by Cheryl Bolen
''Pon my word, don't understand a thing you utter."
Radcliff picked up the Gazette. "It's just as well."
The latest dispatches of the battles in the Peninsula distracted Radcliff. Finally, he turned to Twigs, excitement leaping to his eyes. "Still want to buy colors?"
Twigs eyed his friend suspiciously. "Why?"
"I have a fancy to join you."
Twigs dropped his full cup of coffee. "Can't do that, my good man!"
"Why not?"
"Because you're not a younger son. Everyone knows only younger sons serve in his majesty's army and navy. Besides, you're a duke. Dukes don't rise to arms."
"The first Duke of Radcliff did. That's how he got the title."
"Different thing altogether."
"They're making Wellesley a duke. Says here he's to be called the Duke of Wellington."
"Still altogether different."
"Will you join me?"
"Does Duchess know?"
"Why must you always bring her up?" Radcliff said angrily. Though, truly, his anger was vented as much at himself for giving in to the weakness of loving his duchess too dearly. He really must get away from her. Perhaps then he could cleanse her from his being. And how better could he leave her than under the cloak of patriotism? That way, his honor would be preserved, and she need never know of his weakness.
Perhaps he would be lucky enough to die a hero's death in battle. Anything would be better than the torture of loving a woman whose heart belonged to another.
"You'd leave Duchess alone to have the babe? Why, she don't even have parents to care for her."
Radcliff crushed the newspaper and flung it into the fire. "If you're so bloody worried about Barbara, why don't you go take care of her?''
He stalked from the room, grabbed his hat and coat and began to walk about London aimlessly. Twigs was right to worry about Barbara's confinement. Radcliff himself could not bear to think of her alone in her agony.
But what of his own private agony? How was he to hold another man's babe in his arms and give it his name? His heart wrenched every time he pictured Bonny standing in the drawing room, the sun streaming through the window to highlight her glistening black hair. Then he turned cold when he pictured her taking Dunsford's hands in hers. He would never forget the haggard look on Dunsford's face. Bonny must have been saying goodbye to him before departing for Hedley Hall.
Radcliff knew Barbara's parting with Dunsford would be their last. She was too good to continue such deceit. Although he should be happy he would now have a clear field, the victory was hollow.
For still she carried the baby that very likely might not be his own.
Twigs's man, balancing a tray of empty wine decanters in one hand, opened the door to Evans.
"I say," Evans said, "is my master, the Duke of Radcliff, within?" He counted five empty bottles and winced.
"He left just moments ago."
Still eyeing the evidence of his master's recent occupation with the bottle, Evans asked hopefully, "There was a large group of gentlemen here?"
The valet shook his head. "Only Mr. Twickingham and the duke."
"Has his grace been here these four days?"
"Yes."
Evans lowered his gaze. "I do not suppose that his grace has a fresh suit of clothing?"
The man shook his head.
"Or a shave?"
Another solemn shake of the man's head.
Back on the sidewalk, Evans headed toward Radcliff House, his step slow, his mind a muddle. Wasn't this the life he wanted for his master? The carefree bachelor, running rather wild with other fashionable rakes, leaving brokenhearted women in his wake? Bloody fun his set had always had.
But it no longer seemed so fun. Evans feared the liquor would ruin the young duke. And the thought of how many times of late his master had neglected his rather exceptional appearance quite rattled Evans. Not to mention how the duke's careless grooming would reflect upon himself.
This would never do. The duke was too old to act the rake and too young to mimic a disoriented old man. His grace really should settle down. Got him a wife and a baby on the way. Why, he had no business sleeping in Mr. Twickingham's lodgings when he had his own grand town house. And, God only knows, the duchess was besotted with him. He really should be kinder to her.
Within half an hour, the page returned to Bonny with a note from Emily informing Bonny that she regretted she was unable to leave Wickham House, for she had developed a mild case of spots. The note conveyed Emily's displeasure over her cousin's poor health and promises to come to Radcliff House as soon as her spots cleared.
