the unknown, but either way the result was the same. Until he returned, or by some miracle her parents decided to come and rescue her, she was stuck. She could not escape even if she wanted to, for the carriage house was devoid of a carriage and the barn held nothing but horses so old their backs sagged nearly to the ground.

  She had attempted to hire someone to take her to London, but no one within a twenty mile radius would supply a service without money up front due to her husband’s unpaid debts.

  “I am a poor Duchess,” Margaret sighed. Tipping her head to the side she arched an eyebrow at the sheep grazing next to her. “Have you ever heard of a poor Duchess? No? Well, me either. Although no use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. Stiff upper lip, best foot forward and all that. Here we go.”

  Springing to her feet she wiped her grass stained palms on the sides of the brown breeches one of the stable boys had given her before he left and straightened out her white linen shirt. It belonged to her husband (consequently it was the only thing she had of his since he had forgotten to give her a ring) and was nearly three sizes too big. The long hem line helped distract from the fact that her breeches – while in otherwise good condition – ended just below her knees. Had it not been for her shock of fiery red hair that tumbled nearly to her waist and her narrow, pixie like face that could never be confused for anything but female, Margaret might have passed for a boy, something she would not have minded in the least.

  It was an inescapable fact that men had better luck than women. Why, just look at her husband: eight months ago he had been broke and destitute; now he was rich as a lark and off traveling the world spending her dowry while she was stuck in his downtrodden estate. Not fair at all, that.

  Giving the sheep an absent pat on its furry head, Margaret skipped down the side of the hill and half walked, half ran the rest of the way to Heathridge.

  In better hands the fifty seven room estate must have been nothing short of magnificent, but time and neglect had taken its toll. Paint was peeling from the window trim. Large chunks of plaster were missing from the walls. Even the grass surrounding the estate was overgrown and filled with weeds after the gardener had quit and there had been no money to replace him. The inside of the mansion was no better than the outside, with dingy floors, dusty tapestries, and an overpowering smell of mold on rainy days.

  Flushed and perspiring slightly, Margaret slowed to a more dignified walk just short of the front steps. They spiraled out from the main door, yet even they were chipped on the edges and grass had begun to grow between the granite cracks.

  Hastings, the butler/footman/occasional head cook met her just inside the door with a cool glass of lemon water. A portly man in his early fifties, he had loyally served at Heathridge for thirty years and had not received a salary for the last two of them. Still he stayed on, mostly in part because he had no where else to go, and no family to speak of.

  “Here you are, Lady Winter,” he said, extending the glass to Margaret.

  She took it and drank thirstily, hiccupped, and set the glass aside on a dusty table. “I have told you not to call me that,” she reminded him sternly.

  “It is your name,” he said.

  “No, it is my husband’s name. And we both know I am hardly a Lady, so why bother with all the fuss? Call me Margaret if you must, Maggie if you want, and never, ever,” she paused to shudder, “address me as Duchess.”

  The hint of a smile appeared beneath Hastings’ rather impressive salt and pepper moustache. “As you wish, Lady Winter.”

  Margaret threw her hands up in the air. “Heavens, why do I even bother? What time is dinner tonight, Hastings?”

  “Half past five o’ clock, Lady Winter.”

  “I have time for a ride, then?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “You did not do it that time.”

  “Do what, Lady Winter?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I give up. If I am not back in time for dinner, start without me.”

  “Certainly not,” said Hastings, looking appalled at the very idea.

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “There are five people living here besides myself, Hastings. Why should you all have to w
ait if I am running late? Just keep a plate warm and I will eat when I return.” Turning on her heel, she trotted down the steps before Hastings could argue with her, and went directly to the stables.

  Destroyed by a fire and recently rebuilt, the ten stall barn was the only building on the property that had not fallen into a state of disrepair and Margaret was determined to keep it that way. She called each horse by name as she strolled down the freshly raked aisle and one by one they popped their heads over their stall doors to greet her with warm nickers of affection.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, pausing to scratch Poppy, a dark palomino, under her chin.

