The Inconvenient Duchess

Father favoured his heir. Mother favoured her younger son. And they played the two of us off against each other, letting us quarrel as they quarrelled with each other. Neither of us was happy with what we had. He had the affection but I had the respect.
    ‘We competed in all things. I almost broke my neck trying to jump a fence. He is the better rider, and Father forbade me to follow him. And St John laughed and called me coward. He was always wild, and I envied him for it. I had to be the sensible one. Especially after Father died and the title came to me. He spent the allowance Mother insisted I give him and threw my charity back in my face.
    ‘Finally, we quarreled over a woman. We were rivals, and against all common sense I won her, and found no happiness in winning. He has never forgiven me.’
    She spoke the word she was afraid to hear him speak. ‘Bethany?’
    ‘Yes. And you, Miranda, wandered into the thicket with us, and the whole thing began again.’
    She moved closer to him and whispered, ‘But it ended differently, I hope. Are you happy with me, husband?’
    He smiled down at her, a sad little smile. ‘Most happy with you, wife.’
    She smiled back at him and wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘Then I will never leave you.’
    He kissed the top of her head. ‘I will ask you to leave me now, darling. It is bedtime, I think. Go up to our rooms and wait for me. I will be along shortly.’
    She kissed him back, and left him staring intently into the fire as though the answer to all of life’s questions was written in the flames.
    She hurried up the stairs, hoping that it would not be long until he came to her. It was worrisome to see him like this, so deep in thought that he could not be roused away from it. Knowing that she had forced him to it made things all the worse. Still, it was better than when he had been angry all the time. Or filled with the all-encompassing sadness thathad held him so much of his life. To mourn occasionally for the life he never had, to be sometimes moody, was natural, she supposed. At least it was not the unbearable weight on his soul that it had been.
    And when he came to her later, his mood would change fast enough. She shivered in anticipation, so glad that he wasn’t the bookish scholar she had hoped for, or the tired older man, or even the dashing young one, but instead the temperamental, brooding, stubborn man that she had married. A man capable of more love and tenderness than she had ever imagined on that first day when he’d stormed and sworn at the prospect of marriage.
    She entered her room and closed the door out of habit, even as she realised that something was wrong.
    There was someone there. She could feel it. Could feel eyes staring at her at the edge of the candlelight.
    She turned slowly, back still against the door, to see St John, lounging there on top of the coverlet of her bed. With disgust, she noticed that his boots were muddy and staining the bedclothes. In his hand, he held a cocked pistol, pointed at her.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.
    ‘Waiting for you.’
    ‘How—?’
    ‘—Did I come here? How did I get in?’ He smiled, and it was the same cheerful grin he’d used to woo her. His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes was deadly serious.
    ‘It is not so hard, once you have the keys. Mrs Clopton still hates you, you know. But she was always quite fond of me. She’s working at an inn on the main road. When you let her go, you should have thought to ask for the second set ofkeys. She was most forthcoming with them when I wanted them.’
    ‘And what—?’
    ‘Do I want from you? Why don’t you stop asking questions and let me finish, Miranda. For that is what I want. To finish the business between us.’
    ‘There is nothing between us. We are finished, St John.’ Her voice gave lie to the words.
    His held the same annoying confidence. ‘I beg to differ. We are finished when I say we are finished.’
    She turned to grab for the door handle and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the pistol barrel following her movements.
    ‘Uh, uh, uh.’ He wagged a finger at her as though she were a disobedient child. ‘It is far too early to think about leaving. Relax, my dear. Why don’t you have a seat at the writing desk? And go slowly. I’m afraid sudden movements or screaming on your part might startle me and cause an accident.’
    ‘You don’t seriously mean to shoot me, do