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  In walked Henson, with Beezle attached to his back again. "Your pet, Your Grace."

  She rushed over to the doorway and plucked her familiar off the poor man. Henson's queue was once again in disarray, only this time the gold ribbon had been chewed until it was completely frayed. She glanced down at Beezle, lying in her arms and happily chomping away, a trail of golden thread hanging like wet whiskers from his mouth.

  "Thank you, Henson." She grabbed the threads and tried to pull them from Beezle's mouth. They kept coming and coming, and she wrapped them around her hand over and over until finally she yanked so hard that he bared his teeth, showing the wad of ribbon in his mouth. After a brief tug-of-war she gave up and set him down on the thick rug. He waddled over to a rose velvet chaise longue, climbed up, and chewed and chewed and chewed before he swallowed the wad of ribbon with a gulp. He plopped his pointed snout on his black-tipped paws. His tiny ears twitched and he raised his head and belched twice. Then his brown eyes grew lazy and drifted closed. The next thing Joy knew, he was wheezing.

  "Your Grace's maid." Henson stepped aside, and in scurried a nervous Polly, who tried to curtsy with her arms full of clothing and bite back her bright smile at the same time. She didn't quite accomplish either and dumped the clothing onto the floor, a wide smile creasing her rosy English cheeks. With a tsk-tsk, Henson shut the door after him.

  "Mrs. Watley said I am to be Your Grace's maid until Your Grace can hire someone more experienced and suited to Your Grace." Polly bent to pick up a dressing gown and some other scanty garment, set them on a chaise longue and turned back to Joy. The maid's hands, now clasped in front of her, quivered with nervousness.

  Joy stared at the top of Polly's bowed head. "Have you been a lady's maid before?"

  The girl straightened up, no longer smiling. She was apparently trying hard to look as serious and dismal as Mrs. Watley. "I've helped when there's been guests at Belmore, and me aunt was lady's maid to His Grace's mum, Your Grace."

  "I'd like you to do something for me, Polly."

  "Yes, Your Grace?" Polly worried her lower lip.

  "Will you stop Your Gracing me, please? At least when we're alone?"

  That bright smile came back, bonfire bright. "Yes, ma'am."

  Joy grinned back. "Thank you. And I won't be needing someone with more experience. You've more experience than I—I've never had a maid before."

  "Never?" Polly's blue eyes grew as wide as butter scones. "But you're a duchess!"

  "I don't know how to be a duchess, Polly. I've never even met one before."

  "Well, I can teach you some, ma'am." Polly suddenly stood a bit taller. "A duchess always stands straight"—she patted her chin—"with her head raised very high, and then looks down the length of her noble nose." The maid's eyes crossed as she tried to demonstrate.

  Joy laughed.

  Polly uncrossed her eyes and gave Joy a wide grin. As suddenly as it appeared, she tried to bite it back.

  "Please don't," Joy said.

  "What, ma'am?"

  "Hide your smile."

  Polly breathed a relieved sigh. "Oh, ma'am, thank you. Mrs. Watley's forever pinnin' me 'bout smilin'. She says I look like the village idiot, a-grinnin' and laughin' like my wits took to Bath for a holiday."

  Joy laughed again.

  "She says for hundreds of years Belmore servants have been"—Polly raised her chin in a haughty manner, just like Mrs. Watley, and her voice became clipped and authoritative—"dignified. She said I should be like my aunt."

  "Is your aunt dignified?"

  "No."

  "Then I take it your aunt doesn't smile."

  "No, ma'am, she doesn't, but not because she's proper or anything. She lost her front teeth when she was twelve and hasn't smiled since." Polly grinned at her.

  "I don't blame her, do you?"

  "No, ma'am," Polly said on a giggle, then, as if she'd suddenly realized with whom she was laughing, she grew solemn. "Would you be wantin' a bath? I can take your clothes and clean them. His Grace told Mrs. Watley that your things had been stolen. How awful, ma'am. Was it highwaymen?"

  Joy could feel her blush rise. "No."

