Читать книгу The Inconvenient Duchess - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 8

Chapter Three

‘But that’s ridiculous.’ It had slipped out. That was not supposed to be the answer, she reminded herself. It was the goal, was it not, to get her away from scandal and well and properly married? And to a duke. How could she object to that?

She’d imagined an elderly earl. A homely squire. A baron lost in drink or in books. Someone with expectations as low as her own. Not a duke, despite what Cici had planned. She’d mentioned that the Duke of Haughleigh had a younger brother. He had seemed the more likely of the two unlikely possibilities.

And now, she was faced with the elder brother. Unhappy. Impatient. More than she bargained for.

‘You find my proposal ridiculous?’ The duke was staring at her in amazement.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t ridiculous. Of course not. Just sudden. You surprised me.’

She was starting to babble. She stopped herself before she was tempted to turn him down and request that his brother offer instead.

‘Well? You’ve got over the shock by now, I trust.’

Of course, she thought, swallowing the bitterness. It had been seconds. She should be fully recovered by now. She looked to St John for help. He grinned back at her, open, honest and unhelpful.

The duke was tapping his foot. Did she want to be yoked for life to a man who tapped his foot whenever she was trying to make a major decision?

Cici’s voice came clearly to her again. ‘Want has nothing to do with it. What you want does not signify. You make the best choice possible given the options available. And if there is only one choice...’

‘I am truly ruined?’

‘If you cannot leave this house until morning, which you can’t. And if the vicar’s wife spreads the tale, which she will.

‘I’m sorry,’ he added as an afterthought.

He was sorry. That, she supposed, was something. But was he sorry for her, or for himself? And would she have to spend the rest of her life in atonement for this night?

‘All right.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘If that is what you want.’

His business-like demeanour evaporated under the strain. ‘That is not what I want,’ he snapped. ‘But it is what must be done. You are here now, no thanks to my late mother for making the muddle and letting me sort it out. And don’t pretend that this wasn’t your goal in coming here. You were dangling after a proposal, and you received one within moments of our meeting. This is a success for you. A coup. Can you not at least pretend to be content? I can but hope that we are a suitable match. And now, if you will excuse me, I must write a letter to the vicar to be delivered as soon as the road is passable, explaining the situation and requesting his presence tomorrow morning. I only hope gold and good intentions will smooth out the details and convince him to waive the banns. We can hold a ceremony in the family chapel, away from prying eyes and with his wife as a witness.’ He turned and stalked towards the door.

‘Excuse me,’ she called after him. ‘What should I do in the meantime?’

‘Go to the devil,’ he barked. ‘Or go to your room. I care not either way.’ The door slammed behind him.

‘But I don’t have a room,’ she said to the closed door.

St John chuckled behind her.

She turned, startled. She’d forgotten his presence in the face of his brother’s personality, which seemed to take up all the available space in the room.

He was still smiling, and she relaxed a little. At least she would have one ally in the house.

‘Don’t mind my brother overmuch. He’s a little out of sorts right now, as any man would be.’

‘And his bark is worse than his bite?’ she added hopefully.

‘Yes. I’m sure it is.’ But there was a hesitance as he said it. And, for a moment, his face went blank as if he’d remembered something. Then he buried the thought and his face returned to its previous sunny expression. ‘Your host may have forgotten, but I think I can find you a room and some supper. Let’s go find the butler, shall we? And see what he’s done with your bags.’

* * *

She’d done it again. Marcus had been sure that six feet of earth separated him from any motherly interventions in his life. He’d thought that a half-promise of co-operation would be sufficient to set her mind at rest and leave him free.

Obviously not. He emptied a drawer of his late mother’s writing desk. Unused stationery, envelopes, stamps. He overturned an inkbottle and swore, mopping at the spreading stain with the linen table runner.

But she’d cast the line, and, at the first opportunity, he’d risen to the bait like a hungry trout. He should have walked out of the room and left the girl to St John. Turned her out into the storm with whatever was left of her honour to fend for herself. Or let her stay in a dry bed and be damned to her reputation.

But how could he? He sank down on to the chair next to the desk and felt it creak under his weight. He was lost as soon as he’d looked into her eyes. When she realised what she had done in coming to his house, there was no triumph there, only resignation. And as he’d railed at her, she’d stood her ground, back straight and chin up, though her eyes couldn’t hide the panic and desperation that she was feeling.

