Chapter Two

Over sixty years later,

On the road to Ramthwaite Hall

Lake District, England

June 1825

R oss Arthur William Kirksey, sixth Duke of Ramthwaite, smiled at his new bride as their carriage rolled along toward Ramthwaite Hall. They had crossed into Ramthwaite lands miles ago but still wouldn't reach the manor house for a good many hours.

"Are you certain you do not require a stop, my dear?" he asked as delicately as possible. Even though they had married days ago, they were still quite unacquainted. "To walk about a bit? It has been some time since you had some relief from this bouncing carriage." He was determined to be a considerate husband in the hopes of someday fostering a genuine fondness between them. "Harmony?"

She turned from the window and blessed him with that same infectious smile that had caught his attention and lifted his spirits back at her father's inn in Scotland. "Dinna fash yerself, Yer Grace. I'd sooner get to yer home rather than dawdle along the way. I'll have plenty of time to walk about once we reach yer manor house."

"Ross, my dear—remember? You may call me Ross." He tipped a kindly nod to soften the reminder. It didn't matter that she had once been a commoner working in her father's inn. She was his wife now, a duchess in her own right, and he ached for her to realize that he hadn't paid her greedy father a great deal of blunt to diminish her worth or flaunt his station by purchasing a wife. He had paid the hog grubber all that coin to help the innkeeper in the loss of what Ross had observed to be a most valuable asset. Harmony Fergusson had efficiently operated the place—not her drunkard of a father. "And Ramthwaite Hall is your home now too, my dear."

The brilliant cornflower blue of her eyes sparkled even brighter. "Aye, Yer Grace…I mean, Ross. So it is. Do forgive me. This is all still so new. So unexpected." She tucked a soft brown curl behind her ear, then teased him with a wiggle of her nose that reminded him of the bunnies he had forbidden the servants to oust from the garden. "But I shall do better. Daren't ye worry." She turned back to the window, taking in the land with such excitement it made him look at the verdant meadows and rolling hills with fresh eyes. "And ye say we are on Ramthwaite land right now? Yet we willna reach the manor house till nightfall?"

"Remember the stone bridge?" Silly question. Of course she remembered it. She had remarked on the pair of stone rams guarding it. But he loved her lilting voice with its undertone of something that could only be described as the sound of pure and simple happiness. He would do anything to keep her talking. Her voice soothed his troubled soul. "Those rams at the bridge mark the northernmost border to our lands."

"'Tis almost as bonny as Scotland," she said while staring out the window. Then she jerked as though startled and cast a nervous look his way. "Oh my, beg yer pardon. Ye must surely think me ungrateful." She twitched the slightest shrug. "Yer lands are lovely, Yer Gra—Ross."

"Our lands, Harmony." He risked taking her hand in his. "Our lands."

Her gaze flitted down to his fingers curled around hers, then rose and met his eyes. The delicate curve of her high cheekbones flashed with a rosiness that made him imagine her sprawled across a bed overflowing with satin pillows. He cleared his throat, released her fingers, and clasped his hands in his lap once again. There would be no familiarities. Not yet. He refused to consummate their vows until a comfortable affection had grown between them. How else could he prove to her that he had not purchased her as one would purchase a mare for breeding? He liked Harmony and needed her to like him—perhaps even more than like him, if he dared be honest about his wishes.

He cleared his throat again. "Once you review Ramthwaite Hall, you may redecorate as you see fit. Funds are not an issue." Damn and blast. He sounded like a solicitor closing a business deal rather than an indulgent husband.

She eyed him for a long moment, her delicate brows slowly arching higher. "Redecorate as I see fit?"

He nodded. "Whatever you wish done shall be done."

She slowly tilted her head. "Has it gone shabby on ye, then? Not been lived in for a while?"

He blinked, wondering how she had come to that conclusion. "No. It is not shabby. I simply thought you would wish to make it your own."

"Aye, but would it not be wasteful to be rid of things with some good use still left in them?" She wrinkled her nose. "Or do the furnishings pain ye?"

"Pain me?"

"Aye." She leaned closer, thrilling him immensely with a waft of her warm, clean scent of clover and, if he wasn't mistaken, a mouthwatering hint of vanilla. "Does it make ye miss yer dear wife?" She crossed herself, then whispered, "God rest her soul." A thoughtfulness came over her. "She's not been gone but a year now, aye? Is that not what ye told Da?"

"It has been more than a year, actually." He pondered telling her how Lotilda had died and shifted in the seat at the uncomfortable thought of the meeting in the attic he needed to attend to at his earliest convenience. Saints help him, he wished he knew how to help Edgar and Nettie Bannerly achieve their eternal rest before they accidentally caused any further incidents. Rumors about the curse were bad enough without adding additional tragedies to the list he felt sure the villagers of Ramswater kept on a board hanging in the new church's backroom.

