Читать книгу Confessions of a Duchess - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 11

HE HAD CHANGED. The Dexter Anstruther she had known before would never have spoken, acted or behaved like that. He had become a man who was hard, experienced and cynical. And she had taken her part in making him so.

Laura, her soaking gown and underclothes changed for a clean, dry set, sat before her mirror combing the tangles out of her hair. Her body still hummed gently, frustratingly, with a pulse of thwarted desire. Her breasts felt heavy and full and her whole body was flushed with arousal. Woken from four years of celibacy, it was demanding satisfaction.

With an uncharacteristic impatience, she slammed the comb down on the dressing table. Damn Dexter Anstruther! It would have been better if she had never met him.

When first she had known him, Dexter had been sent to catch the notorious highwaywoman Glory and bring her to justice. For that reason alone Laura, who had ridden out on more than one occasion with the Glory Girls, had kept out of his way. Rumor whispered that Dexter was one of the shadowy Guardians, the men who worked for the Home Secretary to keep the country safe against threats to law and peace within its own borders. The war against Napoleon had made everyone acutely aware of the danger from abroad but equally important and equally secret was the threat of civil unrest.

It seemed strange now to recall that when Dexter had first joined their house party at Cole Court she had barely noticed him as a man, except to register the fact that he was very handsome. That had been a fact that was difficult to miss, for he had dark, tawny, golden hair, sapphire-blue eyes and an impressive physique. All the housemaids had been in love with him and probably some of the footmen, too. His good looks had in fact initially made Laura wary, for she was familiar with being the plain one at the ball, the girl whom everyone overlooked. She would never in her wildest dreams have expected to draw the attention of a man who was as sinfully attractive, as utterly gorgeous, as Dexter Anstruther.

But slowly and so subtly she was still not sure how it had happened, Laura had started to become aware of Dexter in a different way. He was thoughtful, kind and he listened. Laura, accustomed to being ignored by her husband, found that being the sole focus of Dexter’s attention was extremely seductive. She had allowed herself to spend time with him; she had fallen in love with him without even really noticing and once it had happened it was far too late to save her heart.

She had struggled hard against her feelings. Her involvement with the Glory Girls was one secret she absolutely had to keep. And not only was she eight years Dexter’s senior, she was also a married woman, a duchess, and as far as everyone knew, a pillar of the community. There were endless reasons why her foolish passion for Dexter was doomed and so she had tried to ignore it, and him, as best she could.

Then, one afternoon, Dexter had found her alone and distraught after Charles had betrayed and deserted her and she had lost one of her closest friends. Dexter had comforted her and she had turned to him absolutely. She did not know when comfort had turned to desire and desire to passion. It had ambushed her utterly, taking her into uncharted waters.

But in the morning the fever had gone from her and she had seen her actions for what they really were. She had hidden her guilt and criminality from Dexter. Worse than that, she had been unfaithful to her husband, she had taken the virginity of a man eight years her junior; she had used him to ease her pain.

For Laura, unfamiliar with sensual pleasure, the night had been unimaginably blissful. But it was still dreadfully wrong. And when Dexter had begged her to elope with him, to run away from Charles and leave all her unhappiness behind, she had known that although she found the idea dangerously appealing, it would be the worst thing that she could do.

She could still see the expression on Dexter’s face when he had pleaded with her to go with him. He had looked eager and hopeful, with the kind of shining, new happiness about him that she remembered from when she, too, had been young. When she saw it, it made her feel every one of those eight years’ difference in their ages. She knew that if she took what he was offering she would ruin him forever. For a man of his age at the start of his career, with no money or connections, with nothing but a good name and integrity of spirit, to run away with a married duchess considerably older than he was himself, would be absolute disaster. The scandal would ruin him and he would never recover.

She had sent him away.

She had not done it gently. She had been deliberately cruel, for she judged that if she had explained her reasons he would have tried to override them and she would have been all too easily persuaded. She had hurt him and in the process she had broken her own heart as well as his. She had made him think her a faithless wanton. And now, four years later, she had had to send him away again still thinking she was a hypocrite and a whore.

