Chapter Eight
It was difficult enough to keep one's eyes open on a normal morning in the House of Lords, but on that particular morning, Michael had to force himself to stay awake.
His eyelids felt heavy as the speaker of the house droned on about budget-approval for another of Prinny's vanity projects.
"As if the existing monstrosity isn't enough for him," Jack grumbled beside him, referring, to the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. The seaside retreat—which the Regent had built for the purposes of enjoying liaisons with his mistress Mrs Fitzherbert—was being extended yet again, at great expense to the crown coffers. "I'd like to vote against, just to annoy the gouty-prig."
"We did sincerely promise and swear to bear him true allegiance," Michael replied dryly, as a yawn escaped him. The Oath of Allegiance to the Crown, which every member of the House of Lords took, did not specify what one must do when faced with a Prince Regent who seemed determined to bankrupt the country in the name of beautiful architecture. There was much grumbling in the more liberal news-sheets about the excess of the upper classes, and if Parliament approved the budget for the entitled prince, Michael feared there might be riots.
After a few more minutes of dullness, the speaker dismissed the House, to mull over matters before the next day's vote, and Michael let out a loud sigh of relief. He was exhausted, having not slept one wink the night before.
"You're tired," Jack noted, with a devilish gleam in his eye.
"I am not," Michael retorted, though his words were somewhat hampered by a loud yawn. He did not wish to engage his friend in any ribald joshing—for he knew well that was what Jack was leading up to. And why shouldn't he expect to poke fun at a new husband who was visibly exhausted after his wedding night?
Most men would assume that Michael's tiredness could be attributed to spending the night entwined with his new wife on their marriage bed, but they would have been very, very wrong.
Instead of spending the night indulging in pleasure with his new bride, Michael had spent countless hours staring at the hangings on his bed, willing sleep to come.
His insomnia could easily be attributed to two things; desire and guilt. He had knocked on Katherine's door last night, sincerely wishing to apologise. The vision of her, hair loose and dressed just in her night-rail—though thank heavens she had seen fit to don a shawl before he entered—had lit a flame of lust within him. His need for her had been so great, that he had been too afraid to even step inside her bedroom, lest the last of his restraint left him.
For despite the depth of his desire, which was endless, Michael was also painfully aware that he must not pressure Katherine to do anything that she did not wish to. Their conversation before the wedding had been illuminating, not because of anything particular that they had said, but because of how Katherine had reacted to his anger.
She had thought that he would hit her. No, he corrected himself, she had expected him to hit her.
What had she endured whilst married to the late Lord Atwood, he wondered, that a slightly raised voice would cause her to throw her hands up to protect her face from a blow? Guilt coursed through him, as he recalled how he had snapped at her. Though he had only snapped because he was affronted that she could speak so calmly about him taking a lover.
Lovers, he corrected himself; his new wife had so little faith in men that she expected him to work through plural, not singular, women.
Not for the first time, Michael rued the day that he had decided to buy a commission in the army without first making Katherine his wife. Over the years, he had thought her fickle, for joining with another so soon, but now that he knew what her family were truly like, and something of what she had endured, he was stricken with remorse.
He had not offered her the protection of his name—he had not even thought to, he was so young and foolish. He had left her to defend herself, whilst he ran off seeking youthful adventure, and then had resented her for choices beyond her control. To say he felt guilty would be an understatement; he was devastated by his past actions and the repercussions they had wrought on Katherine's life.
He might not be able to change the past, he thought with chagrin, but he could try to make amends in the present. He would be a faithful husband, he would honour, protect and cherish Katherine. And he would not frighten her by revealing just how deep the desire he felt toward her ran.
Which no doubt would lead to even more sleepless nights.
"What say you to a nip of something fortifying, before we return to our respective leg-shackles?" Jack cheerfully interrupted Michael's thoughts, wearing the expression of a man who was quite content with being shackled to his wife.
"I can't see why not," Michael replied, and so the two men set forth for White's.
The club was bustling with gentlemen of a similar mien to them; namely aristocratic men who had spent a morning in the fusty House of Lords and were seeking a respite.
Michael nodded to acquaintances as he passed through the dining room. He noted that several heads swivelled to catch a glance of him, which he assumed meant that Lord Atwood had wasted no time in telling all and sundry just how the Duke of Elsmore had come to be wed. It galled him a little that there were some who might believe the hateful rumours spread by the viscount, but only a little. Anyone who believed such fripperies was not someone whom Michael would care for.
"My congratulations on your marriage, Elsmore," Colonel Matthews called, from his usual spot in the Queen Ann chair beside the fireplace.
"Thank you, Colonel," Michael bowed his head, "It must have caused quite the chattering, if it roused even you from your slumber."
The old colonel laughed heartily at Michael's gentle joshing, before settling himself back into the chair for a snooze.
"Lud," Jack looked from Michael to the sleeping colonel, then back again, "That's the first time I've seen him speak to anyone in years. Your marriage must have caused quite the stir."
"Philip used to say that he could not sneeze in the vicinity of a young lady without someone writing a paragraph on it," Michael replied with a wry smile, "And he had not even inherited the title. I expect the scandal surrounding my marriage will keep the tabbies chattering for years to come."
