Ravished in Rose: The Brothers Duke: Book Four

by Felicia Greene

  Margaret’s thoughts were so tumultuous that she hardly dared to put her into words. Putting her hand to her brow, pretending that she was thinking, she waited for a desperate beat for someone to save her from the conversation.

  Henry. Please let Henry realise how savagely uncomfortable the situation had become for her.

  ‘We shouldn’t speak of this.’ Henry’s voice broke through the intimate atmosphere. Margaret looked at him gratefully, trying to temper the appreciation that had to be shining on her face. ‘We shouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, Henry.’ Robert waved away his brother’s frown with gentle lack of interest. ‘All I want to know is what Miss Barton would do with a woman who’s conduct is considered by all and sundry to be irredeemable.’

  Irredeemable. The word she’d been running from all her life. A sour, savage spark of something unstoppable rose in Margaret, a bitterness that she already knew she couldn’t keep entirely contained.

  ‘Well, Miss Barton?’

  ‘Well, Mr. Duke.’ She couldn’t smile. She could keep her tone pleasant, or smile–not both at the same time. ‘I would consider the wider questions that such a case brings.’

  ‘And what are those?’

  ‘That I have welcomed a huge number of young women into my offices, all of them terrified of having committed the smallest sin–from wearing the incorrect gloves at church to mistaking a French word for an Italian one. They all believed, correctly, that such mistakes led to a material change in their prospects for marriage. While the men that have come into my offices, despite having done things a thousand times worse than poor Miss Wilton, are all utterly secure in their belief that they will find a perfect wife. Women are judged harshly for their choices, whether they were made through will or circumstance, while men are allowed a much greater portion of sin that will pass unnoticed.’

  ‘But this is the way of the world, Miss Barton.’ Thomas spoke patiently, even as Robert looked at him with doubt in his eyes. ‘It’s a distressing reality, but reality all the same. Women are judged far more harshly.’

  ‘I know. Being disgusted with this particular reality doesn’t mean that I don’t accept it–but I certainly don’t condone it, and neither should any right-thinking gentleman dismiss a woman who made choices for which he wasn’t present or responsible.’

  ‘But this isn’t the choice to buy a hat, or ride astride! This is a deeply immoral choice!’

  ‘And I imagine she knows that. I imagine it will haunt her for the rest of her life. Any external punishment will be nothing compared to the regret that dogs her footsteps every second of every day.’ The sentence came out much more sharply than intended; Margaret bit her lip, but then went on. Now that she had begun to speak her mind, she certainly couldn’t stop. ‘And any abstract discussions at dining tables of the poor girl’s fate are useless at best, and actively harmful at worst.’

  It was certainly the most impolite she’d ever been at a dinner party. Only by spitting into the soup or spilling champagne on her dress could she have caused more of a stir. Margaret bowed her head, too frightened to look at anyone as she pushed a quail leg around her plate.

  ‘Well. A spirited defence from Miss Barton.’ Edward broke the silence, his casual lack of seriousness bringing the sudden tension in the room to an acceptable level. ‘I can hardly bear to imagine all of the sordid problems you’ve seen in your offices, Madam. The only profession worse off than your own is that of doctor when it comes to tragic cases–why, did I tell you about Stanley Hopwell? He’s striking out as a medical man, and saw the most unusual patient in a little village only a few miles from Stanton…’

  A nice change of subject, and one that Margaret was grateful for. In truth, all of the guests were already relaxing back into pleasure and ease; only Anne kept glancing at her, concern on her face. And as for Henry… she couldn’t look at Henry. Not yet.

  She smiled through the pudding, the fruit, the cheese, the ices, only offering the most soft and gracious of opinions about the dozen other subjects that came up in conversation. Only when the men were about to retire, the women talking of going into the morning room and comparing needlework, did she cause a stir again. ‘Forgive me, but–but I must go. I have a tremendous amount of work tomorrow. The ball…’

  ‘Of course. The ball.’ Thomas Duke smiled, even if his face made very clear that she had no idea which ball she was referring to. ‘Your carriage will be ready in a moment.’ He nodded at a footman, who ran in the direction of the stables. ‘I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening with us, Miss Barton, despite our excesses.’

