Stephen took a deep breath. “I’m not joking, Claudia. Rosalind is my wife, and the Duchess of Ashburton.”
After a stunned moment, Claudia’s hazel eyes filled with fury. “You…you disgusting lecher. A gentleman beds his mistress, he doesn’t marry her. Have you no sense of decency? Of propriety? What would Father say?” She cast a loathing glance over Rosalind. “It would kill him if he knew what disgrace you have brought to us!”
Rosalind’s hand began to tremble within Stephen’s clasp. For an instant his own temper flared to white heat. He clamped down on it, remembering that one of his goals before his death was to build a better relationship with his only sister. If he didn’t restrain his tongue now, there’d be no hope of that.
“I’m sure the old duke would not have approved,” he said dryly. “On the other hand, I didn’t always approve of his actions, either, so that’s only fair.”
Claudia flushed violently. For a moment he thought she was going to hurl her reticule at him. “This is no joking matter! Merciful heaven, I’ve often wondered how someone with so little sense of decorum could be sired by a real man like Father. Or are you a product of one of Mother’s damnable affairs?”
“Enough!” he said sharply. “I know you are shocked. If I’d had the time, I would have broken the news to you more gently. But the fact is that Rosalind is my wife, and I will not allow you to insult her.”
“But you don’t mind if I insult you?” Claudia asked bitterly. “You’re a coward, Stephen, not worthy to carry the Ashburton name.”
Rosalind gasped at the vicious comment. Afraid she would say something, Stephen tightened his grip on her hand warningly. “I’m afraid that I can’t agree with your definition of worth.” He softened his voice. “Claudia, all I ask is that you take the time to become acquainted with Rosalind. When you do, you will realize that she will be a credit to the name she bears.” His tone became dry again. “Certainly she is more moral and ladylike than our own mother was.”
“If Father were alive, he’d disown you,” his sister said in a shaking voice. “Since he is not, I must do that in his stead.” She spun and headed toward the door.
Stephen’s anger was tempered by pity. “Claudia, I realize that no one could ever live up to your image of the old duke, and you resent the fact that I don’t even try. Nonetheless, the fact remains that I am the fifth Duke of Ashburton and head of the family. An estrangement will benefit no one, and will cause pain to those who are dearest to us. Can’t you at least try to accept me and the woman I’ve chosen as my wife?”
His sister stopped for a moment, her face turning chalk-white. “I can’t, Stephen,” she whispered. “I can’t.” She bolted for the door, tears in her eyes.
The silence after the door slammed was deafening. Stephen drew a shaken breath. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Rosalind.”
Though she was struggling to remain calm, her voice was unsteady when she turned to him. “I knew our marriage would cause trouble, but not that it would separate you from your only sister. Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry to be the cause of that.”
He drew her into his arms, as much for his comfort as hers. “The blame belongs to Claudia, not you. She spent most of her life struggling to please a father who could not be pleased. My brother and I, in our separate ways, came to understand that nothing we did would ever be good enough. Michael became an outright rebel, while I suppose I turned quietly subversive. But poor Claudia tried desperately to be the perfect daughter.”
He thought sadly of the times when they had played as children, Claudia patiently shortening her steps so that he could keep up. She had been a little mother, a role for which she had more talent than their real mother. One of the earliest memories of his childhood was her calling him to come to her for a hug. He’d always run right into her arms. “As part of her efforts, eventually she took on the worst of his prejudices.”
Rosalind hid her face against his shoulder. “Will your brother react as badly?”
“No. Michael will be startled, and possibly disapproving at first. But he, at least, will take the time to know you.” Stephen stroked her hair and hoped that he was correct in his analysis. “And when he does, he will understand and accept.”
She lifted her head and tried to smile. “Do you know, after you left this morning, I’d quite made up my mind to go into society with you so no one will think your wife is too vulgar to be seen. But now…” Her voice broke for an instant. “I’m not sure if I have the courage even to suggest that.”
His anger with Claudia turned into resolve. “By God, that’s the answer. We’ll deck you out in London finery and I’ll show you off to everyone. The fashionable world will know that the Duke of Ashburton is proud of his wife.” He kissed her, then looked intently into her dark eyes. “What happened with Claudia was the worst. Everything else will be easier. I swear it.”
He doubted that she was convinced, but she raised her chin bravely. “I’ll do my best not to disgrace you.”
“You won’t. Even though Claudia is carrying on as if I’ve committed high treason, I’m hardly the first lord to marry an actress. Elizabeth Farren was the daughter of strolling players, and she starred at both Covent Garden and Drury Lane. Now she’s the Countess of Derby, and quite respectable. So you see, there are precedents for our marriage.”
Rosalind smiled ruefully. “It sounds as if Miss Farren was a better actress than I. Does that make a difference in being accepted?”
“What matters is your character, not where you performed.” He thought a moment. “Since the word of our marriage has gone out on the servants’ network, by this time half the beau monde must know. We’ll have to start showing you off tonight, at Drury Lane. We can go to a modiste this afternoon, but it will take a couple of days for her to produce any new garments, which won’t help us tonight. Let’s see if Catherine has left anything suitable.” He took Rosalind’s hand and led her from the drawing room.