"There was no scandal," Jack was quick to defend his friend, "The only scandal is that you let that no good brother live. I would have had him hung, drawn and quartered for what he did."
"Yes," Michael replied, lowering his voice, "But this is one of the times where the truth is actually far worse than the rumour. Imagine how embarrassed Katherine would be, if the ton were to learn just how low her brother was prepared to stoop to pay off his gambling debts? I would far rather a few busybodies think me an overeager suitor, than for them to learn the truth. They would never let Katherine forget it, even though none of it was of her making."
The two men settled themselves into the chairs by the famed bow window, both lost in thought as a footman brought them their usual tipple. It was unfair, that should Toby's outrageous act become public-knowledge, that his sister would bear the brunt of the shame. The world was not kind to women, Michael thought sadly to himself.
"How did you settle matters with Harrington in the end?" Jack enquired, as he took a sip of the brandy the footman had brought.
"With some stern words and just a few punches," Michael replied wryly, indicating to the cut upon his lip. "I found him—after much searching—in Crockford's, about to lose his shirt playing five card loo. Crocky himself gave me the use of one of his private rooms upstairs to try and talk some sense into the lad."
"Did it work?" Jack asked curiously.
"Time will tell," Michael shrugged, "I have instructed my man to pay any outstanding debts—including the hefty tab owed at Crockford's—on the condition that Harrington returns to Surrey and never darkens the door of another gaming establishment again. I have sent one of my best stewards down to Harrington Hall to keep an eye on the lad. If there's any sign of rebellion, Harrington immediately forfeits th
e estate to me. It's in the terms of the agreement he signed. If he can manage to keep his nose clean, there's no reason why the boy and his mother can't live comfortably on the estate's income."
"And he was happy to sign?" Jack asked, watching him speculatively.
"He needed some persuasion," was all that Michael would offer in reply, "In the end, he accepted. He had no choice. It was my way or the poor house."
"There's not a lot of men who would take on such a burden," Jack offered, looking at him with admiration.
"I am just glad that I was able to lift the burden from Katherine's shoulders," Michael shrugged off the compliment. He was not seeking praise; he merely wished to make life a little easier for his wife.
There was a slight pause in conversation and Michael could see that his friend was desperately trying to refrain from enquiring about Katherine. The marquess had been with Michael through every turbulent stage of the romance between the pair; it was only natural that he was curious as to how it now stood.
"Er, and how is your lady wife?" Deverell eventually asked, having taken another sip of his brandy for courage.
"She is well," Michael conceded, "I left her in the capable hands of my housekeeper, who is keen to show her how the house is run."
"How romantic," Deverell quipped, with a definite hint of sarcasm.
Michael flushed at his words; he knew that he had fallen far short of what a newlywed bride desired, but he had no idea how to act romantically with a woman who he wasn't certain wished to be romanced.
"I have no idea what Katherine wants," Michael said gruffly, embarrassment making the tips of his ears burn red. "She isn't exactly an open book. I don't want to force any romance upon a woman who has given me no indication that that is what she desires."
"So instead you have decided to suffer in silence," Deverell said with a knowing smile, "How honourable. Though, you might permit me to suggest, that your honour might be stifling any chance of romance blossoming between you both."
"And why do you think that?" Michael asked, irritated by his friend's smug smile, "Katherine has given me no indication that she is in anyway interested in me in that way."
"Balderdash!"
Deverell's shout was so loud, that several heads turned to their table to see what the commotion was about. Michael flushed and waited for the interest to die down, before he gestured for his friend to continue.
"You can't say that Katherine has no interest in you, when the reason that you ended up leg-shackled to her is because you were caught in a passionate embrace," Jack continued in a low voice. "Your problem, Elsmore, is that you can't see the forest for the trees. You're too wrapped up in ideas of honour, nobility, and past mistakes, that you don't see what's in front of you. Katherine would not have kissed you if she had no feelings for you, and she certainly would not have married you."
Michael remained silent as he tried to digest his friend's words. It was true that Katherine had responded as ardently as he to their embrace. Was it possible that he was being too cautious with her?
"I don't wish to rush her," he said, feeling a little defensive, for Deverell did not know everything there was to know about his wife.
"You don't have to rush," the marquess shrugged, "But nor do you have to halt dead completely. What you need to do, dear boy, is brush up on your wooing skills."
"I wasn't aware I possessed any."
"Of course you do," Deverell protested, warming now to the topic, "All men do. You just need to let down your defences and allow your natural charm to shine through."
Michael, being a military man, was quite adept at quickly analysing battle plans. Deverell's belief that sheer charm would help him win the heart of his bride, was based on Deverell's own innate charm, which had once made him one of the most successful rakes in London. Charm was something the marquess had in bucket-loads; Michael, on the other hand, was about as charming as a brick.
Not to mention that flowery words and gushing sentiment did not come easily to him. He was a military man, not a poet, but he would try.
The conversation turned to other matters, and before long both men had finished their drinks.