  ‘Of course.’ It was best to play ignorant when something embarrassing was subtly referred to. ‘And as for excesses, I considered the meal very well-balanced. Nothing excessive about it.’

  ‘I… yes.’ For a man raised in an orphanage, Thomas showed a remarkable amount of breeding. But then, she was a nobody raised in a Covent Garden rookery—who was she to judge? ‘Do have a safe journey.’

  ‘I will. Do give my apologies to—’

  ‘Miss Barton!’

  Henry. Henry, a fraught expression on his face, running into the room. She couldn’t do this now—couldn’t speak to him now. Not in front of Thomas. Margaret half-turned, attempting to look normal rather than conflicted. ‘Mr. Duke. I’m afraid I must—’

  ‘Don’t go. My brothers are idiots.’

  ‘I… I must go, Mr. Duke.’ She gave no sign of having heard the criticism, even if it touched something impossibly tender in her deepest self. ‘Good evening.’

  She turned. As she walked out of the front door, held open by a butler who seemed determined not to see or hear anything of what had just transpired, she heard Thomas turn upon Henry with a furious whisper. ‘Henry, for the love of all that’s holy, if you bother that woman in my presence…’

  He wasn’t bothering her. Not in the slightest. But if she turned around and told them that, if she went to take Henry’s palm in hers and thank him for his loyalty, the evening would be even more of a chaotic failure than it had already become.

  She got into her carriage, assisted by the coachman. She turned away from the window, focusing on her white hands as the horses began to move.

  This had simply been a mistake. She had made many mistakes in her life–this wasn’t even the largest, even if it felt as if it was. Even if it felt as if her heart were going to beat out of her chest and fall into the road, only to be crushed by the carriage wheels.

  All would be well. She would find Henry a bride, and all would be well.

  After she had wept a little—a very little—all would be well.

  The after-dinner conversation was more subdued than imagined. Brandy and cigars were consumed over billiards among the gentlemen, while the ladies compared embroidery and new bonnets a touch more circumspectly than usual. Something remained very definitely unspoken, something not quite defined but powerful all the same–and it was a relief when ladies and gentlemen met again in front of the fire, with Charles Weldon getting immediately to the point.

  ‘Miss Barton gave a most spirited defence of that poor Wilton girl.’

  ‘Yes. She was most articulate.’

  ‘And passionate.’ Charles paused, his expression a combination of guilt and curiosity. ‘Not that I wish to pry, of course–but is she involved in charity work of that kind? Unwed mothers and so on?’

  ‘I honestly couldn’t say.’ Anne put down her needle, speaking with quiet precision. ‘Miss Barton is a dear friend, but she keeps many aspects of her life completely hidden from me.’

  Henry could smell the sharks circling. ‘Privacy is a virtue.’

  ‘I know.’ Anne looked shocked. ‘I suggested nothing else.’

  ‘It’s unusual, though. A woman so closed in on herself.’ Charles looked down at his brandy glass, apparently immune to Henry’s glare. ‘Do we know of her past?’

  ‘I know nothing of it.’ Anne turned to Thomas and Robert. ‘Have you ever heard of the Bartons?’

 
‘I know a fair few gentlemen with the surname of Barton, but none with daughters.’ Thomas laughed gently. ‘You’d almost think it was a false name.’

  ‘Lord. How unimaginable. Margaret Barton, the most correct woman in England, hiding a scandalous past.’ Charles smiled. ‘What a rumour that would be.’

  It was unbearable. Simply unbearable to have them all sitting there, casually prying into the life of the most important woman in his world as if they were birds of prey feasting on a carcass. Henry stood, his fists clenched.

  ‘You’re–you’re all vultures.’ If only he could stop his fingers from trembling. It was difficult to be corrosive and cutting if one was quivering during the most important part. ‘Worse than vultures.’

  ‘Henry!’

