Finally, Ashleigh spoke again. “Alice is going to marry Bancroft.”
“Is that what has you in a stew?” Merton asked in surprise. “Surely you saw that coming.”
Ashleigh frowned at him. “You knew about this?”
Merton laughed. “I would wager everyone who knows them saw it coming. She blushes like a school girl every time he comes into the room, and he stammers and trips over his feet like a school boy. Then he stares at her with a look of utter adoration and she tries to pretend she doesn’t see it. Don’t tell me you had not noticed.”
“But he’s a steward, for God’s sake, even if he is some distant family connection. How can my sister marry a steward? Could she not choose someone suitable?”
Merton glared at his friend. “I cannot believe you are saying this. Your father arranged an eminently suitable marriage for her when she was fifteen, and she spent the next, what, fifteen years? sixteen? being miserable and beaten down. Now she has recovered herself—and remember that you wanted her to recover herself—and found a man she loves, a man who loves her, and all you can do is complain because it touches your pride? Are you truly so high in the instep that you would deny her some happiness?”
Ashleigh had returned his gaze to the fire. “No, of course not. I want her to be happy, truly I do. It is only… it is only the surprise, I suppose. I did not see it coming. It appears I fail to see a great many things.”
Merton did not consider himself the most observant of men, but he had no difficulty seeing that whatever was troubling Ashleigh, it was not his sister’s proposed marriage. It had to be something more serious. He settled back down and waited.
The brandy vanished from Ashleigh’s glass.
Finally, Ashleigh spoke. “Kate—Miss Darling—hates me.”
Merton could not suppress a chuckle. “Surely not. I would wager a good deal that she loves you.”
“She did. She said so. But not anymore. Now she hates me.” When Merton tried to make protesting noises, Ashleigh simply shook his head. “No, it is true. I have made a mess of it, a terrible mess.”
“What could you possibly have done to make her hate you?” Merton asked with a smile.
“I asked her to be my mistress.”
“What!” Merton stopped smiling.
In response, Ashleigh smiled bitterly. “You see? After that, what could she do but hate me?”
Merton went over to the decanter, poured himself a brandy, and took a deep swallow. “You do know that she is my wife’s friend, do you not? In fact, since she appears to have no family other than Franny, Miranda asked me to stand as a brother to her. Do I need to challenge you?”
Ashleigh said nothing but directed a look of misery at his friend.
Merton began pacing. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? She may be poor, but she is a lady. Surely even you could see that. What were you thinking?”
Ashleigh lapsed into moroseness. “I wasn’t thinking, I was only wanting. I’m obsessed with her, Tom. I can’t think about anything but her. I ride around my fields and I wish she was with me. I try to read, and I see her face instead of the page. And at night—oh, God, Tom, at night! You have no idea.”
“I do have some idea,” replied Merton dryly. “But why in heaven’s name did you not ask her to marry you?”
“Because I am a duke. I am a bloody duke. And now she has a horror of me.” He leaned back and shut his eyes.
Merton looked at him carefully. “You asked her to be your mistress. Is that all you did?”
Ashleigh flinched.
“By God, Peter, I should call you out. She has no father or brother to do it, and she is my wife’s friend.”
The duke drew himself up. “I seem to recall that you and Miranda…”
“I always intended marriage and Miranda and I both knew it.”
It probably was not possible for Ashleigh to look any more miserable, but he seemed to. He leaned back and covered his eyes with his arm.
“That is what Kate thought? That you intended marriage?”
Ashleigh nodded.
They both sat there in silence, Ashleigh with his head bowed. Finally, Merton spoke. “Ah, Peter, you damned fool. You will have to make it right. You will have to grovel, and I do not think you will enjoy it.” Merton paused when he heard a snore and realized Ashleigh had fallen asleep. He considered ringing for a footman to help him move Ashleigh to the couch but decided to leave him where he was. He deserved a stiff neck to go with the aching head he would have in the morning.