  "Oh, I'm so relieved, ma'am. Can you imagine being set upon by highwaymen? I read this book about some highwaymen who held up a poor lady and stole all her things and then kidnapped her for ransom. An' the things they tried to do to her, ma'am, ohhhh, it was just horrible! That is until the leader of the highwaymen rode in on his big black stallion and took her under his protection. Then they fell in love and married 'cause he was truly an earl who had been wrongly accused of killing his father. That part was so romantic."

  "What was this book?"

  "Something Cook was reading."

  "Sounds interesting."

  "It was." Polly looked uneasy for a moment, her eyes shifting left, then right, and she leaned very close to

  Joy and whispered. "It was a romantic novel."

  "Oh. I see." Joy paused, then asked, "Is that bad?"

  "Oh, no! Some people say they're drivel, but I think they've never read one and don't know what they're talking about, ma'am. The stories are more delicious than . . . than"—the maid looked thoughtful, and then her eyes lit up—"than clotted cream and fresh strawberries."

  "I'd love to read that book. Does the cook still have it?"

  "I suppose so, ma'am. I'll try to get it for you. But if I can't, then I have three more. And Cook is now reading one about a duke."

  "I think I'd like that one." Joy grinned, and so did Polly; then they both started laughing.

  After a minute Polly picked up the clothing she'd brought in and held it out. "The dressmaker will be here tomorrow, but Mrs. Watley had me bring these up for you." She held out a dressing gown and nightdress. "She's looking for something for you to wear to dinner."

  Joy knew she could probably conjure up something with a semblance of competence—zapping up clothing was one of her strong points. But how would she explain its miraculous appearance? She glanced at the dress she wore. "If you could clean this dress, I could wear it to dinner."

  "Oh, no, ma'am. Dinner is always formal. There's enough stuff in the storage rooms to clothe the whole of Wiltshire. Besides, this being your wedding night, and all . . . ” Polly blushed and gave her a shy look, then disappeared into the dressing room.

  Joy followed into the dressing room, slipping her clothing off as she walked, her mind on the maid's words. She hadn't thought of tonight. She'd been too worried about being a duchess and too excited about seeing her new home.

  Tonight was her wedding night with Alec. The thought brought her skin to gooseflesh, and she was suddenly chilled. Slipping into the dressing gown, she thought about what a wedding night entailed. It only took about a minute before she realized that Alec would most likely kiss her again. She grinned, then giggled, then hugged her arms and closed her dreamy eyes.

  If there was one thing that her mind's eye pictured as clear as Belmore's leaded-glass windows it was the image of kissing her husband again, being held in his arms, tasting him and feeling his mouth trail over her skin, his voice in her ear, saying, "Marry me, Scottish . . . Marry me . . . ”

  And now they were married. Husband and wife. Duke and Duchess. Laird and Lady. Her dreamy eyes flew open. Kissing wasn't the only thing that married couples did, if what her aunt had told her when she was twelve was true. Joy's cheeks grew hot. He would make love to her.

  Make love. Such a strange term. Did the act mean that the emotion was there, too? She hoped so, hoped it would grow if she lovingly tended it. She wanted to be loved, to have Alec feel about her the way she felt every time she was near him. She wanted him to need to kiss her as badly as she wanted him to. She wanted to mean something to him, to fill him with magic and love and smiles so he didn't have to hide.

  Polly walked back into the room. "I've started your bath, ma'am."

  "Oh, fine."

  "I'll go clean these things and fetch the gown for dinner." Polly picked up Joy's clothing. "Do you need anything else, ma'am?"

  "No. Thank you."

  The maid shut the door behind her, and Joy started to let her robe fall away, but her eyes caught the reflection of that other door in the mirror.

  What was a Bramah? She tightened the belt on the robe and walked over to the door. The handle, like all the door handles she'd noticed so far, was stamped with the ducal crest. She opened the door and stared into the little room.

  There was a low seat, the purpose of which was obvious, but it sat atop a porcelain bowl painted with purple irises and pink roses and a menagerie of birds. Joy peered down it, expecting to see the usual dark hole like that of the old garderobe at Duart Castle. But this bowl contained a small amount of water.

