The Courtesan Duchess

by Joanna Shupe

  Julia smiled at the mention of her perfume. She hadn’t thought Nick would notice something so trivial.

  “And I will show them to you. I shall do my best not to ever let you down,” her husband said softly. “I’m not quite sure what kind of father I’ll be. My father . . . he wasn’t much of an example. I saw him only a few times a year, and even those were unpleasant encounters. My brother used to say I was fortunate because I didn’t have to endure the endless instructions on such things as duty and honor. I was free to run about and do as I pleased, which I guess was true.

  “You would have liked my brother, Harry. He would have made a much better duke, that’s for certain. Harry always did precisely the correct thing.”

  He proceeded to tell their daughter about the time his brother had saved him from drowning in the pond one winter. Nick had been determined to cross the ice, even though Harry had tried to talk him out of it. When the ice cracked open and Nick fell in, Harry found a tree branch and pulled Nick out of the freezing water, yelling at him the entire time for being an irresponsible half-wit.

  Julia smiled and realized her cheeks were wet. This was a side of her husband he rarely let anyone see, and he was sharing it here, in the middle of the night, with Olivia. Julia swiped at her tears, drying her face, and a hand gently touched her shoulder.

  Startled, she covered her mouth to smother a gasp. Relief flooded her when she saw the nursemaid, Mrs. Larkman, by her side.

  “Comes every night about this time,” Mrs. Larkman whispered with a nod to the nursery. “His Grace sits with her for an hour or so to give me a break, he says.” She elbowed Julia’s arm. “Can you imagine, Your Grace? The duke, wanting to give me a break? I keep it to myself, though. I wouldn’t want any of the staff talking.”

  They both peeked inside. Now awake, Olivia had wrapped a miniature pink hand around one of Nick’s large fingers and he was grinning down at her. Julia’s heart melted. Here she thought he hadn’t any interest in their daughter, while he was actually spending time with her each night.

  “Have you ever seen anything so precious?” Mrs. Larkman murmured.

  “No. Indeed I haven’t,” Julia answered, her mind spinning. She needed time to think about what she’d seen and heard. Nick was . . . puzzling. She backed away from the door. “I think it’s best if I went back to bed. Good night, Mrs. Larkman.”

  Julia relit her taper from a sconce before creeping back toward the stairs.

  She was still mulling the changes in her husband the following day over breakfast. Sleep hadn’t arrived until early in the morning. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured Nick holding and smiling tenderly at Olivia. She wanted to hate him, but that image kept playing in her mind and the anger she’d nursed for so long began to dissipate.

  But could she afford to let it go completely? How could she ever trust him after what he’d said and done?

  She’d trusted him once—and he’d thrown that love and trust back in her face, called her horrible names, and cast her out from his life. He’d broken her heart. She didn’t want to give someone the power to hurt her like that ever again. It had been too painful.

  Heavens, how she wished he would go away. It would be much simpler if she didn’t have to see him every day.

  Since he clearly had no plans to leave, it was past time to find out what he was doing here.

  Later that morning, Julia rang for Thorton to ascertain the whereabouts of her husband.

  “His Grace and Mr. Fitzpatrick are fencing in the ballroom,” the butler informed her.

  A flash of a sweaty, half-naked Nick fencing in Venice went through her mind. She remembered the way his muscles had bulged and dipped as his feet shuffled around the floor. Her breath quickened at the memory. The urge to see him that way again was strong—stronger than she even realized.

  Which meant it was a dangerous idea.

  “Thorton, please ask His Grace to join me in the library when he is finished.”

  “Very well, Your Grace. Shall I send for tea as well?”

  “No,” she blurted, her voice sharp. This would not be a social visit. “Thank you, Thorton,” she added in a gentler tone, “but that will not be necessary. I do not plan on taking up too much of His Grace’s time.”

  Julia went to the library to wait. She chose a book of poetry to distract herself, only to remember how much she detested poetry. Casting the book aside, she’d just selected a novel instead when the door opened.

  Nick strode into the room, bone-deep confidence in every step of his long-legged gait. Black hair swept away from his rugged face, he wore only a fine linen shirt and breeches—both now damp with perspiration and sticking to his lithe frame. Heaven above, he was delicious. She swallowed and willed herself not to notice.

  “I apologize for coming in without bathing first, but Thorton said you wanted to see me?” Was she imagining it, or was that hope in his eyes?

  Julia cleared her throat. “Yes, I do. Shall we sit?” She resumed her seat on the sofa and he dropped into a chair.

  She hesitated, deciding the best way to proceed. When the moment stretched, he quirked an arrogant brow. Annoyance rushed through her. “Why are you still here?”

  “Because you’ve not yet told me what you need.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do not be deliberately obtuse. You know perfectly well what I meant. At Seaton Hall, Colton. Why are you still here?”

  Nick seemed caught off guard by her forthright question. He shifted and rubbed his chin. “It is my home. Am I not welcome here?”

  She fought the urge to tap her foot. “You have three other properties scattered about England, plus the town house in London. There is a reason you are here and I should like to know what it is.”

  A long moment ticked by. By the muscle jumping in his jaw, she could tell he wrestled with his answer. But she remained silent, curious as to what he would say.

  “I don’t know,” he finally replied, his voice low and soft. “Perhaps I am here for you. For Olivia.”