  ‘You heard me. You’re casually discussing the reputation of the woman I’m going to–’

  ‘Henry, before we continue, stop. Don’t let that sentence leave your lips.’ Thomas paused, his gaze hard. ‘I have no desire to know the precise details of your professional rapport with Miss Barton, but this nonsense about marrying her will stop. You’ll make her dreadfully uncomfortable, just as you did earlier.’

  ‘Thomas.’ Dorothea, his wife, looked at him with a warning gaze. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Not as much as Henry is.’

  ‘I don’t care if I am exaggerating. I spend my life trying not to exaggerate—trying to fit myself into the small, uncomfortable box that the ton has decreed will fit my frame, even though it’s dreadfully uncomfortable. I refuse to do it where Miss Barton is concerned.’ Henry glared, not caring who caught the sharp edges of his gaze. ‘You’re all being horribly unpleasant, and you should stop. Goodnight.’

  ‘Henry, you will apologise to the ladies present or—’

  ‘No. I won’t.’ Henry fought a stab of regret as he looked at Anne’s stricken face, but it was too late now. ‘Goodnight.’

  He made certain not to run as he left the room, even though he wanted to. He almost never shouted, even though he frequently wished to, and its after-effects were more frightening than he had imagined. Better to walk slowly through the safety of the empty rooms, trying to control his breathing, and make his way to one of the few places in the world where he felt safe.

  He had never had a place to be truly peaceful when they were at the orphanage. The other boys in his dormitory would find him anywhere he hid, pelting him with stones and pulling at his clothes until every square foot of the place screamed danger. Here in the townhouse, the first outward sign of both safety and privilege that Henry had ever enjoyed, the box room next to the largest bedroom was his chosen sanctuary.

  It was small. He would hit his head on the threshold quite frequently. But it was silent, protected from the chatter of his brothers or the traffic of maids and footmen, and his thoughts gained a clarity sitting in the middle of the floor that he could never attain in any other place.

  He closed the door of the box room, sat on the floor, and relaxed. Relaxed enough to unclench his jaw, at least. He waited for the footsteps of his brothers, knowing that they would come, and breathed a small sigh of relief when he heard them approach the closed door.

  ‘Henry.’ Thomas was using his peaceful voice. The one Henry only ever heard him use when a genuine wrong needed writing. ‘Please come out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can’t sit in a box-room for the rest of the night.’

  ‘John sat in his bedroom for a week when he thought he wouldn’t marry Anne.’

  A sigh came from behind the door that could only have come from John. Soon his voice came. ‘He has a point.’

  ‘I know I do. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Henry, please.’ Robert’s voice now, sounding more worried than the others. ‘I don’t want you in there on your own.’

  ‘I’ve never cared about being alone.’ Henry paused, frowning. He wasn’t sure when that had stopped being true, but it rang false to him now. ‘At least, I never cared before.’

  ‘Let me speak.’

  ‘Edward, if you say something that’ll make him more—’

  ‘Henry!’ Edward’s voice was a refreshing change. He sounded as indolent as ever. ‘I have an appointment with one of the Galbadon Club’s most creative courtesans in thirty minutes. Open the damn door and hash it out with us, or I’ll be late and it’ll be your fault.’

  Henry sighed. He did loathe lateness above all other vices–he certainly wouldn’t be able to bear Edward being late on his account, even for an appointment with sin. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’ As Henry opened the door, Edward nodded briskly. ‘Good man.’

  ‘I promise nothing. And I’m not coming out.’ Henry returned to his favourite spot in the middle of the floor. His brothers stared in at him as if staring at one of the Menbrake Menagerie animals. ‘You can apologise from there.’

  Thomas swallowed, evidently searching for the correct words to say. ‘Look. I—I didn’t realise that your rapport with Miss Barton had become so… serious.’

  ‘Not just on my part. She’s told me things that she’ll tell no-one else.’

  If Thomas was shocked, he made a great effort to not show it. ‘Then I apologise for assuming that you were… well. Bothering her.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘I… I know that our discussion of Miss Barton may have strayed into gossip, but—

  ‘You’re not to talk about her anymore. You’re not to think of her.’