  Imagine that! Somewhat puzzled, she looked upward, following a brass pipe to another painted container above her head. It had a brass handle, the only one she'd seen without a crest, extending down, just waiting to be pulled.

  So she did.

  She stared.

  Water rushed into the bowl with the whirling sound of crashing waves. It swirled and rushed and then disappeared down the hole with a banshee wail. A moment later the room was silent.

  Joy stared at the thing, then covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. She pulled the handle again, watching in pure amazement at the workings of the Bramah.

  Ten minutes and twelve gurgling flushes later she let the robe fall to the marble floor of the bath and stepped into the deep tub. The water was warm and toasty and like sitting in heaven. Two huge brass handles shaped like dolphins and a matching faucet were mounted in the wall above the tub. She turned one, and cold water spilled from the dolphin's mouth. She turned the second, and hot water gushed out. Adjusting both handles so the water was perfectly wa
rm, she took the pins out of her hair and let the water pour over her head.

  Never in her wildest and most fanciful dreams had she imagined anything as divine as this. After a few minutes of decadent splashing, she lay back, completely relaxed, and closed her eyes, letting the warm water lap at her temples, jaw, and chin, imagining it was Alec's lips. Two relaxing, peaceful, and romantic minutes later her green eyes shot open and she sat up in the tub, suddenly remembering something else about tonight. Something she had to do.

  Tonight was her Armageddon, and it had nothing to do with kisses or loving or intimate things. She had to tell him she was a witch. The prospect was more frightening than a malediction. This was her wedding night—the most exciting and wonderful time of any girl's life—but for Joy it was also a time for revelation. As much as she dreaded it, she knew she must tell Alec exactly what she was, before they were intimate. She had to give him an out, and she hoped with all the optimism in her heart that he would not take that out

  She'd married him because she wanted to be his wife, to be loved by him, to fill the hollows she'd seen in him. He needed her so badly even if he didn't realize it. But she had to be honest with him now. She couldn't start this marriage out with a lie.

  Her hand sank into the steamy water and grabbed a piece of perfumed soap stamped with the Belmore crest. She vigorously soaped up her arms and neck, scrubbing and scouring as if she could wash away what she was, so that she wouldn't have to face the task ahead of her and take the chance of failing again.

  The Havoc

  Thou art wedded to calamity.

  —Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

  Chapter 8

  Joy was late. She ran down yet another never-ending hallway and heard a clock chime a quarter past the hour. Everywhere she went, she found door after gilded door and hallway after long, elegant hallway. According to Polly the dining room was on the main floor, so Joy had left her room in what she guessed was plenty of time. Polly had said to make three rights and then a left and a right and she'd see the staircase. But Joy must have taken a wrong turn, because she'd been rambling and wandering through hallways and galleries, and although she'd tried to retrace her steps, she was now hopelessly lost.

  "At least a hundred servants in this place and I haven't run into a single one," she told a huge portrait of some sour-faced Castlemaine. "Where is everyone?" The portrait was about as talkative as her husband. She rounded the corner and stared at yet another long, empty corridor.

  Another cruel clock chimed. Now she was a half hour late. Beginning to panic, she lifted up the heavy silk skirts on the outdated but exquisite rose and gold silk gown Polly had brought her and ran like a heather hellion toward the next hallway. She looked in both directions. She could turn left or right, and both were equally long corridors.

  "His Grace likes dinner on time," Mrs. Watley had said. "Precisely at nine o'clock. A Belmore tradition."

  Joy clenched her gown and looked around her…lost. "Why would anyone want to live in a house this big?" She could just see Alec's face, then the image changed to that of Mrs. Watley, her arms crossed over her black bombazine-covered crow's chest, her foot tapping with impatience and her eyes glaring down at Joy. She was late, late, late, and Joy was sure that was tantamount to stealing the Belmore silver.

  But, more important, being late was not a good way to start her marriage, especially when she needed to prepare her husband for her confession. Butter him up, so to speak. She stared at the clock. Its hands did not lie. The time for buttering up was past, way past. She chewed on her lower lip.