Chapter Sixteen
Ashleigh stirred and winced. His neck was stiff. He awakened sufficiently to realize he was not in his bed, and pried his eyes open. He was not in his room, either. He was… he was in Merton’s library. Memory came rushing in. He closed his eyes again, and swallowed to keep down the bile of self-disgust. How could he have been so dishonorable? How could he have used Kate so miserably?
Could she ever forgive him?
He could not bear to lose her. He would beg her to marry him, but would she accept him? After his arrogant, selfish, idiotic behavior yesterday, would her pride make her throw his proposal back in his face? Because God knew, she had pride aplenty.
He heaved himself out of the chair and held on to it, swaying slightly, as he waited for his head to stop spinning. He rubbed a hand along his unshaven cheek and looked down at his stained and wrinkled clothing. With a laugh of self-contempt he thought of the times he had chastised Merton for his disheveled appearance. No matter what the state of Merton’s clothes, his soul had always been clean and honorable. He wished he could believe the same of himself.
The door opened and Merton came in, along with the bright light from the hall. “Ah, you are awake. I came in to warn you. Miranda will be down soon and is looking for a dull knife with which to flay you.”
“I suppose you had to tell her.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. She is my wife, you see, and that is one of the things we do. We tell each other things.”
Ashleigh flushed, and Merton watched him.
After what seemed like hours, Merton spoke softly. “What are you going to do?”
“Find Kate. Make her listen to me. Beg her to marry me.” Ashleigh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I can’t lose her, Tom. I can’t.”
Merton nodded. “Do you want to clean up? Have something to eat?”
Ashleigh shook his head. “Can I borrow a horse, though? Hector came up lame on the way here yesterday.”
“Of course. Take Belial.” He grinned at Ashleigh’s look. “No, that’s not a comment on your behavior, nor on the horse’s. Belial’s good in the mud, and the roads are a mess after all this rain. He’ll get you to Lewes safely.”
*
Kate walked quickly along the riverbank, keeping pace with the tumbling waters, swollen by all the recent rain. She had cried herself out last night, and now anger was beginning to replace the sorrow. The anger was mainly at herself for being such a fool. There had never been any real possibility of marriage—deep down, she had always known that, even when she was deceiving herself into thinking that his words meant marriage. Dukes marry the daughters of important families, wealthy families, not the penniless daughters of families with contemptible reputations.
Now, her stupidity had ruined everything. Not only her chances of keeping him as a friend but also any possibility of taking over Mr. Prufrock’s bookshop. She must remember to tell him that he needed to find another buyer. There was no way she could stay in Lewes, not where she might see Peter—Ashleigh—the duke—she did not even know what to call him now. It would be intolerable for her, and perhaps for him as well. At least once she moved away, she could think of him as Peter and remember that he had once said he loved her.
Had he meant it? Perhaps. But that obviously wasn’t enough. Not for him. When she thought about it, he had not lied to her. He had never mentioned marriage. No doubt, it never crossed his mind that there was anything dishonorable in wh
at he had proposed, nothing dishonorable for a duke, that is. No one would ever suggest that he should not take a mistress, and the woman’s loss of honor meant nothing.
How could he have thought that? How could he claim to love her and then seek to condemn her to a life of shame and humiliation?
There was no point in thinking about him. It hurt too much. Instead, she needed to decide what to do now, where to go.
Not back to Yorkshire. They had probably already looked for her there, but they might go back, and she could not be certain that no one would let her brother know if she returned. Many people would assume that she belonged in his care. Nor could she go to her mother’s family in Shropshire. They would also look there. No place like Bath or Brighton, where gossip about newcomers might reach London.
Her mouth twisted angrily. She was so ignorant. She knew nothing of the world, nothing even of the country in which she lived. Aunt Franny had said she would go with her, but that was another source of guilt. He had been Aunt Franny’s friend, and she had ruined that as well. It was not that he would become her aunt’s enemy—she would never believe that of him. But her actions, her fall, had destroyed the ease and comfort between her aunt and the duke’s family. Lord and Lady Merton, as well, she was certain. They would all stand by the duke, not with someone whose very existence would now be an embarrassment for him.