Laura got to her feet and took an anxious turn across the room. When she had sent Dexter away before she had thought that would be the end of the matter. She had never imagined that the outcome of that passionate encounter would be her beautiful, precious daughter, Harriet.

It had taken her a long time to realize that she was pregnant. At first when she had missed her courses she had assumed that the misery and loss she had suffered had affected her cycle. She had been married to Charles for over ten barren years and during that time had gradually come to assume that there would be no children. Her childlessness had been a terrible grief to her, made all the more painful because she knew there was probably no cause for it other than the fact that her husband never came to her bed. When she had fallen pregnant with Hattie she had suffered no sickness in the mornings and had been out riding until her sixth month. Thinking back over that time, she wondered whether she had simply been denying her situation or had been so transfixed to find herself enceinte after all those years that she was afraid even to think about it in case it was all an illusion. Whatever the case, she said nothing until her friend Mari Falconer had challenged her gently about the pregnancy and then she had finally admitted to her oldest friend that the baby was not Charles’s child.

Laura put her hands to her head for a brief moment and then allowed them to fall. Her pregnancy had been a thing so precious and so closely guarded that she was afraid that if anyone or anything should threaten her baby or her future happiness she would surely run quite mad. And then Charles had arrived and had done precisely that. He had sworn to take the child away from her as soon as it was born. He had shouted at her and hit her, pushing her down the stairs…

Laura closed her eyes for a second to blot out the memory of that appalling scene. She told herself fiercely that she did not need to think about it now, or ever again. Charles was dead and his hatred could no longer touch either herself or Hattie. But she still felt unsettled and disturbed and she knew that the reason was Dexter. She had never imagined that he would come to Fortune’s Folly. She had never thought to see him again.

Dexter could never be allowed to know about Hattie for if the truth ever came out her daughter would be branded a bastard and her life ruined forever.

Laura felt cold even to think of it. She shuddered, feeling the goose bumps breaking out on her skin. She did not have any fears for herself or her own reputation if the truth were known; that mattered nothing compared to Hattie’s future. Nor did she believe that Dexter would ever deliberately hurt an innocent child, as Charles had threatened to do. But if Dexter knew Hattie was his daughter he might want some say in her upbringing. He might wish to acknowledge her openly. Infidelity and illegitimacy had made his family a laughingstock throughout his life. His parents’ offspring had borne the stigma of not knowing the truth of their lineage and she could not imagine Dexter would wish the same fate on his own children. He might suggest that Hattie be brought up with his own family.

He might try to take Hattie away from her.

A powerful wave of protectiveness swamped Laura. She would die before she relinquished her child. And she would do everything in her power to make sure that no rumor or whisper of scandal would ever taint Hattie’s future with her mother’s disgrace.

So she could never tell Dexter about his daughter. Hattie had to be protected at all costs. She had to remain forever unquestionably and officially the offspring of the late Duke of Cole. For the past three years Laura’s sole purpose had been to shield and safeguard her child and that would not change now.

Laura walked slowly through the connecting door that linked her bedchamber with her daughter’s room. Her sister-in-law, who had made sure that her children’s nursery was not only on a different floor but in a different wing of the house, had told her quite plainly that she was mad to spend so much time with Hattie.

“You are storing up trouble for yourself in future,” she prophesied gloomily. “The child will grow up thinking it natural to spend time with you and will be forever hanging on your skirts. Best to get her a good nurse and then leave her upbringing to the servants.”

Which, Laura thought, probably accounted for the dislike in which her niece and nephew seemed to hold their parents.

She picked up the framed charcoal drawing of Hattie that stood on the chest of drawers and studied it for a moment. Hattie was smiling, all round pink cheeks, tiny rosebud mouth and tumbled black curls. She did not look like Dexter. She had Laura’s hazel eyes and Laura’s grandfather’s coloring, but apart from that Laura thought she resembled no one in particular. She was her own person.

