by Jess Russell
He set the glass away from him. “They are clamoring for a portrait. Those insatiable clods who determine who will rise to the top and who will drown. And now The Queen has added her edict so there is no hope of retreating. I do not want to drown. Not again. I want to show those sanctimonious bastards I still have the goods. It’s ridiculous, I know. Why should I care? But I do. I want us accepted.”
“Us?”
“Anne. Anne and me.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” She ran a long, beautifully tapered finger around the brandy bottle. “Has she never mentioned me?”
He could see what it cost this beauty to ask. Still, he could not spare her. “No.”
“Hmm. I do not know quite what to make of that. Perhaps she is frightened of me? Should I be flattered, or perhaps it is because she thinks me so inconsequential?”
He said nothing. Nora looked as if she’d eaten a bad oyster.
“Devlin, if you need me, I will sit for you. I know you have gone through at least ten girls already. I assume you paid them well, but soon you will not be able to keep them from going to the papers.”
How had she known? Cheswell again?
It was true. Twelve women, to be exact, had come to be looked over. He had even tried to paint two, but they were wrong. All wrong. Would Nora be right? “What of Havermere?”
“Oh, sod him. I hope the picture will cause him to have an apoplexy.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “No, though I thank you. Not worth the risk. I will find someone.”
She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Hmm, I would like to think you are worried for me, but you are not.”
“Nora, I—”
She held up her hand. “You are thinking of your Owl. That she will be jealous. Silly man. You needn’t be. From the little I observed of your marchioness last evening, she is well able to handle the likes of me or any other jade who has the temerity to poach her man.”
“I am sure you are right, Nor. But for now I will not test that assertion. I will find someone.”
Chapter Thirty
“Well, do not stand in the doorway like some servant. Come in.” The duke waved, dismissing the footman next to him. The man hesitated and then bowed and left.
If only Anne could simply perform a curtsy and scuttle away, following the servant out, to a long list of duties. Instead she was a marchioness whose only task had been to keep her tiara on her head and not disgrace the family. She had failed miserably last evening. Better pay the piper. She entered the breakfast room.
Taking a roll and an egg, more for something to occupy her than out of want, she also filled a tea cup and then sat half-way down the huge table.
She had hoped to catch James before he disappeared, but had slept too late. One of the consequences of waiting up for your husband until the wee hours of the morning.
Tick, tick, tick. Her knife against the shell of the egg, then the crunch and snap as she decapitated its head. Yoke spilled onto her fingers in a rush of deep yellow. Not daring to look up, she lay her knife aside and wiped the goo on a pristine damask napkin.
“I cannot make you out, Anne DeVere Winton Drake. You are nothing like your mother.”
The bite of egg, half-way to her mouth, returned to her plate. Her mother? What of last evening and her terrible gaff?
“Though you have her eyes. Nothing more.”
“How—”
“Being a duke does not have much to recommend, but it does afford me a pack of ‘yes’ men who are only too happy to dig into mysteries.”
A gardener’s head bobbed outside the bowed window, his clippers making a shushing noise as tiny bits of hedge flew here and there.
“You were certainly a tough nut to crack, I’ll give you that. My toadies ran in circles for a good long while before they unearthed a couple with a young daughter living in Little Burne in ’45. That would put it about right, wouldn’t you say?”
Little Burne? An age-blackened sign, long-forgotten, came into focus in her mind’s eye. It had hung upside down suspended on a pitchfork. She had just finished learning her alphabet and had stood flummoxed by these foreign letters.
“Ha. I see I have struck a nerve.” The old duke nodded. “Pack of groveling peahens, my retainers, but they know how to find a needle in a haystack when called upon.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but how—”
“Back at Ballencrieff, my man Tally put the name DeVere with the old French family of that surname. Couldn’t believe it. Frankly, I didn’t want to. But there is no denying your eyes are Eleanor’s.”
Eleanor’s? This man had known her maman?
“No doubt my son would have relished the thought of marrying a commoner. The boy has always delighted in thwarting me at every turn.”
More hedge bits flew, and a bird shrieked and darted away.
“I get reports on all the charity cases that go to Ardsmoore and Ackermoore. Tally finally unearthed your file, which had been mislaid. Not much there.” The old man blotted his thin lips. “A cobbler, whose horse had thrown a shoe, found you half-starved and nearly frozen curled up against your mother. He had quite a time getting you to let go. You did not speak for some months after. By the time you did, your file was tucked away. Just another poor orphan with no past.”
“Do I—is any of my family still alive?”
“No, all dead now.” The finality stung. “Your father had no family, and your mother’s people moved back to France after your mother’s elopement. They had come to London seeking a match for their only daughter. That is when I met your mother.” The duke sniffed. “Would have taken her in a heartbeat, but Winton, a penniless inventor, had already wormed his way into her heart.”
This man and her mother?
“I married Devlin’s mother the next season.” His grace looked down into his teacup as if it might provide a foretelling of the future. He shook his head and took a swig.