Bonny quickly wrote a note to Lord Dunsford to inform him that she had been unable to talk to Emily. She absently started to ring for the page, then realized she could not use one of Richard's servants to transport the letter to Dunsford.
Evans knocked on Bonny's study door, then entered the room as she shoved Dunsford's letter into a drawer of the escritoire.
She perceived a flicker of satisfaction on the valet's granite face. "You have located my husband?"
"In a manner of speaking, your grace. He has been at Mr. Twickingham's the past four days but had just departed when I arrived."
Bonny clutched at her breast. "Thank God nothing's happened to him."
"My sentiments exactly."
"Nothing's happened to whom?" Radcliff boomed from the door of his wife's study.
Evans bowed and left the room as Bonny flew to her husband, but instead of throwing her arms around him as she wanted to do, she was startled by his stiff manner. If she did not love him so fiercely she would have been repelled by his appearance. Four days' growth of a cinnamon-colored beard shadowed his craggy face. His clothes were wrinkled, his cravat carelessly tied. He smelled of stale liquor. Something in his eyes, in the grim set of his mouth, filled her with fright. For a flinch of a second she felt he stared death in the face, and her heart caught. Had she made him so miserable he didn't wish to live any longer? She spoke in a soft voice. "I was very much afraid I was a widow, Richard."
"Were you a merry widow, my dear?" he asked lightly.
"Not at all, I assure you. I've been dreadfully worried about you."
He strolled into the room and sat down at her desk, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You worry about everyone, my dear. It seems to be your purpose in life. If you aren't worrying about Emily's failing health or Twigs's mending leg, you're wanting to adopt every street urchin you see. You must try not to worry so much."
Bonny moved to the desk, placed her hands on her hips and spoke in a rising voice. "I am your wife. I am the Duchess of Radcliff, and I deserve the courtesy of you informing me when you choose not to come home. I will not live under your roof if you cannot accord me the simple consideration your wife is due."
His eyes followed her as she stalked across the Aubusson carpet. "And I am very sorry I allowed Lord Dunsford into our house. I shall never do so again."
He silently studied her for a moment, his face grim. Then his eyes flashed mischievously. "You look horrid, my dear."
Bonny burst into tears.
Still angry, he restrained from going to her. Nevertheless, it wounded him considerably to watch her cry.
She started to leave the room, when he addressed her sternly. "Have you eaten today, Barbara?"
She rounded on him. "What would you care that I haven't eaten in four days?"
"It does not please me for you to grow thin. I much preferred your body as it was when we married."
Bonny snatched a nearby book and threw it at him, then left the room.
Radcliff chuckled and rang for Mrs. Henson to take his wife a tray. He planned to stand over her and force her to eat.
After he gave the housekeeper her instructions, he opened Bonny's desk drawer to send a note round informing Twigs he had returned to Radcliff House. There he saw the letter with Dunsford's name penned in his wife's hand. He shoved the drawer back in, toppling a small Roman statue that st
ood at the desk.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perhaps it was because she had been in mourning that Richard had not spent time with her, Bonny thought. If she had been free to go to the theater and balls, he might have been content to at least spend his nights with her. During her sleepless night after Richard had finally come home, she had determined to ease back into society. And what better way to begin than by ordering an entire new wardrobe?
Besides, she was still angry with him. She planned to have Madame Deveraux fashion the most positively extravagant gowns that money could buy. She would go to the milliner's, too, and take every expensive head covering and bonnet in the shop. It was her hope that the enormity of the bills for her finery would set Richard's heart into palpitations. He deserved a bit of discomfort for all he had put her through these past months, and especially this last week.
How tormented she had been worrying about his safety, feeling totally inadequate as his wife and bearing the private agony of imagining him in the arms of Lady Lavinia Heffington.
But she had to push those thoughts from her mind and give clear instructions to the French modiste who now stood before her.