  The hands of a clock? An idea began to glimmer in Joy's eyes. She closed them for a full minute of concentration, took a deep breath, pointed at the clock, and chanted, "Oh, please listen to my rhyme. Turn back the time on every clock in this home of mine!"

  She slowly moved her pointed finger and the hands on the clock followed suit until it was two minutes to nine. She smiled. It had worked! Feeling incredibly proud of herself, she looked down both hallways and decided it was time for a bit more magic.

  Raising her chin and hands high in the air, she closed her eyes, trying to picture a dining room. Unable to imagine what Belmore's dining room would look like, she concentrated on the food—roasted chickens and ducklings, plump roasts of beef and fresh breads, fruits and jellies and platters of delicacies so delightful that her stomach rumbled with hunger. "Oh, magic come and take me away," she chanted, "to the room where Belmore's food lay!"

  An instant later she opened her eyes. Haunches of meat and plucked birds wrapped in protective salted cloth hung on hooks above her head.

  This was not the dining room.

  A sharp pang of ice cold air hit her. Shivering, she leaned one hand against what she thought was a wall and jerked it back.

  She was in the ice house. She blinked several times in confusion. The walls were blocks of ice beneath the sacking.

  Slowly she found her way to a wide plank door a few feet away. Something caught in her hair. She glanced up and then with a disgusted flick of her hand pushed a dangling chicken head out of the way before opening the door.

  She stepped into another dark, dank room, and promptly tripped over a lumpy sack of onions, landing on an equally lumpy mound of potatoes. Attempting to scramble to her knees, she clutched some bound stalks of asparagus, which snapped off with a fresh pop. She dropped the stalks and managed to get to her knees, only to find herself staring at a stack of rugged-looking rutabagas. Behind them was a shelf filled to capacity with jars of orange kumquats, peaches, and marmalade, red berry jellies and deep dark jams. The jars and containers of food went on and on, stacked on labeled shelves that appeared to hold enough to feed the world. The room smelled of the sea, of raw fish, and of vegetables still coated in fresh earth.

  Now she was in the pantry.

  But, she thought, at least I'm on the right floor.

  The door was slightly ajar and she could hear the bustle of the busy kitchen that lay beyond—the sizzle of food cooking, the clatter of bowls, the clink of crockery, and the voices of an army of servants hard at work. No wonder I couldn't find anyone, she thought. Sounds like they're all out there.

  Joy struggled to her feet, brushing her hands together to rid them of asparagus tips and dirt. At least I can ask someone for directions, she thought, stepping over another bulky sack and sidestepping a barrel of salted fish so she could open the door the rest of the way. She stepped into the room and stopped.

  The smells were heavenly. The rich mouth-watering scent of beef roasting on a spit mixed with that of garlic and lamb and mint. The sharp tang of cinnamon and nutmeg assailed her senses, and her stomach rumbled a protest against its empty state. Joy watched, completely unnoticed, while a dinner the likes of which she had never seen was created of the same stuff that hung so unappealingly in the pantry.

  A woman stood about five feet away, kneading some dough at a large worktable.

  "Excuse me," Joy said.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, then froze, except for her eyes, which nearly popped out of her head. She spun around, dough in hands, and sank into a deep curtsy. "Your Grace!"

  Within about three seconds the room was silent except for the random pop and sizzle of cooking meat.

  Every eye in the room was stunned and on Joy.

  "I seem to be a wee bit lost, and I—"

  An oversized set of double doors swung open, hitting the kitchen walls with a bang. The usually reserved Henson blustered into the room. "All hell has broken loose out there!" he announced. "They've lost the new duchess!" He scanned the kitchen where every servant was looking at one solitary spot in the room. His eyes followed theirs.

  Joy raised her fingers and gave him a tentative and sheepish little wave.

  "Your Grace!"

  Joy found herself staring at his bent head. "I'm afraid I've been lost. Would you show me to the dining room, please?"

  He straightened, once again the epitome of the stiff English servant, his shoulders back, chin raised, voice controlled. "Of course. If Your Grace will follow me . . . ”