“I blame her for the boy’s scribblings. Why could she not leave well enough alone?” His mouth pulled tight. “Too indulgent by half. A veritable bluestocking, always putting some nonsense in front of the boy. He got a thirst for it. Devlin had a thirst for everything. Always ‘why.’ Could never accept a thing just as it was, had to always delve into it. Wanted to know how it worked.”
The old man’s hands trembled so he nearly dropped his cup. It clattered into the saucer. “Should never have allowed him to go to Edinburgh. Falling in with that heathen butcher, Wainwright. From then on the boy was lost to me. Plundering graveyards in the name of ‘science,’ experimenting with God’s creatures. Repulsive. I blame Barton Wainwright. If I could find the fiend I would not hesitate to have him brought up on charges of indecency.”
The duke, lost in his memories, looked up as if he’d caught her eavesdropping.
He cleared his throat. “Claymore’s girl was to be Devlin’s bride. But she was skittish, like her mother, so in the end it didn’t take. And then there was Prince Albert’s niece—what was the chit’s name? No matter. That went by the wayside as well. Once that story of butchery got leaked to the papers…well, that was it. What family would tie its fortunes and lineage to a madman? Not even a dukedom could persuade those overprotective mother hens to throw their daughters to such a man. But even if they had, I could not in good conscience foist him off on some unsuspecting innocent. Only God almighty is privy to how Devlin’s mind works. I have had no luck divining its mysteries. Why He sent me this son to tax my heart and brain, I will never hope to know.”
The old man looked at her as if he might gut her like a fish—a smelly fish at that. “So, you have no conversation. Am I to be left to prattle on interminably? Are you such a timid thing to be so afraid of an old man?”
“I did not think you were looking for a rejoinder, Your Grace. You seemed to be happy enough venting your frustrations.”
“Ha! I suppose I was.” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And do not ‘Your Grace’ me. You are no longer an inferior.” He nodded once a
s if by doing so he had settled her into a slot in his mind. “So, Lady Devlin, how do you propose to be a good helpmate to my son?”
“He must paint.” The words came out decisively before she could even think.
“What? Oh, yes, the Queen’s Exhibit. Damned inconvenient—I wish he could leave off painting altogether, but I suppose we must make a show for the old girl.”
“I believe he is having a difficult time beginning again.”
“Painting?” The duke sniffed. “Yes, if that travesty at Ballencrieff was any example, I would say he has a large problem. Odd, as a boy he defaced anything and everything with his scribbles. Couldn’t get him to stop. So, what do you collect is the problem?”
“I am not sure.” But she could guess. Paint what is in your heart. Perhaps his heart was bereft. Perhaps, now that he was free, being shackled to her was stifling him.
Still, she could not discount what happened between them in the dark, decadence of night.
She told herself during the long days of pallid monotony, she would resist him tonight—turn him away. But as the shadows deepened, and the lamps were lit and then extinguished, her resolve faded as the hands of the clock swept the hours away accompanied by its soft chime.
Just before dawn, he would come to her smelling of the outside world and she was there waiting, wanting any piece of him. She’d raise her arms so impatient for his touch.
He’d slip into her bed and touch her so gently, as if she were something he worshiped. But soon, he would claim her body in ways that made her blush to remember.
After he had gone, when she rolled into the impression he had left, and pressed her lips to his pillow, when the day slipped in between the curtains, then the insidious doubts came.
She was not his beauty.
Not his love.
She was merely a vessel for the heir he must produce.
Nothing more.
For the first time he had not come to her last night after the ball. Had she been such an embarrassment for him? Or was he already tired of her? And had the beautiful Countess of Havermere taken her place?
“You are his wife.” The duke’s voice intruded. “You must find out what the trouble is and fix it. Soon. I believe the exhibition is only a few weeks away.”
Her hands trembled and her heart sped up as she sensed the duke’s agitation.
“The blasted ball was too much too soon. Put the cart before the horse. I own that now. But there is no time.” The old man pressed his hand against his heart.
Concerned, she sat forward.
“The Queen seemed taken enough with you. But, Devlin…Devlin must do his part. If we could find that painting of you, I would feel surer he is up for this task. You are positive you never looked at the portrait?”
“I am positive. Your Grace—sir, perhaps you should lie down—”
“Do not imagine you can languish here at home. The ton demands you be seen! One failure does not signify defeat. You must ante up, or you will lose, Lady Devlin.”
“Sir, I believe you must—”
“The Malvern name cannot survive another scandal, Lady Devlin. I cannot—”
A hacking cough wracked the duke’s frail body.
She rose, but he waved her back in her seat.
“Those infernal quacks, always muttering about my heart. Most people will tell you I don’t have one. Oh, don’t bother to refute me, I know what I am, what I’ve become. A dukedom requires discipline and sacrifice, Lady Devlin. I must have the succession secure. And soon. I cannot leave—”
The duke’s face turned bright red then white again as he clutched his chest.
Hesitating only a moment, she rushed to his side.
He waved her off again, or tried to, but he had no strength.
She tossed aside the thick shawl covering his shoulders and chest. Next came his cravat, the seemingly endless yards of cloth reminding her of Hives. She dropped the linen to the floor and unbuttoned his shirt at the neck.
