Blame It on the Duke (The Disgraceful Dukes #3)

by Lenora Bell

  As soon as he knew the particulars of Jane’s situation, he would offer Alice a full explanation.

  He never wanted her to think ill of him.

  Chapter 13

  Everything is therefore in the power of destiny, who is the lord of gain and loss, of success and defeat, of pleasure and pain.

  The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana

  A knock sounded on the door, rousing Alice from a fitful sleep that had been interrupted often to help Jane, who’d mumbled about the Yellow House all night in her sleep.

  Expecting Nick, Alice was disappointed to find March waiting outside the door.

  “You’re to go to the library,” he said without preamble.

  “Why?”

  “Because the doctor is waiting for you.” He shook his head. “You’re quite slow, you know.”

  Perhaps Nick had summoned a physician to examine Jane. “Where’s Lord Hatherly?”

  March tugged at his earlobe. “Not home yet. Went out with the cap’n last night and never came home.”

  “Never came home?” Alice exclaimed.

  “Come on, hurry up. Daft girl,” he grumbled as he started down the corridor. “Don’t know why ’e wants her ’ere.”

  “You needn’t be so rude. I don’t think—”

  “Then you really shouldn’t speak.”

  Indignant, Alice was about to make a cutting retort when she remembered what Nick had said last night: They’re not really servants.

  Apparently not. No one would pay wages for such insulting behavior.

  She intended to find out more about what he’d meant as soon as she saw him. She had so many questions. About Jane, and his servants, and . . . everything.

  Kali raced down the hallway and rubbed up against March’s ankles. The manservant made a face. “Oh, it’s you, you rodent of an unusual size.”

  Alice paused outside the door of the library. “Will you carry Kali outside for some exercise?” Now that Gertrude’s enclosure had been repaired, Kali could go explore.

  March lifted Kali and held her at arm’s length, scrunching up his already deeply wrinkled face. “Maybe it’ll run away,” he said hopefully.

  Kali purred, oblivious to his insults.

  “She won’t run away. She always comes back to me.” Alice scratched under Kali’s chin. “Have fun exploring, Queen Kali.”

  The grumpy March carried Kali away, muttering all the while about daft ladies and their precious royal rodents.

  Alice entered the library.

  A tall, well-built gentleman with dark hair, dark eyes, and light brown skin was waiting by the fireplace. Young—maybe the same age as she.

  “Lady Hatherly?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Forster.” He paused. “You’re expecting me?”

  “Actually, I’m not. Are you here for an . . . examination?” Jane had arrived in such mysterious circumstances that Alice didn’t know how much she could divulge to a stranger.

  “I’m the Duke’s personal physician. When you and I are finished, I’ll go and visit him.”

  He spoke with slightly accented English. An Indian accent, if Alice wasn’t mistaken.

  “Finished with what?” she asked.

  “Lord Hatherly led me to understand that you might require assistance in translating a Sanskrit manuscript. I’m no Sanskrit scholar, but I do read the language and would be happy to help, if I’m able. I apologize if my visit is a surprise. Is Lord Hatherly here?”

  “He’s out this morning.” Nick had asked someone to help her with the translation? When had he done it? And why? “Please have a seat, Doctor.” They sat in comfortable chairs arranged before the fireplace. “What part of India are you from? I will voyage to Calcutta soon.”

  “Then you travel to my home city. How do you happen to be in possession of ancient Indian manuscripts?”

  “My grandfather was a director in the East India Company and a collector of literature.” She wouldn’t reveal that his collection had been of a decidedly salacious nature.

  A momentary disquiet crossed Dr. Forster’s face, but he quickly regained his smile. “So your grandfather acquired the manuscripts directly from India.”

  She nodded. “And I will return them there. I’ll donate them to the Fort William College library for use by the Asiatic Society.”

  “Won’t Lord Hatherly have something to say about all this voyaging when you are newlyweds?”

  “He wants me to travel.” One month of marriage and then the freedom for both of them to pursue their disparate interests.

  “He’s a good man, Lord Hatherly.”

  “He is?” Alice replied. “I mean, yes, of course he is.”

  “He funds my research into the causes and treatment of mental derangement, especially milder cases, such as the duke’s, which I believe to be entirely curable.”

  This was news to Alice. “You believe the duke may be cured?”

  “I believe that Lord Hatherly’s care and attention to his father’s needs, and the wide berth he gives him in which to roam, are the best possible methods for attempting a cure.”

  “You mean that locking up lunatics is harmful for them?”

  “If the case is mild, locking away someone with a nervous or mental complaint and treating them with contempt and callousness can only exacerbate the malady, and in some instances may even hasten an untimely demise.”

  “How fascinating.”

  “The methods of care Lord Hatherly employs are quite novel,” the doctor continued, “and I believe they deserve serious study. Encouraging the Duke to continue cultivating his orchids has had an extremely therapeutic effect.”

  “I’m to visit his orchid conservatory today.”

  “You’ll be amazed. I’ve never seen a more beautiful collection.”

  Alice smiled at his enthusiasm. “I’m curious, doctor, whether you know anything about Lord Hatherly’s servants?”