He’d seen that look often enough in the old days. In the mirror, every morning when he shaved. Ten years away had erased it from his own face, only to mark this poor young woman. She certainly had the look of someone who’d run afoul of his accursed family. And if there was anything he could do to ease her misery...

He turned back to the desk. It was not like his mother to burn old letters. If she’d had a plan, there would be some record of it. And he’d seen another letter, the day she suggested this meeting. He snapped his fingers in recognition.

In the inlaid box at her bedside. Thank God for the ineptitude of his mother’s servants. They’d not cleaned the room, other than to change the linens after removing the body. The box still stood beside the bed. He reached in and removed several packs of letters, neatly bound with ribbon.

Correspondence from St John, the egg-sucking rat. Each letter beginning, ‘Dearest Mother...’

Marcus marvelled at his brother’s ability to lie with a straight face and no tremor in the script from the laughter as he’d written those words. But St John had no doubt been asking for money, and that was never a laughing matter to him.

No bundle of letters from himself, he noticed. Not that the curt missives he was prone to send would have been cherished by the dowager.

Letters from the lawyers, arranging estate matters. She’d been well prepared to go when the time had come.

And, on the bottom, a small stack of letters on heavy, cream vellum.

Dearest Andrea,

It has been many years, nearly forty, since last we saw each other at Miss Farthing’s school, and I have thought of you often. I read of your marriage to the late duke, and of the births of your sons. At the time, I’d thought to send congratulations, but you can understand why this would have been unwise. Still, I thought of you, and kept you in my prayers, hoping you received the life you so richly deserved.

I write you now, hoping that you can help an old friend in a time of need. It is not for me that I write, but for the daughter of our mutual friend, Anthony. Miranda’s life has not been an easy one since the death of her mother, and her father’s subsequent troubles. She has no hope of making an appropriate match in the ordinary way.

I am led to believe that both your sons are, at this time, unmarried. Your eldest has not found another wife since the death in childbirth of the duchess some ten years past. I know how important the succession must be to you. And we both know how accidents can occur, especially to active young men, as I’m sure your sons are.

So, perhaps the matchmaking of a pair of old school friends might solve both the problems and see young Miranda and one of your sons settled.

I await your answer in hope,

Cecily Dawson

An odd letter, he thought. Not impossible to call on an old school friend for help, but rather unusual if there had been no word in forty years. He turned to the second in the stack.

Andrea,

I still await your answer concerning the matter of Lady Miranda Grey. I do not wish to come down to Devon and settle this face to face, but will if I must. Please respond.

Awaiting your answer,

Cecily Dawson

He arched an eyebrow. Stranger still. He turned to the third letter.

Andrea,

Thank you for your brief answer of the fourteenth, but I am afraid it will not suffice. If you fear that the girl is unchaste, please understand that she is more innocent in the ways of the bedroom than either of us was at her age. And I wish her to remain so until she can make a match suitable to her station. Whatever happened to her father, young Miranda is not to blame for it. But she is poor as a church mouse and beset with offers of things other than marriage. I want to see her safely away from here before disaster strikes. If not your sons, then perhaps another eligible gentleman in your vicinity. Could you arrange an introduction for her? Shepherd her through your social circle? Any assistance would be greatly appreciated.

Yours in gratitude,

Cecily

He turned to the last letter in the stack.

Andrea,

I am sorry to hear of your failing health, but will not accept it as excuse for your denial of aid. If you are to go to meet our Maker any time soon, ask him if he heard my forty years of pleadings for justice to be done between us. I can forgive the ills you’ve caused me, but you also deserve a portion of blame for the sorry life this child has led. Rescue her now. Set her back up to the station she deserves and I’ll pray for your soul. Turn your back again and I’ll bring the girl to Devon myself to explain the circumstances to your family at the funeral.

Cecily Dawson

He sat back on the bed, staring at the letters in confusion. Blackmail. And, knowing his mother, it was a case of chickens come home to roost. If she had been without guilt, she’d have destroyed the letters and he’d have known nothing about it. What could his mother have done to set her immortal soul in jeopardy? To make her so hated that an old friend would pray for her damnation?

Any number of things, he thought grimly, if this Cecily woman stood between her and a goal. A man, perhaps? His father, he hoped. It would make the comments about the succession fall into place. His mother had been more than conscious of the family honour and its place in history. The need for a legitimate heir.

And the need to keep secret things secret.

He had been, too, at one time, before bitter experience had lifted the scales from his eyes. Some families were so corrupt it was better to let them die without issue. Some honour did not deserve to be protected. Some secrets were better exposed to the light. It relieved them of their power to taint their surroundings and destroy the lives of those around them.