Laura’s heart eased slightly. Perhaps Dexter would not even recognize Hattie were he to see her in the village. Why should he, when she did not resemble him? Perhaps, Laura thought with a flash of bitterness, he would not believe Hattie to be his even if she did tell him. Since he thought Laura herself to be a faithless wanton he would think Hattie’s father could be one of any number of men.

But even so, she could not risk it. She would not hide Hattie away, of course, for people would notice that and talk, but she would have to be very careful.

She was so deep in her thoughts that she missed the sound of the front door opening and footsteps on the stair. A moment later the door of the room burst open and Hattie flung herself on Laura, a sticky, stripy piece of candy clutched in her hand. Judging by the way her cheeks were bulging, Laura suspected that the rest of the sweet—a rather large piece by the looks of it—was already in her mouth. She bent and scooped Hattie up in her arms.

“Mama, Mama! Candy!”

“So I see,” Laura said, smiling over her daughter’s curls at the nursemaid, who had followed Hattie up the stairs and was standing in the doorway. “Have you had fun, darling? I hope you were good for Rachel.”

“Mr. Blount gave Lady Harriet some sweets, ma’am,” Rachel said. “I hope you do not mind. And Mrs. Morton gave her some lilac ribbons for her hair and a little scrap of lace to make a doll’s dress. Very generous, people are.”

“Yes, they are.” Laura kissed Hattie’s bulging cheek and smoothed a hand over her soft curls. She knew most of the shopkeepers in Fortune’s Folly pitied her the lack of a husband and her straitened circumstances, but because they felt uncomfortable giving a duchess charity they would always slip Hattie presents instead. Almost all of Hattie’s clothes were made from off cuts from Mrs. Morton’s gown shop and Hattie was likely to develop a very sweet tooth as a result of the grocer’s generosity, for scarcely a day went past without him leaving a small bag of sweets for her, or a packet of biscuits or a new cake recipe he was apparently trying out. Mrs. Carrington, who acted as cook housekeeper for Laura these days, grumbled that she was quite capable of making her own cakes, thank you, but she said it quietly because she knew as well as everyone else that without the generosity of their neighbors the household would in all probability starve.

“Mr. Wilson gave me two turnips,” Rachel said with a giggle. “He said Lady Harriet would enjoy making a lantern from one for Halloween and Mrs. Carrington can turn the other into soup.”

“That sounds delicious,” Laura said, “though I do not know how you managed to carry everything home.” She smiled at Hattie. “Will you enjoy making a lantern, darling?”

“Yes,” Hattie said, wriggling to be freed. Laura put her down and she turned her face hopefully toward Rachel. “ Can we make it now?”

“Not now, milady,” Rachel said firmly. “It’s time for nuncheon.”

“Don’t tell me,” Laura said resignedly. “Mr. Blount also gave you some hot-cross buns.”

“And some oaten biscuits and strawberry jam,” Rachel said. “He said it would only go to waste if I did not take it.” She held out her hand to Hattie. “Come along, madam. Time to wash all that candy from your fingers.”

“I can do it myself,” Hattie said with dignity, spurning her helping hand, and Laura smothered a smile.

“Proper independent, she is,” Rachel said. “You mind, madam. She’ll be walking into the village all on her own one of these days if we give her half a chance. Strongminded, she is, the poppet.”

Laura listened as Rachel took Hattie off to the closet to wash, her daughter chattering all the while about making the turnip lantern and wheedling a promise from Rachel that if she was a good girl they would go down to the water meadows to play. Laura listened with half an ear, tidying and folding Hattie’s clothes as she did and feeling a mixture of contentment and a strange poignancy that she could not quite place. Strong-minded, Rachel had said. Little Hattie, independent and bold and happy, with her ebony curls and her fearless nature…Pride and a kind of astonishment rose in Laura that she had produced such a miracle as her daughter, that she and Dexter together had created something so exquisite and extraordinary. She doubted she would ever stop feeling that sense of awe.

Guilt stirred in her. Dexter was denied the pleasure of knowing his daughter and of seeing her growing up. She was denying him that right and she wished she did not have to do so, but she had no choice. Never for a single moment could she risk Hattie’s future, her happiness and her security.

The echoing jangle of the doorbell broke her thoughts.