Like a fool, she had convinced herself that what she wanted was possible, and her idiocy, her stupidity had ruined things for her aunt as well as herself.
Very well. She had been a fool, but she would survive. She had survived her brother. She had survived Farnsworth. She would survive this. There were other places, other towns, other shops. She would make a life for herself. She would.
She strode along, oblivious to her surroundings. With her head down, she saw nothing but the path at her feet. The river, tumbling over rocks and catching on fallen branches, was loud enough to drown out any noises from the road. So it was that she never noticed the scarlet carriage passing by on the road from London. The passenger in the carriage never glanced out, so intent was he on his own thoughts.
It was nearly an hour later when she finally trudged back up the road to Hawthorne Cottage, footsore and exhausted, but no closer to a decision about her future than she had been when she set out. Still preoccupied with her own thoughts, still staring down at the road as she walked, she was almost upon the scarlet carriage before she noticed it and recognized the crest. Not just the crest but the man standing beside it, leaning on a walking stick. He had obviously been watching for her, and when her eyes met his, he smiled.
It was a terrifying smile.
She froze momentarily, like a frightened rabbit, before she spun around and began to run, but it was too late. She ran right into a man who appeared in the road behind her. He grabbed hold of her and began to drag her back. She tried to pull away, to wriggle out of his grasp, and did manage to drive an elbow into his gut.
He let out a grunt, but didn’t loosen his hold. “Please, Miss, I don’t want to hurt you. Just come along.”
She threw her head back and connected with his jaw, but that probably hurt her more than it hurt him because all he did was say, “Please, Miss, this doesn’t help.” When she tried to drag her feet, he lifted her enough so she could do nothing but kick futilely at the air. He carried her toward the carriage where Farnsworth was waiting.
He stood negligently, resting one hand on that damned cane of his. He was, as always, dressed elegantly, even formally, in breeches and white stockings, with a silken waistcoat. When she had been dragged in front of him, still twisting and flailing, he bowed with mocking courtesy. “Miss Russell. You missed our earlier appointment. That was most ill-advised of you.”
“You can’t do this.” She would have screamed, but the struggle was leaving her winded. “You have no right.”
“I am the Earl of Farnsworth. That is all the right I need.”
“You are a filthy, disgusting pig.”
His smile turned to a sneer. “I will make certain that you pay for that discourtesy. You will soon regret having defied me.”
She lifted her head and spat in his face.
None of them moved as the spittle trailed down Farnsworth’s cheek. There was a sudden intake of breath from the man holding her, but no other sound. Even the breeze had stilled, and the birds were silent, as if nature, too, were waiting.
Then Farnsworth’s face turned purple with rage and his backhand blow knocked her back against her captor, hard enough to make him stagger. Dazed though she was, she could feel his grip loosen and began to struggle again.
*
Ashleigh slowed Belial to stare, puzzled, at the unfamiliar carriage in front of Hawthorne Cottage. Two strangers stood near it, one dressed as a workman of some sort, the other as a gentleman in an almost arrogant display of wealth. When the workman turned slightly, he realized that the man was holding Kate captive and kicked the horse into motion.
Then he saw the blow.
His roar of rage could doubtless have been heard across the Channel as Belial thundered toward the group. The two men turned at the noise and stepped apart, sudden fear showing in their eyes. He threw himself off the horse, which continued to gallop at the man brandishing a cane, who slipped as he tried to run for the coach. Ashleigh charged at the man holding Kate. He flung her at Ashleigh and ran. She crashed into him hard enough to knock him off balance, landing them both in the ditch beside the road.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the workman grab the other man, throw him into the carriage, and jump in himself. The carriage was already driving away and he could do nothing to pursue it. Kate was still striking out blindly, kicking and clawing, crying out in protest without any words. Ignoring the blows, he pulled her into his arms, murmuring over and over, “It’s all right, it’s Peter, I have you, my darling, you’re safe now.”