And what fresh shame did this girl have, that his family was responsible for? St John, most likely. Carrying another by-blow, to be shuffled quietly into the family deck.

He frowned. But that couldn’t be right. The letters spoke of old crimes. And when he’d come on the girl and St John together, there had been no sense of conspiracy. She’d seemed a complete stranger to him and to this house. Lost in her surroundings.

She was not a pretty girl, certainly. But he’d not seen her at her best. Her long dark hair was falling from its pins, bedraggled and wet. The gown she’d worn had never been fashionable and being soaked in the storm had made it even more shapeless. It clung to her tall, bony frame the way that the hair stuck to the sharp contours of her face. Everything about her was hard: the lines of her face and body, the set of her mouth, the look in her eyes.

He smiled. A woman after his own heart. Maybe they would do well together, after all.

* * *

She looked around in despair. So this was to be her new home. Not this room, she hoped. It was grand enough for a duchess.

Precisely why she did not belong in it.

She forced that thought out of her mind.

‘This is the life you belong to, not the life you’ve lived so far. The past is an aberration. The future is merely a return to the correct path.’

All right. She had better take Cici’s words to heart. Repeat them as often as necessary until they became the truth.

Of course, if this was the life she was meant to have, then dust and cobwebs were an inherent part of her destiny. She’d hoped, when she finally got to enjoy the comforts of a great house, she would not be expected to clean it first. This room had not been aired in years. It would take a stout ladder to get up to the sconces to scrub off the tarnish and the grime, and to the top of the undusted mantelpiece. Hell and damnation upon the head of the man who thought that high ceilings lent majesty to a room.

She pulled back the dusty curtains on the window to peer into the rain-streaked night. This might be the front of the house, and those lumps below could be the view of a formal garden. No doubt gone to seed like everything else.

Was her new husband poor, that his estate had faded so? Cici had thought not. ‘Rich enough to waste money on whores,’ she’d said. But then, she’d described the dowager as a spider at the centre of a great web. Miranda hadn’t expected to come and find the web empty.

Cici would have been overjoyed, she was sure. The weak part of the plan had always been the co-operation of the son. The dowager could be forced, but how would she gain the co-operation of the son without revealing all? Cici had hoped that one or the other of the two men was so hopelessly under the thumb of his mother as to agree without question when a suitable woman was put before him. But she’d had her doubts. If the sons were in their mother’s control, they’d have been married already.

To stumble into complete ruin was more good fortune than she could hope for.

She smothered her rising guilt. The duke had been right. She’d achieved her purpose and should derive some pleasure from it. She was about to become the lady to a very great, and very dirty, estate. She was about to marry a duke, the prize of every young girl of the ton. And have his heir.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. That was the crux of the problem. To have the heirs, she would have to become much more familiar with the Duke of Haughleigh than she would like. She was going to have to climb in the bed of that intimidating man and...

Lie very still and think of something else, she supposed. Cici had assured her that there were many types of men. And that the side they showed in the drawing room was not what she might see in the bedroom. She hoped not, or he’d spend the night interrogating her and tapping his foot when things did not go as fast as he’d hoped. She imagined him, standing over her on breakfast of their second wedded day, demanding to know why she wasn’t increasing.

‘Unfair. Unfair,’ Cici remonstrated in her head. ‘How can you claim to know a man you just met? Give him a chance.’

All right. A chance. And he had offered for her, when he’d realised her circumstances. He could have left her to ruin. If he could get over his initial anger at being trapped into a union, he might make a fine husband. She would try to make a decent wife.

And in a house as large as this, they might make do quite well without seeing each other. There was certainly enough space.

A soft knock sounded at the door. ‘Lady Miranda? His Lordship sent me up to do for you.’ A mob-capped head poked around the corner of the slightly opened door. ‘May I come in, ma’am?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’m Polly, ma’am. Not much of a lady’s maid, I’m afraid. There’s not been any call for it. The dowager’s woman went back to her people after the funeral.’

‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a lady’s maid, Polly, so we’ll just have to muddle through this together.’

The girl smiled and entered, carrying a tray with a teapot and a light supper. She set it down on a small table by the window. ‘Lord St John thought you’d be happier eating up here, ma’am. Supper in these parts is somewhat irregular.’

‘Irregular?’ As in, eaten seldom? Eaten at irregular times? Was the food strange in some way?

She glanced down at the meal, which consisted of a runny stew and a crust of dry bread. Certainly not what she’d expected. Too close to the poor meals she was used to. She tasted.