“Hello?” A feminine voice wafted up the stairs to her. “Laura? Are you at home?”

Glad of the distraction, Laura hurried down the stone stair and out into the hall. Carrington was nowhere to be seen. Yet again he had not heard the bell. Laura sighed. There was no point in bemoaning the shortcomings of either her butler or her housekeeper since she had deliberately kept them on to save them from an uncertain future. The health of both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington had been ruined in the last few years by the constant and excessive demands of the new Duchess of Cole and Laura, guilty that she had left her servants to Faye Cole’s mercy, had subsequently offered the Carringtons a new home. After a year, however, she was reflecting that it would have been better to employ servants to wait on them. Both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington were broken, shadows of their former selves.

Miss Alice Lister, Laura’s neighbor from Spring House, a neat villa whose garden bordered Laura’s own, was standing in the hall and peering through the door of the drawing room. She had a straw bonnet on her corn-colored hair and was clad in an extremely pretty cream-and-yellow-striped muslin gown with matching pelisse.

Laura liked Alice very much. Miss Lister had been ostracized by most of village society, especially those who were keenly aware of rank and status and were appalled that a woman reputed to be a former maidservant had come into money, bought herself a fine house and come to live amongst them. Such events went much against the natural order and the good ladies of Fortune’s Folly were not prepared to give Alice countenance. Then Laura had arrived, the biggest fish in the small pool of Fortune’s Folly, and she and Alice had become friends immediately. Laura liked Alice because she was neither servile nor ingratiating and she told things exactly as she saw them whether speaking to a duchess or a stable hand alike. Laura, surrounded by toadies for much of her life, found it refreshing.

“I did knock,” Alice said. “I thought perhaps you might be down by the river this afternoon—” She stopped. “Oh! You have been in the river.”

“How did you know?” Laura inquired.

“You have a strand of pond weed in your hair. What happened?”

Laura sighed. “I am not quite sure. I was in the rowing boat and I lost an oar, so I tried to paddle back with the remaining one but ended going in circles instead.”

“Never try to paddle with only one oar,” Alice said. “It does not work.”

“As I realize now. I grabbed at a branch and would have been able to steady myself, except that it broke and I drifted into the middle of the river and went over the weir.” Laura paused. Had she imagined that someone had given the boat a hefty push? She had seen nothing, for the sun had been in her eyes, but she had thought she had heard footsteps…

No. That had to be pure imagination. She pulled herself together as Alice gave a gasp and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Laura, no! You were not injured?”

“Fortunately not,” Laura said. “I should have jumped in and swum ashore but after I bumped my head I felt too sick.” She took a deep breath. “It was lucky that Mr. Anstruther was on hand to pull me out.”

There—she had mentioned Dexter’s name with barely a pang of emotion and felt proud of herself. In a little while, possibly months but hopefully only days, she might even be able to think of him without that complicated mixture of guilt and longing.

“Mr. Dexter Anstruther?” Alice said, eyes wide. “The mysterious gentleman who is staying at the Morris Clown Inn?”

“Yes. He was fishing nearby.”

“I thought so,” Alice said. “I passed him just as I arrived. He was wet and carrying several fish. That explains a great many questions I was asking myself.”

“Such as?”

“Why there was a pool of water on your front step and damp footprints in the hall for a start.”

“You have a talent for investigation,” Laura said. She hoped that Alice’s powers of deduction did not extend as far as working out what she had been up to with Dexter Anstruther in the warming room. She hoped none of her feelings showed on her face.

“I do.” A frown wrinkled Alice’s brow. “Mr. Anstruther is a little odd, do you not think?”

Odd was not a word Laura would have used to describe Dexter. Wickedly handsome, sinfully tempting and very dangerous perhaps, but never odd…

“Laura?” Alice had her head on one side and was looking curious. Laura gave herself a mental shake.

“In what way is he odd?” she asked cautiously.

Alice waved a hand about in a vague way. “Oh, I am not sure. I sometimes think that he behaves like an older man, for all that he can be no more than seven and twenty.”