"Oh, but, your grace, the sapphire gown was made to be worn by you. You are so very lovely in it."
Bonny stood some distance back from the looking glass and turned first to her right, then to her left. Still it was not obvious that she carried a baby in her womb. At least in this dress. Gentle gathering of the delicate sarcenet under the bodice concealed the thickening of her midsection. "I like it very much," Bonny said decisively. "I shall have another in pink and another in lavender. But you must know I am increasing so you must allow extra room in the front."
Madame Deveraux made the appropriate congratulations on the duchess's announcement before ordering one of her assistants to bring in the turquoise lace gown for the duchess to try on in her private dressing chamber.
Lady Lavinia Heffington had not thought to pay a call at Madame Deveraux's today, but as she was riding her barouche to purchase ribbon, she saw a barouche bearing the Radcliff crest outside the modiste's. Her first thought was that Radcliff was there with that young wife of his. She remembered when he accompanied her to the shop before he married. He had particularly instructed Madame Deveraux to clothe his mistress in rich ivory silks and bright red lace. Her heart sank when she thought of how much she had lost to that scheming little country miss.
Then an idea occurred to her. She instructed her coachman to stop.
One of Madame Deveraux's assistants rushed to Lady Heffington when she entered the lavish shop. "Lady Heffington, how good to see you. Madame Deveraux has set aside a rust-colored silk she said would be most jolie for the beautiful Lady Heffington."
Lady Heffington flashed a mischievous smile at the saleswoman. "By all means, I must try it on at this very moment." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Place me in the dressing room adjacent to the duchess's, if you please."
The walls between the two chambers were very thin. Lady Heffington could plainly hear Madame Deveraux complimenting the duchess's beauty. "No other woman in London could do for this gown what you do for it, your grace," Madame Deveraux said.
Lady Heffington fumed. The exact words she always says to me!
Of course, she did have to admit the vulgar Bonny Barbara Allan was beautiful. Damned Radcliff. Must he always possess what was the most beautiful?
The shop assistant hung the rust-colored gown on a brass wall hook and assisted Lady Heffington into it. "How very beautiful you look, Lady Heffington."
Lavinia's lips curved into a smile. "Yes, Miss Clopham, this will do very well. Radcliff loves me to wear this color," she said, her voice louder than necessary. Her eyes on the looking glass, she bent forward slightly. "You do not find the neckline a bit too low cut? Radcliff does so glare when other men's eyes alight on my endowments. He is so very jealous! I shouldn't want to make him angry."
Miss Clopman nervously glanced in the direction of Bonny's dressing room and actually turned red.
Not as red as Bonny. Not only did Bonny feel as if her face were on fire, she felt as if a volcano were erupting within her body. Her worst nightmare had come true. All those nights Richard had been away from her, he had been in the arms of his former mistress.
Bonny would never know how she managed to take her leave of Madame Deveraux's establishment without making an utter cake of herself. She held the tears in check and, immediately after overhearing Lady Heffington's conversation, said in a shaking voice, "I will take the dress. Send this and all the others to Radcliff House and send the bills to my husband."
As Madame Deveraux assisted her back into her black muslin dress and pelisse, she thought, "At least I can call Richard my husband. Lady Heffington can never do that!"
Would that she could have his heart rather than his title, she thought as she settled into her barouche and instructed the coachman to take her for a drive through Hyde Park. She would gladly exchange being his duchess for being his lover, to have his love and to share his bed.
How peculiar it was to love a man so desperately she would sink to such a life. Had she no pride? Of course she had pride. Hadn't her pride kept her from tearfully declaring her undying love for Richard on a thousand occasions? At least she had been able to save him from such embarrassing confessions. She was glad, indeed, that she had spared him that and had held on to some semblance of dignity.
But it wasn't dignity that she sought. It was Richard's love. That was all she could ever want.
Yet she assumed it was Lady Heffington who had that.