  Dr. Forster ducked his head. “I’ll leave that subject for your husband to explain. You know, I’ve been attempting to convince him to write about his father’s case. Perhaps even publish a case study.”

  Interesting how he’d changed the subject so swiftly when she mentioned Nick’s servants.

  “But I’m sure you would rather speak of Sanskrit manuscripts than case studies, Lady Hatherly. What are you working on?”

  “I’ve been translating a fragment from a temple text on the subject of love and desire.”

  “The Ananga-Ranga?”

  Alice stared in surprise. “You’ve heard of the Ananga-Ranga? Well, this may be of some interest to you, then. The fragment I possess is believed by a scholar in Calcutta to be from The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana, referenced so frequently in other works, but much more uncommon.”

  “Extraordinary,” exclaimed Dr. Forster. “I’ve heard of this elusive Kama Sutra.”

  Should she go and fetch the manuscript? But the subject matter . . .

  “If you know of the work, then you know of its sometimes prurient subject matter,” she said carefully.

  “I’m a physician, Lady Hatherly. My trade lies within the intricate workings of the minds and bodies of men. You needn’t feel embarrassed. I would dearly love to see the manuscript. Perhaps another day.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Lady Hatherly. And I mean that in an entirely professional way,” he said with a quick grin. “I’d better, because Lord Hatherly is not a man I would wish to anger. I did bring a Sanskrit grammar.” He drew a small book from inside his coat. “Why don’t we study this today?”

  Alice returned his smile. “That would be wonderful.”

  It had been kind of Nick to ask the doctor to assist her. Of course, hastening her translation assured her timely departure, which must have been his reasoning when he asked Dr. Forster to help.

  Not because Nick was kind, or thoughtful, or any of the things he simply couldn’t be if she were to keep her heart an impenetrable fortress.
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br />   Nick arrived home dirty from the muddy banks of the canal and tired as hell.

  All he wanted was a hot bath, a comfortable bed, and a bottle of brandy.

  But when he headed to the library in search of the brandy, the sound of ringing, clear tones reciting words in a foreign tongue stopped him outside the room.

  He couldn’t understand a word, of course, but the sound of her voice . . . listening to those dulcet tones was like sinking into a steaming bath and feeling the ache in his muscles ease and his joints loosen.

  He hazarded a glance inside the room. He should walk on, find his bed, and sleep away this foolish feeling that he wanted to come home to the sound of her voice every day, but instead his legs carried him closer.

  Standing outside the open library door, out of her line of sight, he watched her poring over a book. Light brown head and dark black head bent together in concentration.

  Forster pointed something out with his finger and Alice nibbled on her lip as she focused her attention on the words, attempting the sentence.

  She stumbled over a few of the words but Forster seemed to think she sounded good. He praised her liberally.

  Watching anyone do a difficult task with skill and ease was a pleasure. She obviously took great pride in her ability with foreign tongues.

  He enjoyed the thought of Alice marching about the globe acquiring languages in the same way other ladies acquired new bonnets.

  Alice glanced up at Forster with a fetching tilt of her head, to see if she’d understood the words correctly, and Nick thought he caught an admiring gleam in her eyes.

  That’s when it struck him that Forster was too handsome.

  Why hadn’t Nick noticed it before?

  He’d known the doctor for years and greatly admired his research into cures for lunacy, but he’d never before noticed quite how much masculine beauty he possessed.

  Fine black eyes, tousled hair, pouting lips . . . he was a maiden’s fantasy.

  And now he was touching Alice’s hand, guiding her fingers along a line of text.

  A rush of jealousy grabbed hold of Nick’s heart.

  You’re tired. You’re imagining things.

  And even if you’re not, you’ve no right to jealousy. She’s not yours. She never was, and she never will be. Walk away. Find your bed.

  He strode into the library, all thoughts of sleep forgotten in this unfamiliar rush of possessiveness.

  Forster in his fresh linen and gleaming boots made Nick feel a mud-spattered brute.

  “Lord Hatherly,” Forster said enthusiastically. “You have an extraordinarily clever wife.” His dark eyes shone with approval.

  Nick didn’t like how shiny the man’s eyes were.

  Alice smiled at Forster, and Nick had the entirely irrational thought that he should be the only person in the world to see her dimples.

  Nick must have betrayed something of the direction of his thoughts on his face, because Forster pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “I say, is that the time? I should be examining His Grace. It was a great pleasure, Lady Hatherly. I wish you the best of luck with your translation, and your travels.”

  Forster bowed over her hand. Did he kiss it? Not quite. But too close for Nick’s tastes.

  What’s wrong with you? He can kiss her hand. Why should you care?

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” Nick tried not to growl, and failed.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Forster took his leave swiftly.

  Good man. Sensible man.

  When he was gone, Nick turned to Alice, who looked fresh and pretty this morning in another simple gray gown with her hair pulled back in a loose knot.

  He fought the desire to wrap his arms around her. She smelled so clean and wholesome. Like lavender and old parchment; a faintly rustling odor like the sound of a field of herbs ruffled by wind, or pages turning.

  Then he noticed the warning blue light flashing in the depths of her eyes.