  ‘Henry. Calm down.’

  ‘I won’t. I–I bloody won’t.’ Henry folded his arms. ‘I’ve had to be calm through each one of your unorthodox courtships, your sudden marriages. None of you can pretend that the way you met your wives was in any way sanctioned by society. The only difference between the women you love and the woman I love is that they had more choices. They could choose to be pure, and she couldn’t.’

  ‘Are you saying that—’

  ‘I’m saying nothing apart from the truth. That Margaret is just like the women you married, apart from a past that you have absolutely no right to enquire or speculate about. If you do so, you hurt her. If you hurt her, you hurt me.’ Henry glared at them all. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  The brothers looked at one another. Surprise and furtive curiosity flashed in their eyes, fading away to a mixture of sorrow and understanding.

  ‘We didn’t mean to be hurtful. Really. Whatever the truth of Miss Barton’s past is.’ John held up his hands, appeasing. ‘You must believe me.’

  ‘I don’t think you meant to be hurtful. But what do you always say to me when I hurt someone by accident? When I say something cruel, or make an unwise assumption? My intentions don’t matter as much as the result. The result in this case is that–is that I’m most dreadfully angry and upset.’

  ‘I have an idea.’ Edward yawned. ‘Go to her.’

  The brothers looked at Edward as if he had suggested a dip in the Thames. Henry frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Go to her now. Apologise for this evening. Tell her why you’re upset. Go on a wild, impetuous jaunt through London late at night and insist that she receives you. If the alternative is sitting here and being miserable, I highly advise you to have the carriage prepared and go to her. Or even better–walk there. Run.’

  ‘Edward.’ Thomas’s glare could have melted brick. ‘How dare you presume to tell Henry what to—’

  ‘I can presume to tell him whatever I like. I’m as much his brother as any of you are. And really, when it comes down to it, what on earth can any of these degenerates tell you about good conduct?’ Edward looked cheerfully at Thomas, Robert and John, who stared back with a distinct absence of good humour. ‘I’m as qualified as any of them. Just because they’re wedded now doesn’t mean they weren’t merrily debauching themselves before the–’

  ‘Stop.’ Thomas frowned. ‘I’ll have you know that Dorothea and I–’

  ‘I don’t want to know what you and Dorothea did, or do, or didn’t do, or don’t do.
I can already guess, and am thoroughly depressed at the picture it conjures.’ Edward turned to Henry, smiling. ‘Go to her. State your case. Tell her that you love her.’

  ‘I already have. After what happened this evening, I worry she won’t accept me.’

  ‘She may very well not.’ Edward paused. ‘But you won’t know unless you try.’

  What an evening. It had been going so well—so very, very well—before the Wilton girl had come up, and she had opened her foolish mouth. Margaret sat dejectedly at her desk in her study, too sad to even attempt to change for bed but too awake to fall onto her chaise-longue and sleep, the cold silk of her gown wrapped around her legs like a shroud.

  She had wept, but after a while even tears didn’t seem useful. Cecile had taken one look at her pale, tear-streaked face and had rushed to the kitchens, where a pot of chamomile tea was perfectly prepared. With that, and a subtle nod that communicated far more than cheap words every could, her maid had left her alone.

  If only she had managed to keep a cool head at dinner. If only she had kept silent, or changed the subject, or performed any one of the small conversational sleights of hand that she had so painstakingly taught the men and women who came to her for instruction. Instead she had made a fool of herself, embarrassed Henry, and… and…

  … and what did it mean in the end? Nothing. Anne, Charlotte and Dorothea would be too polite to speak of it, and Thomas and the rest of the Duke brothers would forget it in time. And no matter what Henry thought, no matter what he felt about it–well, it didn’t matter, because they weren’t courting. Even if she’d exaggerated at Menbrake, it could be explained to Henry as a sincere desire to aid and instruct him in his quest to become marriageable.

  She couldn’t continue. That was evident. What remained mysterious, even to her own self, was how utterly depressed she was by the logic of the situation.

  This… tenderness she felt for him couldn’t possibly be anything deeper.