His eyes grew wide as her fingers brushed his chest. She paid no mind, took a long slow breath, pushing her calmness into her hands and into his lungs and heart.
Her hands grew very hot, nearly as hot as when they were deep within Phoebe Nester’s womb. Afraid she might burn him, she eased up. But he clasped her hands more tightly to him, his rheumy eyes never leaving hers.
How long they remained locked together, she could not say. Time always seemed to freeze when she was in the midst of healing. Finally, his heart slowed until it beat at a steady pace, matching her own. Satisfied, she stepped away. He would wish to collect himself.
Her tea had long gone cold, but she sat and sipped the heavy brew. Darjeeling.
“We will say nothing of this little—episode.” The duke sat up straighter, his color restored.
She inclined her head, in accordance with his wishes.
His gaze, once again, bored into her, but now with a difference. No longer an unsavory fish, more like one of Mr. Beauchamp’s other-worldly creatures. Thank heavens he had not called her a witch. Not yet. She had experienced both reactions to her gift—awe and horror.
He rang the bell. The footman appeared. “Take me to my room.”
As the duke was being wheeled out it was still unclear where she fell in her father-in-law’s mind.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two nights penance tucked up in his garret was enough. Dev could not stay away another. Time to see if he was welcome back in his wife’s bed.
The door clicked closed behind him. His cock hardened, so ready to be inside her.
“Go away.”
Her voice, a raw rasp, penetrated his lust filled brain.
“Anne, I—”
“Leave me! Please.” She curled herself into a tight ball.
“My sweet Owl, I am sorry. I can be an ass—pardon, I lost my head seeing you with…” She was not listening. He thought he heard a soft groan. “What has happened?” He clenched his fingers wanting to touch her. “Anne, won’t you look at me? Are you unwell?”
She was wearing clothes, her night rail. She turned her face into the pillow, her hands fisted in the sheets.
“If you are ill—”
“I am not ill.”
“Thank God. It is just that I have a temper when it comes to—”
“You were brilliant. I wish I had struck him myself.”
She forgave him. She even thought him valiant. He lifted the cover.
“I said get out!” She jerked it away.
“But, I—you said—”
“I am indisposed!”
Indis—? Oh, thank God. “Bloody hell, you gave me a scare.” He lifted the sheet to get in.
She wrenched the sheet from him and scuttled to the far side of the bed. “Go. Now.”
“But Anne, it is only a little blood, we can do other—”
“Get out!” She threw a pillow at him.
Bloody Christ. He’d known plenty of women who became witches during their time, but he never thought his Owl would be one of them. “Very well, I will only hold—”
The other pillow hit him square in the nose.
“All right. I will take myself off. If that is what you truly wish.”
Her answer was to put the covers over her head.
Right. He picked up both pillows from the floor and deposited them at the foot of the bed, lingering, hoping she would think better and turn to him.
She did not.
****
The click of the door closing released a dam of tears long held in check. No pillow left to muffle her sobs. She wadded the bedclothes to her mouth. Stupid, stupid man.
He came and went. He had his estate duties and his—his other distractions—she would not say the name. But as his wife she had this one thing to do. This one thing to be. And she had not done it.
No. Not stupid him. Stupid her. Ridiculous her. To pin all her happiness on making a child.
The fullness in her breasts she’d ignored. The slight cramping w
as just sleeping wrong, or the rich food she was still not used to, or even her tightly laced corset. But this morning there could be no more denial.
Yvette had come in wanting to remove the chamber pot as Anne lay curled up on the floor behind the screen trying to make her words not sound like they were thick with messy tears.
“Yvette, je voudrais une tasse du the.”
Asking for a simple cup of tea had this “French” girl turning tail and scurrying away in a trice. Of course the tea never came.
****
Anne scrubbed her swollen eyes. Pillows littered the floor along with most of the covers. Her night gown was twisted around her body. A faint light leaked through the curtains. Another day.
That’s it. Enough. She flung the thin sheet aside. Quite enough of playing a rabbit in its hole. If Margaret did not want to go out, if her husband was too busy with the duchy and his secret plans, and not painting, if the great Malverns did not dare let her entertain, then she would simply take Yvette or a footman and see the town. She would not lose herself to this man.
After taking care of her needs and dumping the soiled water in a vase of faded flowers, she rang the bell.
Yvette finally arrived, sleep creases and shock on her face.
“Did you ring for me, madame?” Anne never rang for anything, much less at six in the morning.
“Yes, I did. Several times, as a matter of fact.”
“I am des-oh-lay, madame. Shall I—”
“Yvette, you are no more French than I am an Amazon. Could we please dispense with this charade and try to be honest with each other?”
“But, I told Lord Austin—”
“You are not working for Lord Austin. You are working for me. Are you not?”
The girl looked rather confused.
“I will tell him I prefer that you are a plain English maid—”
“Oh!” The girl clutched her chest.
“What is it?” She rushed forward.
“You think me plain, madame?”
Bless Bess. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip. Heaven save her from vain and silly maids.
“Bring me my best dress. We are going out.”
“Out, madame?” Yvette perked up like a flower in the sun.