Free The Pretender by Jaclyn Reding Page B

never force his daughter to wed a man she didn’t love. He was just trying to give Elizabeth a scare. Margaret knew her husband loved Elizabeth, loved all their daughters with an adoration not demonstrated by many of his peers.
    Elizabeth, in particular, had always held a special place in her father’s heart. And it was for that reason Margaret had allowed him to send her off as he had, thinking that the time away would cool Alaric’s temper and make him realize just how much he missed her.
    Margaret, for one, couldn’t wait for them to get back.
    “Papa,” said Caro from where she sat on the ground at her parents’ feet, breaking the duchess from her thoughts, “is that a carriage approaching on the drive?”
    “A carriage? At this late hour?”
    The duchess craned her neck to see, but—drat it all!—she was sitting in such a way, her backbone straight, her chin held high as duchesses were apparently meant to do, as to make the view of the drive all but impossible.
    “Were you expecting anyone, Alaric?” She noticed the little one squirming. “Caro, dear, do sit still for Mr. Ramsay.”
    “But it looks like our carriage, Mother.”
    “Our carriage?” The duke turned. “But that is impossible. Elizabeth and Isabella took the carriage and they couldn’t possibly have made it all the way to Purfoyle’s estate and back so quickly. . . .”
    The look on his face already suggested the dread at what so swift a return might indicate.
    “But it is our carriage!” squealed Catherine. “Oh, Mother, now Bess and Bella can be in the portrait, too!”
    The younger Draytons all leapt to their feet at once, scattering in three directions as they abandoned the portrait poses it had taken nearly an hour to arrange. In moments, they were racing down the hillside, voices squealing, their wide dress panniers joggling about like the cook’s beef gelatin.
    “Girls, wait!” the duchess called. “Come back! Your coiffures! They will be ruined!”
    “Where the devil are you all going?” the duke bellowed. “Get back here this instant! We are supposed to be sitting for the portrait!”
    It was of no use. They were gone, all three of them, bounding off like bunnies to greet whoever rode inside the advancing carriage.
    The duchess smiled an apology to Mr. Ramsay, who was standing with his brush poised inches from the canvas. “Do forgive us, Mr. Ramsay. It seems our eldest daughters have just returned unexpectedly from their trip to Scotland. Perhaps we can continue the portrait again in the morning?” She turned to leave, anxious herself tosee her daughters, but hesitated. “I wonder, sir, would it be too late for you to add the figures of our other two daughters to the portrait?”
    “Margaret . . .”
    By the time the carriage achieved the front circle drive, the little ones were there to greet it, gasping against the tight lacings of their stays from their run. The duchess skipped along behind to join them a few minutes later, her own sides stitching, just as the Sudeleigh footman came forward to open the carriage door.
    “Bella! Bess!”
    The duchess was at once thrilled, and then alarmed at the unexpected return of her two eldest daughters. She couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong. Had Elizabeth learned the truth of their journey and refused to go through with it? Or, God forbid, had one of the girls taken ill?
    It was Isabella who emerged first from the carriage and was immediately encircled by her sisters. Her face looked anxious. Oh, dear, thought the duchess, something was the matter.
    Margaret turned to see that Alaric had finally made his way down the hillside to join them. His face was set in stone as he stood back, crossing his arms over his chest. Anyone else might have thought him angry, but five-and-twenty years of sleeping in the same bed with a man made a wife see through such a façade. Alaric was just as worried as she that something might have happened to their daughters.
    Isabella