She calmed down enough to raise her head and look at him. “Peter?” she asked in confusion.
The trembling began then, and he held her close while she quivered in his arms, sobbing and gasping for breath. When the shaking finally slowed, he picked her up and carried her to the house, whispering soothing murmurs and endearments.
The door was standing ajar, but he did not notice the oddity of this. He carried her into the parlor, and laid her on the settee so he could kneel beside her. The mark on her cheek was vivid against the pallor of her face, and his hand curved around it, not quite touching her. “He hurt you,” he said flatly. “He will pay, I promise you.”
Still shivering, she looked around fearfully. “Where is he?” she asked in a whisper.
“He’s gone—fled. You’re safe now.”
Her eyes were still darting around the room and she twisted around for a better look. It was only when she bumped into his arm that she seemed to realize he was there. “Peter?” She blinked in confusion, a confusion that seemed tinged with fear. “How did you come to be here? Why are you here?”
“Please don’t be afraid. I have to talk to you. I have to beg your forgiveness.” He lifted her hands to his mouth to press kisses on them. “Forgive me, Kate. Please, forgive me. I know I behaved like the worst sort of arrogant fool, but you have to forgive me, you have to marry me. Please say you forgive me, I beg you. Say you will marry me.”
Kate shook her head impatiently. “You don’t understand, you don’t know…” She broke off abruptly. “Aunt Franny. Molly. Where is everyone? What did he do to them?” She leaped to her feet and swayed slightly. He reached out to steady her, but she pushed away and ran from the room. “Aunt Franny! Where are you? Aunt Franny!”
Franny? He had completely forgotten about her aunt.
Her fear was turning into panic. This was obviously not the time to try to talk to her. First this crisis, whatever it was, had to be dealt with. He hurried after her and took hold of her arm to pull her to a halt. “Calm down. Stop and listen. Do you hear anything?”
Like a trapped creature, she swung
wildly from side to side then stilled when she caught the faint tapping sound. “Where?”
“Back there.” He led her through to the back of the house and down to the kitchen.
Her cries of “Aunt Franny?” brought a banging from the pantry door. She tried to lift the bar from the door, but her fingers kept slipping until Ashleigh took it from her. The moment he lifted it, the door swung open. Franny Darling came tumbling out to grasp her niece in her arms. Right behind her were Cook and Jem, Molly and the other two maids. The women seemed unharmed, though they were sobbing and shrieking. The elderly gardener, who had a gash across his cheek and was limping badly, was muttering curses.
Kate and Franny were alternately clutching each other and frantically checking for injuries, all the while gasping “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
Ashleigh took charge and began to snap out orders.
He told Jem to sit down on a chair, checked to make certain that the limp was caused by a bruise, not a break, and sent Molly for water and bandages. Cook was told to start making tea for everyone. He herded Kate and Franny back into the sitting room without their even realizing that they were moving and settled them on the settee, still talking over each other. He stood apart from them, leaning on the back of a chair and waiting for them to wind down.
Eventually, they did so, and could manage to speak to each other, though they were still clutching hands.
“Was that the man, Kate?”
Kate nodded.
“You poor child. I had no idea—is he quite mad?”
“Oh, Aunt Franny, I am so sorry. Did he hurt you?”
“No, though he knocked poor Jem down with that nasty cane. Then that fellow with him waved a pistol around and locked us in the pantry. Disgusting fellow.”
“This is all my fault. I should never have come here. I swear, I would never have come if I had thought he might harm you.”
“Nonsense. Where else would you go? Next time, we will be prepared.” Franny was recovering her spirit. She reached up to touch Kate’s cheek. “But your poor face. Did he do that?”
A Debt of Dishonor Page 18