“He is only six and twenty, actually,” Laura said, before she could stop herself. “What do you mean, older?”

“He seems very grave,” Alice said, “and responsible.”

“He may seem that way,” Laura said, “but it was only a couple of years ago that he was spoken of as one of the most reckless libertines in London.” A fresh wave of guilt assailed her. She had a terrible fear that Dexter’s fall from grace had been her fault. “Though he was extremely responsible beforehand.”

“Before what?” Alice’s bright gaze was penetrating.

Before I took his virginity and ruined his character…

Laura swallowed hard. “Before…um…Before he became a reckless libertine.”

“So he was responsible before, and responsible after, and something happened in the middle that made him behave differently,” Alice said thoughtfully. “I wonder what that was?”

“Yes, I wonder.” Laura moved a few of the ornaments on the dresser at random.

Alice’s bright, intelligent gaze was fixed on her face. “Anyway, how do you know?”

Laura’s confusion grew. “How do I know what?”

“Mr. Anstruther’s age. How do you know he is only six and twenty?”

“Because I know his mother,” Laura said, seeing that she needed to crush this line of conversation if she did not want to give away her feelings utterly. “We are of the same generation.”

Alice was diverted, as Laura had hoped she would be. “Oh come now, Laura, that must be nonsense,” she said. “You cannot be much above thirty yourself!”

“I am four and thirty to be precise, my child,” Laura said. She felt woefully irresponsible, for all her years. A bare thirty minutes before she had almost made love with Dexter Anstruther in her own drying room. How reckless and foolish—and, if she were honest, how utterly enjoyable—had that been?

But Alice had not finished with the subject yet. She lowered her voice and glanced conspiratorially over her shoulder. “The on dit is that Mr. Anstruther works for the government, you know.”

“There is no need to whisper,” Laura said. “Hattie and Rachel are upstairs and there is no one else about except Carrington and Mrs. Carrington, and they are as deaf as two posts.”

“You don’t seem very interested,” Alice said, crestfallen. “The trouble with you, Laura, is that you are so perfectly reserved and composed. Nothing seems to ruffle your calm. I suppose it is the natural consequence of being a duchess.”

“I am good at concealing my feelings,” Laura allowed. “That is the natural consequence of being a duchess.”

She privately reflected that she had not been either reserved or composed in Dexter’s arms. Wanton and abandoned were more accurate words to describe her state. But then Dexter was the only one who had unlocked a wild and passionate sensuality in her that she had never imagined existed. She had known passion in other areas of her life—no one who rode as hard as she did or took up the cause of injustice as fiercely as she had done could consider herself to be truly meek and conventional—but she had never imagined that she could make love with such unrestrained ardor. With Charles the idea had been laughable. With Dexter it was a wild reality.

But now for Hattie’s sake as well as her own she knew she must turn her back on Dexter and all that might once have been. She had to be the perfect dowager duchess once more, restrained and cool, gracious, a little distant and reserved. Violent passion was in the past.

Alice had brightened again. “At any rate, that was not what I came to talk about. Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?”

“I shall go and make it myself,” Laura said, moving toward the servants’ stair.

“Is Mrs. Carrington having another of her bad days?” Alice asked sympathetically, trotting along beside her as they went down the stair and into the kitchen.

“I fear so,” Laura said. “She was in so much pain that she could not lift the pans at breakfast, so I sent her back to bed with a hot brick.”

“You should get some more servants,” Alice said, “competent ones. You cannot be forever making the tea yourself.”

“I have Molly and Rachel, and they are perfect,” Laura pointed out. Molly was Rachel’s sister and acted as both maid of all work and Laura’s personal maid on the rare occasions she required it. Both girls were capable, good-humored and an asset to the household. “And then there is Bart to do the garden.”

“Bart is so old and lame he can scarcely bend,” Alice pointed out. “You do the garden yourself, Laura. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. With the exception of Rachel and Molly you run a home for incapable servants here.”

“Well, there is no reason why I shouldn’t make the tea myself,” Laura pointed out, a little defensively. She lifted the copper kettle and placed it on the hob. “There is no great mystery about making tea—or about cooking or dressing oneself, or growing vegetables, for that matter.”