"Well, I'd best be home," Jack said cheerfully, "Caroline wishes me to help her decide what wallpaper we will hang in the nursery."
"The nursery?" Michael quirked an eyebrow and the marquess flushed.
"Balderdash," he said again, though far quieter than the first time, "I wasn't supposed to tell anyone just yet. Caroline will kill me."
"She will not," Michael replied with a laugh, "She won't want to leave the baby fatherless. Congratulations old man, I can't think of anyone more suited to the role of a father."
"I can think of a dozen more suitable candidates," Jack replied glumly, his easy charm vanishing, "I'm not sure I'm cut out for caring for another living being."
It was a shock for Michael to see his friend in such a despondent state; he had been so wrapped up in his own affairs, that he had neglected his duty to his oldest friend. Michael beckoned the footman to fetch them another drink, and for the next hour he put all thoughts of his marriage from his mind, as he counselled Deverell through all his worries.
"I promise you," Michael repeated an hour—and half a bottle of brandy—later, "That you will not drop it on its head."
"You're certain?"
There was a slight slur to Jack's words and Michael realised that his friend, though now thoroughly cheered, was also thoroughly foxed.
"Quite certain," he said firmly, "Though if you don't return home soon enough, I fear Caroline won't let you hold it at all."
"Lud," Deverell checked his pocketwatch, "Is that the time? Until tomorrow, old friend."
The marquess clambered unsteadily to his feet and Michael followed suit; he had no desire to linger in White's alone, when his beautiful wife was waiting for him at home.
On the journey to St James' Square, Michael reflected on his friend's new status as father-to-be. It was so unusual for Deverell to be anything but confident, which made Michael wonder how he would feel at the prospect of becoming a father.
He had little to no dealings with infants and, in fact, as he thought on how tiny and fragile they were, he experienced some of the abject fear that Deverell had displayed earlier. There was something else there as well, though, that he had not expected to feel; longing. Oh, he did not long for any old child, but a babe born with Katherine, and as that was completely out of the question, he explored his feelings no further.
His desire for offspring was not so great that it superseded his need to have Katherine in his life. If together they could not produce a child, he would rather no child at all and his wife by his side.
Katherine.
Michael started as he realised that Katherine too would soon learn that Caroline was increasing. How would she feel? He knew that she would be filled with happiness for her friend, but would that happiness be tainted slightly by grief?
He vowed, as the carriage drew up before Elsmore House, to do everything in his power to ensure that Katherine did not feel at all despondent about her friend's news.
Once inside, Michael sought out Katherine, and found her in one of the smaller parlours at the back of the house, darning a rather familiar garment.
"I'm sure one of the maids could do that for you," Michael said, by way of greeting, with a nod to the dress in Katherine's hands. Her fingers were busy stitching the Van Dyke point trimming, which had been ripped off by Mr Kingston, back onto the neckline of the gown.
"I don't like to trouble them," Katherine replied with a shrug, "Not when I can mend it myself. Besides, it is nice to keep busy. There is very little for me to do in the house, bar consult with your cook about dinner menus. Even then, I don't think he wants my input, just a yes."
She laughed easily at her last observation and Michael's own lips quirked into a smile. When he had inherited the title, he had also inherited a temperamental French chef called Jacques, who spent as much time throwing tantr
ums as he did cooking dinner.
"Perhaps you might like to be rid of it," Michael nodded again to the gown, "Given the unpleasant experience you had whilst wearing it. Perhaps one of the maids will take it off your hands."
Not that the maids would have anywhere to wear it to, but rather they would probably find somewhere to pawn or sell it, and earn themselves some extra pocket money.
Katherine laughed nervously in reply to his suggestion, her fingers still working away at her stitching.
"I am not so frivolous that I would discard a perfectly good gown for the sake of my feelings," she said lightly, her eyes not quite meeting his.
"I read somewhere that the Duchess of Devonshire only ever wore the same dress in public once," Michael referred of course to the previous generation's most fashionable woman, Georgiana Cavendish. "You are a duchess; you must outfit yourself accordingly."
"I do not wish to spend your fortune decking myself out in fancy fripperies," Katherine protested, her cheeks taking on a pink stain.
Michael frowned at her words; why was she reluctant to spend money? His fortune was vast and it was not just his fortune, it was theirs.
"What's mine is yours," he said evenly, "Did we not make that vow, just yesterday?"
"You say that now," Katherine's tone matched his own for lightness, "But what will you say when the dressmaker's bill comes in?"
Though she was feigning a jocular attitude, Michael sensed that there was something hidden beneath Katherine's words. Was it possible that Lord Atwood had punished his wife for overspending, or spending anything at all for that matter? Michael knew something of men like Atwood; they liked to keep complete control over the women in their life, and money was just another means of exerting power. If the late viscount was capable of physically harming Katherine, he was also capable of abusing her financially.
Michael surreptitiously surveyed the gown that Katherine was currently wearing; it was presentable enough, but in no way extravagant or richly made. Anger lit in his belly, for he could not understand how any man could be married to Katherine and not wish to give her the best of everything.
A Second Chance With a Duke Page 11