"Yer Grace…uhm…Ross?"

He blinked as though waking from a dream and dipped his head in apology. "Forgive me. Bad habit I have. Woolgathering in the midst of conversations." He sat taller, determined to be more attentive. "Lotilda died over a year ago, and pray do not think me callous, but I barely knew her. We had only been married a week." Lord above, could he possibly sound any more of a heartless arse? "Not that I wished her dead, mind you. I simply do not dwell on it."

Harmony eyed him as if trying to decide whether he was a danger to herself or others. "How exactly did she die? If ye dinna mind my asking."

"She was quite the flighty thing, actually." He inwardly cringed, damning himself for sounding so cold. What would his new bride surely think? Ah, well. To hell with it. She might as well learn about the Ramthwaite Curse like one might eat an entire elephant—one small bite at a time. He forced a smile. "Lotilda feared everything, you see. The dark. Cats. Horses. Shadows. The wind. Storms—"

"She feared everything," Harmony interrupted, as if politely urging him to get on with it.

"Yes. Sorry." He flinched, narrowing his eyes at the memory that was still as vivid as the sunny summer day. "But the thing she feared, above all else, was spiders. And that fear killed her."

"One bit her, and she died of its poison?" Harmony crossed herself again.

"No." Ross scrubbed a hand across his mouth, wondering if his curious bride would believe him. Even the constable had expressed understandable doubts regarding the accident. Thank goodness there had been witnesses. "One day, in the sitting room on the second floor, she discovered a spider crawling toward her. Before I could effectively dispose of the incredibly fast little beast, Lotilda hurled herself up onto the back of the settee, causing it to tip and launch her out the window behind it. The glass roof of the conservatory slowed her fall, but its flagstone floor stopped her completely."

Harmony's eyes widened, and her perfect bow of a mouth fell open in disbelief. "How terrible, Your Grace."

Ross didn't bother to correct her and ask her to use his name. "It was terrible. I am told the maids serving us tea at the time still suffer from nightmares."

"I should say so." She shifted with a deep intake of breath, puckered her full lips, and slowly shushed it out.

"You are not afraid of spiders, are you?" The more time he spent with Harmony, the more he needed her at his side, and he had known it would be that way the moment he had noticed her at her father's inn. He forced a smile. "I doubt you fear anything. That was the first thing about you that caught my eye. The way you put that bear of a man in place when he refused to pay for his dinner and his room."

"Ye did notice the size of my brothers, aye? All six of them?" She huffed a faint laugh. "Old Cob Fergusson feared them—not the sharpness of my tongue." She set her chin to a defiant angle. "And I know well enough how to use the sole of my shoe when it comes to spiders."

"You are so full of—"

Her eyes went wide again, making her brows rise into the soft fringe of delicate curls across her forehead. "So full of what?" she asked slowly, as if granting him time to escape her wrath.

"Life." He took her hand again, wishing he could make her understand what a pure breath of freshness she was—never attempting the airs and falsities glorified by the ton. She was a cleansing inhale of goodness and joy that his soul had always longed for but could never find. "You are full of life. That makes you so beautiful—so irresistible. Your vitality is…"

She wagged a finger at him. "Begging yer pardon, Yer Grace, but did ye have a bit too much port with yer meal earlier?"

"Ross, my dear. I beg you—please call me Ross. You are my wife, my intimate partner in life. You, of all people, have every right to call me by my name."

Her teasing defiance disappeared. After a quick duck of her head, she turned away to stare out the window once more. "I will try to remember, Ross. As I said, this is all so new. It has been a mere three days since we wed."

"Four," he softly corrected her, wondering what had caused her sudden discomfort. Women liked compliments. Didn't they? "Harmony?"

"Aye?" She didn't look at him, just kept her focus locked on the countryside passing by the carriage window.

"I was not scolding you about using my name. If you do not wish to, do not feel obliged to." Perhaps she was uncomfortable in his presence. After all, both her father and mother had placed great store in the fact that he was a duke, and they were mere commoners. "You are my equal, Harmony. You do understand that—yes?"

She slowly turned and faced him, and for the first time since they had left Scotland, her smile didn't reach her eyes. It was a mere shadow of its usual brightness and somehow sad. "I understand," she said softly, "and I thank ye."

The way she said it made it sound as if she felt he was the lord of the manor, she the servant, and he had tossed her a choice crumb from the high table. And he had no idea how to repair the damage he and society had done to make her feel that way. Damn and blast it all. When he had met her at the inn, the thought of marrying her had immediately sprung to mind. Well, a great deal had sprung to mind, but marriage was the most honorable. Something about her made him need her in his life. Somehow, no matter how confusing or complicated it might be, he would win her heart and make her happy that she had agreed to the braw adventure , as she had put it, of becoming the Duchess of Ramthwaite.