“But you are a duchess,” Alice said, in horrified tones. “It is not right.”

Laura laughed. “I am a penniless dowager. And that is the marvelous thing. As a dowager duchess I can do as I wish. My relatives cannot interfere and tell me what to do—though they try—and I have no social obligations now that Henry and the dreaded Faye are Duke and Duchess of Cole. And after all, Queen Marie Antoinette played at being a milkmaid, did she not?”

“And look what happened to her,” Alice said gloomily.

“I have no intention of losing my head,” Laura said firmly, “either metaphorically or practically.”

“I almost forgot—I have shocking news.” Alice leaned her chin on her hand and fixed Laura with her bright brown gaze. “There is uproar in the town. We are in the most tremendous fix and it is entirely my fault. You will remember that I refused Sir Montague Fortune’s offer of marriage in July?”

“Of course,” Laura said, reaching for the tea caddy.

“Apparently in revenge he has dug up some ancient law that entitles him to take half our fortunes,” Alice said. “Oh, Laura, all unmarried women in Fortune’s Folly have either to marry or give Sir Montague their money!”

Laura put the caddy down slowly. “Surely you jest? That cannot possibly be legal. It’s iniquitous!”

“Apparently it is legal.” Alice looked tragic. “Even if we all sold our property and left the village we could not escape because it applies to all single women living here now. So I am wondering whether I should marry him in order to save all the other ladies of Fortune’s Folly.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Laura said, stifling a smile as she measured tea into the pot. “You refused Sir Montague for a reason, did you not?”

“Yes. I don’t like him.”

“Quite so. You would like him even less if you felt blackmailed into marrying him.” Laura took the singing kettle from the hob and added the boiling water to the pot. “Besides, I suspect that now Sir Montague has realized he can take half of the fortune of every woman in the village without matrimony, he will not settle for just one woman in wedded bliss.”

“I suppose not.” Alice raised her eyes to Laura’s face. “What is to be done?”

Laura reached the biscuit tin down from the shelf and pushed it toward her guest.

“Try these—oaten biscuits from Mr. Blount.” She sighed. “Well, for my own part, Sir Monty will make very little money out of me, for I have nothing but this house and a pittance to keep it up. But that does not mean I wish to give any of it away and I can certainly help the rest of you if you would like me to.” She smiled reassuringly at Alice. “I will write to my lawyer at once for advice on countermeasures that we may take. Then we will rally the ladies of the village to oppose Sir Montague. There must be plenty of steps we can take to thwart him. A meeting at the circulating library within the next few days, perhaps…” She felt an unexpected rush of excitement. It was a small thing to be organizing a revolt against their grasping lord of the manor but it made her feel as though she was doing something active and worthwhile. For too long she had lacked a cause.

Alice was looking at her with admiration. “How splendid you are, Laura! So practical! We will soon have Sir Montague retreating in disarray.”

“That explains Mr. Anstruther’s presence in Fortune’s Folly,” Laura said, struck by a sudden thought. “He must be here to look for a rich wife.” She felt her temper bubble up as she thought about it. The nerve of Dexter Anstruther, coming to the village with the intention of finding a bride and propositioning her to be his mistress at the same time. And he had once been a man of principle. He had been right. He had changed.

“The blackguard!” she said, her indignation growing. “Everyone knows he is as poor as a church mouse. He is no more than a fortune hunter!”

“He is not the only one,” Alice said. “I was tripping over gentlemen down from London on my way to visit you. I could scarcely make my way across the market square without being importuned by some adventurer or other.”

“Well,” Laura said, stirring the teapot so viciously that the liquid inside splashed onto the table. “They will find that the ladies of Fortune’s Folly are no easy target. The arrogance! To think that they can come here with their town bronze and sweep some heiress or other to the altar.”

She reached for the cups with a violence that put her ancient china at risk. So Dexter Anstruther had come to Fortune’s Folly hunting a rich heiress. Well, she would show him his mistake. He would rue the day he had come seeking a wealthy wife. She would see he did.