“What do you mean?” she asked warily.
“Michael and his wife use this house as their own, and Catherine keeps some of her most formal clothing here, since she has little need for finery in Wales.” His approving gaze went over her. “You’re a bit taller, but there’s a general similarity in size and shape. One of her gowns should do for you to wear to the theater tonight.”
Rosalind gasped and came to a stop, literally digging in her heels. “I can’t wear another woman’s clothing without permission! That is guaranteed to make an enemy of your sister-in-law, and probably her husband as well.”
“Catherine won’t mind. Truly, she won’t.”
Rosalind snorted. “Only a man could say that. Jessica and I shared a room for fifteen years, and I still would hesitate to borrow anything of hers without permission.”
“Catherine isn’t Jessica,” he said cheerfully. “Now come along and we’ll see what she’s left here.”
Rosalind gave in and let him take her to his brother’s apartments, largely because it was easier to go and hope there was nothing suitable than to argue with a man who clearly did not have a basic grasp of female nature.
Michael and Catherine’s rooms were as splendid as the ducal chambers. Rosalind entered uneasily, half expecting a man “with a thousand-yard stare,” as Michael had been described, to step out and scowl at her. But the apartment was quiet, the furniture under holland covers as the rooms waited for their occupants to return. Stephen led her to a dressing room with wardrobes at both ends. He threw open the doors of one. “What do you think?”
Rosalind’s eyes widened. Onstage she’d worn everything from crude rags to aristocratic discards that had been bought and altered into stage costumes. But she’d never seen such a magnificent collection of beautiful garments in one place. Shimmering silks, rich subtle velvets, cascades of intricate lace. Lady Michael had wonderful taste.
Suppressing the urge to touch the fabrics, she said, “Obviously Lady Michael has dark hair. These aren’t the right colors for me.”
He draped the dress across her, then turned her to face the pier-glass mirror. She caught her breath. The man had a damnably good eye for color. The blue-green fabric looked wonderful with her fair hair and complexion. “The gown is pretty, but it might not fit,” she said weakly. “There’s rather a lot of me.”
He grinned. “You have a gloriously feminine figure, a trait shared by Catherine. Try the gown on.”
She still hesitated. “This is terribly presumptuous.”
He shook his head. “Catherine was an army wife who followed the drum across Spain. She’s been threatened by French soldiers, searched for the wounded on battlefields, and nursed dying men in hellish emergency hospitals. As a result, she has a firm grasp of what matters most, and it isn’t clothing. She will not be disturbed to learn that you had need of one of her gowns for an evening.”
Stephen’s explanation was convincing in a way that his glib assurances hadn’t been. Silently she turned so that he could unfasten her morning dress. He’d become very adept at taking off her clothing during their honeymoon. The thought made her smile.
And he was right about the gown, too. The simple, high-waisted style suited her very well, though it revealed a rather spectacular amount of cleavage. She glanced down at the crystal-studded bodice dubiously. “Are you sure this will convince society that I’m respectable? It’s as low as anything I’ve ever worn onstage.”
He laughed and came to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. “You’re the height of fashion. Men will be dazzled and women envious. All you have to do is act gracious and regal, as when you played Hippolyta.”
She looked at his reflection in the mirror, his affectionate embrace and handsome face, and knew the image was one she would never forget. Every day she stored up more pictures to carry in her heart through the long years without him.
Hiding her sadness, she said lightly, “Can I carry Hippolyta’s weapons to defend myself? Since she was Queen of the Amazons, I’m entitled to at least a bow and arrows.”
“I have better weapons than that.”
He linked his arm through hers and took her downstairs to the study. “Watch. You’ll need to know how to do this.”
He went to the desk and demonstrated how to open a secret drawer. Inside was a key. After showing her a second secret drawer containing another key, he removed the painting of a landscape from the wall to reveal a safe. Both keys were needed to open it. She was touched, and a little awed, at his complete trust in her.
Inside the safe was a neat stack of papers and boxes. He selected the largest box. “The most important family jewelry is at the abbey, but there are some nice pieces here.”
He set the box on a table and flipped up the lid. “Your choice.”
She gasped at the glittering contents and wondered if she would ever take such riches for granted. Probably not.
After careful consideration she lifted out a necklace composed of elaborate openwork medallions in the form of a gold and cloisonné floral garland. In the center of each enameled plaque was a small, brilliant diamond. The gems would complement her crystal-studded bodice, and the bluish-green enameled leaves would pick up the color of the gown. “This should do nicely.” She lifted one of the matching earrings and held it to her ear as she glanced in a mirror.
He nodded. “The Hapsburg wedding collar and earrings. Very appropriate.”
“Are you serious?” She stared at the earring. “This was worn by royalty?”
“Only a minor princess,” he assured her. “There were a lot of Hapsburgs.”
She laid the jewelry back in the box, feeling suddenly depressed. Stephen had accepted her, but he had a degree of tolerance rare in any class. Could a foundling and actress really live among people who considered Hapsburg jewels to be among the less important family possessions?