  “Well?” She arched her eyebrows. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”

  “Um . . . good morning?” His brain wasn’t working correctly. He was too exhausted.

  Wrong answer.

  Her lips clamped together. “I mean do you want to tell me where you’ve been all night?”

  “I do want to tell you. But I can’t. Not yet.” He didn’t have all the details. Jane could be nobility. She could have a powerful, ruthless husband who would stop at nothing to regain control over her.

  If that turned out to be the case, then the less Alice knew about Jane, the better.

  Nick had witnessed too many lost souls committed to private asylums against their will. Left to die, lonely and chained.

  Husbands who locked away their wives because it was more convenient than obtaining a divorce.

  It made him so furious. And some of his emotion showed on his face.

  Alice obviously interpreted his expression in the wrong way.

  Red spots appeared high on her cheekbones.

  Nick reached for her shoulders and drew her closer. “Alice, I’m so very tired. Can we speak of this in a few hours, after I’ve had some sleep?” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll explain everything later today. Trust me.”

  “You keep asking me to trust you, Nick, but you won’t trust me. I’m your wife. I think I have a right to know where you’ve been all night. And what is the Yellow House? A brothel?”

  “It’s not a brothel.” Nick battled for control.

  She had helped care for Jane last night, and she did have a right to know more details, but he didn’t have those details yet to give.

  Her fists curled tight at her sides. “If one of your friends has harmed her in some way and you’re keeping it quiet . . .”

  He swiped a hand across his face, tension boiling in his blood. “Is that what you think of me? You truly think I could have something to do with her suffering? God, Alice. I’m a rake, not a monster.”

  Doubt flooded her eyes. “But what am I to think? When gentlemen use young girls as playthings there are tragic outcomes. Charlene has told me all about the horrors. She has a sanctuary for girls like Jane, who’ve been mistreated by men. Used. Abandoned.”

  He rotated his shoulder, easing the tightness of his muscles. “The Yellow House is not a brothel. None of my friends have anything to do with her misery. I’ll explain more when I know more. You’ll have to trust me, Alice.”

  “I’m to help without asking questions, is that it?”

  He could barely form coherent sentences, he was so exhausted. This wasn’t the state in which to hold a conversation with an accusatory Alice. “No, that’s not what I said.”

  . “I understand that perhaps your methods of communication are somewhat less, well, communicative than mine, but you cannot shut me out. There is a girl upstairs with haunted violet eyes and red marks that will soon be scars around her wrists. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t possess all of the particulars of Jane’s situation yet. Until I do, I don’t want to put you in danger by divulging too much.”

  “Don’t protect me and don’t patronize me, Nick. I have a right to know what’s happened to her.”

  Nick wasn’t accustomed to having to answer for himself.

  He was good in bed—not good with serious conversations.

  But he could see that Alice was shaking with hurt and anger and it tore at his heart to be the cause.

  He’d give her a brief explanation. But then he was going to bed.

  “The Yellow House is a lunatic asylum, Alice,” he said wearily. “Lear rescued Jane from almost certain death. I spent the night wading through a muddy canal, planting false evidence of her death by suicide.”

  He gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Hardly a sybaritic night on the town. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He made a curt bow. “I’m in desperate need of a bath and a bed.”

  He spun on his heel and left her standing there.

  Because she made him weak with wa
nting.

  He longed to bury his head against her fragrant skin and sleep upon her soft breasts. Beg her forgiveness, tell her he’d never keep secrets from her again.

  But she’d immediately assumed the worst about him.

  Well, what did you expect, Nick? She didn’t marry you because of your fine, upstanding moral character.

  He’d never cared before what anyone thought of him.

  And he couldn’t afford to start now.

  Chapter 14

  It is the opinion of ancient authors that a marriage solemnly contracted in the presence of fire cannot afterwards be set aside.

  The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana

  Nick and his friend had rescued Jane from a madhouse?

  Alice searched her mind, hunting for clues, and found them.

  Jane’s shorn hair.

  Nick’s personal connection to lunatics.

  Something he’d said last night when he’d been speaking of the duke: It would be enough to shut him away in a private madhouse where he would be made to suffer ill treatment.

  You misjudged him, Alice.

  Her emotions had been stretched thin and had frayed, like an old rope bridge across a river with one too many foot passengers.

  Hurt and anger kept the ropes stretched taut, kept her from falling into the waters below and drowning in the dangerous current of an entirely different emotion.

  Admiration. Understanding.

  Respect.

  She’d thought him an idle aristocrat and an arrogant rake. She’d thought there would be no danger of losing her head . . . or her heart.

  Had she made a serious error?

  First the tour of the portrait gallery, the anguish in his voice as he spoke of his father’s lunacy and his mother’s desertion, and now this.

  Rescuing women from madhouses.

  Drat! It was quite irritating, if one thought about it hard enough.

  Couldn’t he just fulfill his end of the bargain and be the selfish, pleasure-obsessed rake she’d contracted to marry?

  How could she give her body to him tonight, share in the intimate conversation that Charlene had warned her about, knowing that he was so much more than he appeared to be?