But not as well prepared.

‘The house is still finding its way after her Grace’s death.’ The maid bowed her head in a second’s reverent silence.

‘And what was the pattern before?’

‘Her Grace would mostly take a tray in her room, of the evenings.’

‘And her sons?’

‘Weren’t here, ma’am. Lord St John was mostly up in London. And his Grace was on the continent. Paris and such. He din’t come back ’til just before his mother died, to make peace. And Lord St John almost missed the funeral.’

It was just as well that she was disgraced, she thought. It didn’t sound like either of the men would have had her because of the gentle pleadings of their mother.

‘When will we be expecting the rest of your things, ma’am?’ Polly was shaking the wrinkles out of a rather forlorn evening gown, surprised at having reached the bottom of the valise so soon. There was no good way to explain that the maid had seen the sum total of her trousseau: two day dresses, a gown and the travelling dress drying on a rack in the corner, supplemented by a pair of limp fichus, worn gloves and darned stockings.

‘I’m afraid there aren’t any more things, Polly. There was a problem on the coach,’ she lied. ‘There was a trunk, but it didn’t make the trip with me. The men accidentally left it behind, and I fear it is stolen by now.’

‘Perhaps not, ma’am,’ Polly replied. ‘Next time his Grace goes into the village, he can enquire after it. They’ll send it on once they have the direction.’

Miranda could guess the response she’d receive if she asked him to inquire after her mythical wardrobe. He would no doubt give her some kind of a household allowance. She’d counted on the fact. Perhaps his powers of observation weren’t sharp and she could begin making small purchases from it to supplement her clothing. She turned back to the topic at hand.

‘And was her Grace ill for long before her death?’

‘Yes, ma’am. She spent the last two months in her room. We all saw it coming.’

And shirked their duties because no one was there to scold them into action. By the look of the house, his Grace had not taken up the running of the house after the funeral. ‘And now that his Grace is in charge of things,’ she asked carefully, ‘what kind of a master is he?’

‘Don’t rightly know, ma’am. He tends to the lands and leaves the running of the house to itself. Some nights he eats with the tenants. Some nights he eats in the village. Some nights he don’t eat at all. There’s not been much done with the tenants’ houses and the upkeep since he’s been away, and I think he’s feelin’ a bit guilty. And there’s no telling what Lord St John is up to.’ She grinned, as though it was a point of pride in the household. ‘Young Lord St John is quite the man for a pretty face.’

‘Well, yes. Hmm.’ The last thing she needed. But he’d been pleasant to her and very helpful.

‘He was the one that suggested we put you up here, even though the room hasn’t been used much. Thought the duke’d want you up here eventually.’

‘And why would that be?’

Polly stuck a thumb in the direction of the door on the south wall. ‘It’s more handy, like. This was his late duchess’s room, although that goes back to well before my time.’

‘H-how long ago would that be, Polly?’ She glanced towards the bed, uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping on someone’s deathbed, no matter how grand it might appear.

‘Over ten years, ma’am.’ Polly saw the look in her eyes and grinned. ‘We’ve changed the linen since, I’m sure.’

‘Of course,’ she said, shaking herself for being a goose. ‘And her Grace died...?’

‘In childbed, ma’am. His Grace was quite broken up about it, and swore he’d leave the house to rot on its foundation before marrying again. He’s been on the continent most of the last ten years. Stops back once or twice a year to check on the estate, but that is all.’

Miranda leaned back in her chair and gripped the arms. The picture Cici had painted for her was of a man who had grieved, but was ready to marry again. And he hadn’t expected her. Hadn’t wanted her. Had only agreed to a meeting to humour his dying mother.

No wonder he had flown into a rage.

She should set him free of any obligation towards her. Perhaps he could lend her her coach fare back to London. Prospects were black, but certainly not as bad as attaching herself to an unwilling husband.

Don’t let an attack of missish nerves turn you from your destiny. There is nothing here to return to, should you turn aside an opportunity in Devon.

Nothing but Cici, who had been like a mother to her for so many years, and her poor, dear father. They’d sacrificed what little they had left to give her this one chance at a match. She couldn’t disappoint them. And if she became a duchess, she could find a way to see them again.

If her husband allowed.

‘What’s to become of me?’ she whispered more to herself than to Polly.