The contrast in their stations produced a sudden, terrifying thought. If she bore a child after Stephen was gone, would his sister try to take the baby away from its “unworthy” mother? Alone, Lady Herrington could probably not manage that, but with the support of Michael, she might. If the new duke did not approve of his brother’s wife, Rosalind would be at the mercy of the Kenyons.
She took a deep breath, telling herself to rein in her imagination. That probably wouldn’t happen. And if there were any attempts to take her baby—well, she would run away to America and support her child by whatever means available.
Stephen touched her shoulder. “You’re very quiet.”
A thought took form in Rosalind’s mind, surprising but somehow right. For as long as she could remember, she had deliberately tried to blot out everything that had happened before the day the Fitzgeralds had found her. But if she was going to have a child, it was time to force herself to look at the past. Slowly she said, “I was thinking that I’d like to visit the waterfront someday soon.”
He understood immediately. “You mean where Thomas and Maria found you?”
She nodded.
He frowned. “Five or six miles of the Thames are used for shipping. Do you have any idea where we should start to look?”
She tried to recall anything that might help. “They’d gone to visit the Tower of London, then decided to explore the area a little. To the east, I think Papa said once.”
“That area is called St. Katherine’s, after a religious foundation that’s been there for centuries. It’s a warren of crooked streets and bad housing, which fits what you said about you scavenging.” He stroked her arm with one large hand. “We’ll go tomorrow. What do you hope to find?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure. My roots, I suppose.”
“It doesn’t matter to me who your natural parents were,” he said quietly. “Any more than it mattered to Thomas and Maria.”
“I know,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “But it matters to me.”
She looked at the Hapsburg necklace and felt a bleak, surprising stab of sympathy for Claudia. Neither of them would ever feel that she was good enough.
Chapter 24
Rosalind heard the murmurs begin as soon as she and Stephen entered the boxholders’ lobby at Drury Lane. As she held his arm and he greeted friends, she heard comments such as, “So there really is a new duchess,” “Does anyone know who her people are?” “The wretched female; I had hopes of Ashburton,” and one masculine voice murmuring, “It’s not fair that dukes get the most beddable women.”
Ignoring the remarks, Rosalind kept her head high and concentrated on the introductions Stephen made. To her relief, no one reacted like Lady Herrington. Everyone was polite, and most were genuinely friendly. That was because of Stephen; it was clear that he was held in high esteem and that his absence from society while mourning his first wife had been regretted.
Still, it was a relief to go up to their box. It had been a tiring day. They had spent the afternoon at the shop of London’s finest modiste ordering a wardrobe fit for a duchess. Stephen had been an active participant in deciding what his wife should buy. He’d pointed out, with perfect truth, that left to her own devices she would never spend enough money to be fashionable.
When they reached the Ashburton box, she looked around eagerly. Drury Lane was the largest, most splendid theater she had ever seen. Thank heaven Stephen had persuaded her to wear Lady Michael’s magnificent gown. Rosalind would have felt like a drab wren in anything from her own wardrobe. “It’s beautiful. How many people does the theater hold?”
“A full house is well over three thousand. After the old theater burned down nine or ten years ago, it was rebuilt to be the largest playhouse in London.”
She settled in one of the comfortable seats, spreading her skirts carefully. “I could become accustomed t
o such luxury.”
He smiled as he sat beside her and took her hand. “Good. I want you to.” His thumb provocatively stroked her gloved palm. “But my favorite theater will always be the barn in Bury St. James.”
“We didn’t perform there,” she pointed out.
“Didn’t we?”
The wicked gleam in his eyes made her blush. She lifted her fan to hide her smile and slowly wafted cool air over her heated face. Fans were convenient accessories for a woman onstage, and Rosalind was very good at using one. Elegant fanning was a vital skill when so many curious eyes were on the mysterious new duchess.
The play began, and at least some of the audience turned their attention to the stage instead of her. She leaned forward with excitement at Kean’s first entrance.
He was a small man with an oversize head, but his flashing dark eyes and stage presence were riveting. Tonight he was to do Othello, one of his most famous roles. He played the tragic, jealousy-ridden Moor with murderous intensity. Rosalind was so caught up by the performance that she forgot everything else, until Stephen’s hand clenched convulsively on hers.
She turned and saw that his eyes were squeezed shut and his body rigid with pain. “Stephen!” she whispered with alarm.
She started to rise, but his grip on her hand tightened and he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. Of course he would despise having his weakness made public, and the theater was so well lit that any unusual activity would draw unwelcome attention.
She forced herself to turn her gaze to the stage again, though she continued to watch him from the corner of her eye. Perspiration glazed his face, and his hand became chilly. Her whole awareness was attuned to him, to the point where his every labored breath resonated through her and she heard none of Kean’s thundering words.
Acutely aware that this attack was lasting longer than previous ones she had witnessed, she said urgently, “We should leave. Let me call a porter to help you.”
His eyes opened, flashing with real anger. “No.”
One Perfect Rose Page 24