Why had she ever allowed herself to marry him? Perhaps by now she could have got over this obsessive love for him.
And perhaps by now he could have happily been married to the woman he really loved. She put her head into her hands and sobbed. She had not only ruined her own life. She had ruined his.
Twigs only half listened to the prattle of the pretty Miss Carlisle, who perched beside him in his curricle, riding through Hyde Park on a mild afternoon. What the deuce had come over him lately? He hardly knew himself any longer. He had given up a chance to spar with Jackson this very afternoon in order to escort Miss Carlisle for her afternoon jaunt. And last night at the Rowlanders' ball he had very much wanted to box the ears of John Hargrove, who held Miss Carlisle much too closely while waltzing with her.
The delicate lady in question placed a pink-gloved hand on Twigs's arm and said, "Isn't that so, Mr. Arp?"
The silly gel had taken to calling him Mr. Arp after some character in one of those novels she always had her head poked in. Truth be known, Twigs rather fancied her calling him by a special name. "Tell me again, Miss Carlisle, about this Arp chap."
"Oh, he's the most dashing of heroes, I do assure you. He's tall, as you are. And, like you, he is every inch the sportsman. Takes to the hounds, is a noted swordsman, and an infamous pugilist. At first he takes little notice of the heroine. He's much too interested in his sporting pleasures."
"What changes him?"
"Rosemary–that's the heroine's name–makes him jealous at a ball."
"So then what does he do?"
"He fights a duel for her."
Twigs gulped. "Bloody illegal, they are."
"And glad I am of it. I would simply die if someone I cared about, someone like you, were to jeopardize his life for me."
Twigs sat taller, flicking the ribbons with authority, tilting his head ever so slightly. "If your honor were challenged, I would, of course, have to set things to rights, no matter how great the danger to myself."
Cressida linked her arm through Twigs's and nearly purred with satisfaction. "You are, indeed, my Mr. Arp."
He blushed and glanced about him. "Do wish we'd see Radcliff and Duchess. It would do her good to get out in the fresh air more."
"It's so very good of you to care for the duchess and not feel jealous of her for clamping your best friend in parson's trap. But I suppose you realize it was time Radcliff a
nd the others settle down."
"Quite so."
"You must be envious of the duke."
"Can't say that I am," Twigs said.
"You cannot tell me you don't envy Radcliff. He's got a lovely wife. A fine town house instead of bachelor quarters. And an heir on the way."
"Never thought about it–except for the part about having a little fellow. Always did want a little guy to teach the ropes."
"A little boy! It's the very same with me. How I would love to have a son one day."
He slowed his pace, cast a sideways glance at Cressida and swallowed hard. "Picture you with little golden-haired girls."
"How sweet of you. I would love to bear children of the man I love. A man like you."
He swallowed even harder. "Awfully nice of you."
"Have you given any thought to marriage, dear Mr. Arp?"
Not until the last five minutes, but all of a sudden, the idea of being married to the lovely Miss Cressida Carlisle seemed rather splendid. Not just the part about having a son, either. He particularly favored the idea of this pretty little creature being his wife. Fact is, he'd like to wrap his arms around her and kiss her thoroughly. He blushed again. He would like to do more than kiss her–after they were married, that is. "God's teeth, Cressida, call me Twickingham. If you'll do me the honor, it will be your name, too."
"Oh, Mr. Twickingham," she said breathlessly, "nothing could make me happier."
"James. If you're to be my wife, I expect you should call me James."
"James." She spoke the name reverently. "The name of the hero in The Secret at the Vicarage."
He turned off the heavily traveled lane down a little-used path.
Cressida placed a possessive hand on his velvet sleeve. "Are you going to kiss me, dearest?"
He reined his horse, faced his intended and drew her to him. She felt so very tiny in his arms, he was afraid of crushing her. But he had to admit he very much liked the feel of her. He wasn't sure if she found his lips or he hers, but he did know he found her soft lips even more to his liking.