* * *

The night passed slowly, and the storm continued to pound against the windows. The room was damp and the pitiful fire laid in the grate did nothing to relieve it. Polly gave up trying, after several attempts, to find a chambermaid to air and change the bedding or to do something to improve the draw of the chimney. She returned with instructions from his Grace that, for the sake of propriety, Miranda was to remain in her room with the door locked until morning, when someone would come to fetch her to the chapel for her wedding. She carefully locked the door behind Polly, trying to imagine what dangers lay without that she must guard against. Surely, now that the damage was done, her honour was no longer at risk. Did wild dogs roam the corridor at night, that she needed to bar the door?

The only danger she feared was not likely to enter through the main door of her room. She glared across at the connecting door that led to the rooms of her future husband. If he wished to enter, he had easy access to her.

And the way to rescue or escape, should she need it, was blocked. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She tiptoed across the room and laid her hand against the wood panel of the connecting door, leaning her head close to listen for noises from the other side. There was a muffled oath, a rustling, and nothing more. Yet.

She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. If he wanted her, there was no rush. She would legally belong to him in twenty-four hours. It was highly unlikely that he was planning to storm into her room tonight and take her.

She laid her hand on the doorknob. It would be locked, of course. She was being foolish. Her future husband had revealed nothing that indicated a desire for her now, or at any time in the future. He’d seemed more put out than lecherous at the thought of imminent matrimony and the accompanying sexual relations.

The doorknob turned in her hand and she opened it a crack before shutting it swiftly and turning to lean against it.

All right. The idea was not so outlandish after all. The door to the hall was locked against intruders and the way was clear for a visit from the man who would be her lord and master. She was helpless to prevent it.

And she was acting like she’d wasted her life on Minerva novels, or living some bad play with a lothario duke and a fainting virgin. If he’d been planning seduction, he’d had ample opportunity. If there were any real danger, she could call upon St John for help.

But, just in case, she edged the delicate gold-legged chair from the vanity under the doorknob of the connecting room. Remembering the duke, the width of his shoulders, and the boundless depths of his temper, she slid the vanity table to join the chair in blocking the doorway. Then she climbed back in the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin and stared sleeplessly up towards the canopy.

* * *

Marcus woke with a start, feeling the cold sweat rolling from his body and listening to the pounding of his heart, which slowed only slightly now that he was awake and recognised his surroundings.

Almost ten years without nightmares, since he’d stayed so far away from the place that had been their source. He’d been convinced that they would return as soon as he passed over the threshold. He’d lain awake, waiting for them on the first night and the second. And there had been nothing.

He’d thought, after his mother’s funeral, they would return. Night after night of feeling the dirt hitting his face and struggling for breath. Or beating against the closed coffin lid, while the earth echoed against the other side of it. Certainly, watching as they lowered his mother into the ground would bring back the dreams of smothering, the nightmares of premature burial that this house always held for him.

But there had been nothing but peaceful sleep in the last two months. And he’d lulled himself with the idea that he was free. At least as free as was possible, given the responsibilities of the title and land. Nothing to fear any more, and time to get about the business that he’d been avoiding for so long, of being a duke and steward of the land.

And now the dreams were back as strong as ever. It had been water this time. Probably echoes of the storm outside. Waves and waves of it, crashing into his room, dragging him under. Pressing against his lungs until he was forced to take the last liquid breath that would end his life.

He’d woken with a start. Some small sound had broken through the dream and now he lay in bed as his heart slowed, listening for a repetition.

The communicating door opened a crack, and a beam of light shot into his room, before the door was hastily closed with a small click that echoed in the silence.

He smothered a laugh. His betrothed, awake and creeping around the room, had brought him out of the dream that she was the probable cause of. He considered calling out to her that he was having a nightmare, and asking for comfort like a little boy. How mad would she think him then?

Not mad, perhaps. It wasn’t fear of his madness that made her check the door. Foolish of him not to lock it himself and set her mind at rest. But it had been a long time since he’d been over that threshold, and he’d ignored it for so long that he’d almost forgotten it was there.

He smiled towards his future bride through the darkness.

I know you are there. Just the other side of the door. If I listen, I can hear the sound of your breathing. Come into my room, darling. Come closer. Closer. Closer still. You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid of the future? Well, hell, so am I. But I know a way we can pass the hours until dawn. Honour and virtue and obligation be damned for just a night, just one night.

Too late, he decided, as he heard the sound of something heavy being dragged across the carpet to lean in front of the unlocked door. He stared up at the canopy of his bed. She was, no doubt, a most honourable and virtuous young lady who would make a fine wife. The thought was immeasurably depressing.