  In her younger years Poppy had plowed the fields that now lay fallow behind the main house, but now she had more gray hairs on her face than brown and walked with a slight limp. Her sweet nature made her one of Margaret’s favorites, and she often spoiled the mare with carrots and apples stolen from the kitchen.

  Hay was piled neatly at the end of the barn. Filling a wheelbarrow with the sweet smelling dried grass, she fed each horse in turn and when they were all nibbling at their hay exchanged the wheelbarrow for a large bucket of oats. She soaked Poppy’s grain for the old draft mare had little teeth left to chew with, and opened up all of the stalls to let the horses out into their evening grazing pasture when they were finished eating. They filed past her one by one, too used to their daily routine to raise a fuss, and she followed them out to swing the gate closed behind them.

  Now came the not so pleasant part, but it had to be done, and after scooping her hair up underneath a floppy hat and rolling up her shirt sleeves, Margaret fetched another wheelbarrow and began mucking out the stalls.

  It was hard labor, but she enjoyed the simple quietness of it. A wry smile captured her lips as she remembered how her muscles had screamed in protest when she had first taken over care of the entire stables, but now her arms were strong and easily capable of dumping manure and hauling pails of water to and from the stalls.

  She was nearly finished when an unfamiliar whinny rang through the air. Still holding her pitchfork, Margaret poked her head out the front aisle way and watched with interest as a gleaming bay approached. She was so entranced by the horse’s fine build and elegant way of moving that she didn’t even notice the rider until he dropped to the ground in front of her and placed the horse’s reins in her hands.

  “Here,” he said, looking past her. “Cool him out and groom him.”

  Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Oh, she noticed the rider now all right, although he certainly did not notice her. “Would you have me feed him as well?” she asked, deliberately speaking in a low voice.

  “Yes, of course,” said the rider in a short, clipped tone. “And have him tacked again in an hour. I will not be staying here long.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  The rider turned and leveled dark green eyes on her. Margaret held her breath, waiting for him to recognize her, but he merely reached in his pocket and tossed her two coins which she reached out to catch automatically. “Cool him out, groom him, and feed him. I will be back in an hour.”

  Without another word he walked away towards the house. Margaret stared after him in wordless disbelief, certain at any moment he was going to turn around and come back. When the front door slammed behind him, she shook her head.

  “Can you believe that?” she asked the bay. The horse regarded her in stoic silence. “Yes well,” she continued, grunting a bit as she loosened the stallion’s tight cinch, “you have to be loyal to him. You’re his horse. But I’m just his wife, and I don’t like him a’ tall.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Henry James Sebastian Winter, the sixth Duke of Heathridge, was in a foul mood. He had been traveling for three days straight in order to see his wife, and the blasted woman was not where she should have been. Had he not left her with explicitly clear instructions? Remain at Heathridge until his return. At least, that is what he was pretty sure he had said; due to his intoxicated state on the day of the wedding, the details were still a little blurry.

  He had already wasted one infuriating hour searching every inch of his childhood home looking for someone to tell him where Lady Winter was, but it seemed the number of servants had decreased dramatically since his last visit and the only person he could find was a timid maid who had no idea where her mistress had gone. He wondered where the hell Hastings was. Henry knew the old butler had to be around somewhere, but if he was he refused to show himself.

  Cursing liberally under his breath, he stomped out of the house and back to the stables. He was not going to waste one more second looking for the spoiled brat he had married. No doubt she had taken herself off to her parent’s house and was sitting in some parlor sipping lemonade while he covered himself in dirt and grime looking for her. Stopping short of the barn, Henry shrugged out of his jacket and gave it a good shake. He watched in disgust as dust billowed into the air. Where ever his wife was, she was not doing the duties he had ascribed to her. He had never seen Heathridge in such a sorry state before. He almost feel sorry for the grand old dame, left as she was to crumble and rot atop her very foundation.

  Curiously enough the only place that looked half way decent was the stables, and his boots stepped over freshly laid straw as he walked inside. “Hello?” he called, squinting as his eyesight adjusted. “I am here for my horse.”

  The same stable lad he had handed Finnegan over too upon his arrival popped abruptly out of a nearby stall, startling him. The boy’s clothes were even dirtier than before and he smelled of manure and dirt. His nose wrinkling, Henry took a solid step back. “Where is my horse? I’m leaving.”

  “So soon?” the boy asked, leaning up against a beam and cocking a hip. A stray beam of sunlight shone in through the entrance of the barn, highlighting half of the lad’s face. His skin was unnaturally smooth for a boy’s and freckles littered his cheeks. A ridiculously oversized hat covered his eyes. He couldn’t have been much older than thirteen or fourteen and Henry felt an unfamiliar twinge of pity. The lad clearly worked hard keeping the barn neat and tidy. He was doing the job of a full grown man and if the slimness of his body was any indication the work had begun to take its toll.

  “Just get my horse if you would,” Henry said, not unkindly. “I will pay you for your time.”

  “I put your horse out with the others in the back field. He was quite tired.”

  Pity was rapidly replaced by annoyance. “You turned him out? Well go get him! I want to be on the road again before dark.”

  The boy lifted his narrow shoulders in a shrug. “I can’t get him now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Cause he’s made friends with Poppy and it would hurt her feelings to have him leave so soon. Why are you in such a hurry to leave anyways?”

  “That,” Henry grinded out, “is none of your damn business.” He stomped past the boy, intending to go get his horse by himself, but the boy’s next words stopped him cold.

  “If you’re looking for your wife I know where she is.”

  Henry whirled around. “You have seen my wife?”

  “Sure. I see her all the time. What do you want with her?” The boy actually had the gall to grin at him, revealing evenly spaced white teeth and a dimple high on his left cheek.

  Henry felt his annoyance kick up another notch and he clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching out and strangling the boy. “Is she still here at Heathridge?” he managed to say in a fairly even tone.

  “Course she is. She’s right here in the barn, in fact.”

  In the barn? Henry’s head whipped back and forth as he looked up and down the freshly raked aisle. Every stall door was neatly closed. The small room that housed the tack and harnesses was locked from the outside. Unless his wife was hiding in one of the stalls she wasn’t here, and he did not appreciate being made to look like a fool.

  “I don’t see her,” he growled.

  “Maybe you aren’t lo
oking hard enough.”

  Henry inhaled sharply. “How long have you worked here?” he demanded.

  “Oh, about eight and a half months,” said the boy. For some reason he looked on the verge of laughing and Henry began to wonder if perhaps the arrogant lad wasn’t a bit daft.

  “If you want to keep your job here learn to speak with some respect in your tone or you’ll find yourself out on your ear,” he said sharply, green eyes flashing.

  The boy looked slightly taken aback by the reprimand, but it was for his own good. There was no place in the work force for servants who talked back to their employers and it was best they learned that invaluable lesson at a young age.

  The boy stepped away from the post and crossed his thin arms. His mouth settled into a mulish frown and he gave a sharp tug on the brim of his hat, pulling it down lower over his face. “You’re rude,” he muttered.

  Henry’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “I said you are rude,” the boy shot back.

  “And I say you’re fired!”

  “Good. I wasn’t getting paid anyways. You can clean your own damn stables from now on!” The boy whipped his oversized hat off with a flourish to reveal long curls of auburn hair that instantly transformed the he into a she.

  Henry’s jaw clenched. He had only seen hair that red on one woman before. Tight lipped, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the barn.

  She had really done it this time. A bit stunned at her own daring, Margaret hurried after Henry. Her shorter legs were no match for his long ones and she had to break into a run to catch up. He did not spare her so much as a sideways glance as she pulled alongside him, but he did stop short in the middle of the drive which she took as a good sign.

  “H-hello,” she said, a bit out of breath from the short sprint. “How are you?”

  Silence.

  “I apologize for tricking you. It was not a very kind thing to do.” Even if you bloody well deserved it, you blundering ape of a man.