  Emotion welled in her chest, but she forced it back down. This was all weeks too late. She stood and began to pace. “In your unreasonable anger, you ordered me here and then ignored me for seven months. Did you honestly believe I would welcome you with open arms whenever you decided to return? While I will not deny you contact with your daughter, I will never forgive you for what has transpired between us.”

  His gray gaze was dark and solemn. “I have apologized for my part in what has happened, Julia. If I could go back and do things differently, I would.”

  “And while I am sorry for duping you, I do not regret what I have done.” How could she, when she had Olivia as a result?

  “Would you rather I left, then?”

  Yes, she wanted to tell him. Go before my resolve deserts me. But she recalled his nightly visits with Olivia. It would be unnecessarily cruel to take that time away from both of them. “No. But I wanted you to know how I feel. We shall see each other at dinner, obviously, and I should like our relationship to be . . . cordial. For Olivia’s sake,” she hurried to add. “But pray, cease your attentions during the day. I do not want to spend time—alone—with you.”

  A mask of civility, his face revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. “Very well. As you wish, madam. If that is all?”

  Julia nodded, remembering that this was for the best. Her husband rose, offered her a polite bow, and walked out of the room.

  Nick stomped up the main stairs. Rage and frustration clogged his throat and he spun around to return to the ground floor. A bath, where he would do nothing but think, was not what he needed at this moment. No, dark emotions were strangling his insides and they needed to be purged or else he would go mad. He strode toward the rear of the house, headed for the stables.

  He passed Fitz along the way. His friend must have seen something in Nick’s face because he changed direction and fell into step.

  “Go away,” Nick snarled.

  “Are you certain about that?�
�

  “Quite.”

  Fitz ignored him, as usual, and kept pace until the stables, where Nick found a groom and ordered Charon saddled.

  Fitz disappeared for a moment into a stall while Nick paced in the dirt, awaiting his mount, blood pounding in his ears. The October weather was a bit brisk and he wore nothing but a thin shirt, but he hardly noticed. He needed to escape. To feel the wind on his face. To drive himself to exhaustion.

  After Nick swung onto Charon’s back, Fitz handed up a satchel. “Strongest Irish whisky you’d ever like to find, Your Grace. And if you don’t return in two hours’ time, I’ll be comin’ to find you.”

  Too numb to argue, Nick nodded, tied the satchel to the saddle, and kicked his heels into the sides of the horse. Charon shot off into the rolling countryside.

  The air stung his skin as the powerful horse tore up the ground with its massive hooves. Nick leaned down over Charon’s neck and gripped the sides of the animal with his thighs, his mind solely focused on staying seated.

  Both he and Charon were covered with sweat by the time he slowed near the river. He walked the horse to the water and then dismounted, dropping the reins to the ground.

  Satchel in hand, Nick threw himself down on the sandy bank. He dug into the bag and withdrew the bottle, uncorked it. When the first swallow hit his throat, liquid fire trailed down to his stomach. He sucked in a breath. Damn, Fitz had been as serious as a parson on Sunday, Nick thought, his eyes watering slightly. This was the strongest drink he’d had in some time.

  And exactly what he needed. He took another long pull from the bottle.

  I will never forgive you for what has transpired between us.

  For three weeks he’d been trying to melt the ice between them, attempting to be a proper, kind, and respectful husband—and he’d failed. All along, he’d hoped to make her understand how truly sorry he was.

  He’d been a fool to try. Those words—proper, kind, respectful—had never been applied to him in his whole life. Hadn’t his parents said it time and time again? Nick hadn’t the first clue on how to be a husband. So why the devil had he believed he could pull it off after all this time?

  He flopped back into the soft dirt. The tightness in his chest had now dulled to an ache. He stared up at the gray clouds floating in the sky, listened to the river gurgle softly.

  He could well understand Julia’s anger. He’d treated her horribly. The shame of what he’d done in Venice to the mother of his child, a proper lady who’d never been with another man . . . it nearly made him sick. The things he’d said, made her do, and did to her in return, not to mention his accusations and vitriol once back in London. Little wonder she didn’t want him around. He hated himself every bit as much as she did.

  And even if she did want him, he could never be the husband she needed, who came to her in the cover of night, touched her only as much as necessary before politely taking her under the sheets. The mere idea was laughable.

  But he also couldn’t treat her like Mrs. Leighton. She was his wife, not a whore—even if she had acted one for a short period of time—and he could not expose her to his baser nature as he had in Venice. He could not disrespect her in such a fashion.

  The rather alarming problem, however, was that he couldn’t forget Mrs. Leighton—Julia. Wanted her with every beat of his salacious heart. He’d pleasured himself to the memories of her so often in the last seven months that she should be purged from his mind by now. Only, the need continued to grow stronger.

  Tilting the bottle up to his mouth, he took a few gulps, a trickle of whisky sliding down his cheek and into the ground.

  When would this torture end, for God’s sake? When would he lose interest in her, as he’d done with countless women before?

  Some inexplicable force drew him to her, made her entirely irresistible. Perhaps it was her fire and bravery, or that she said what she thought and had stood up to him from the start. If he were a better man, they would be perfect together.

  The whisky turned sour in his stomach. Was he . . . in love with her? He took another swallow, hoping the idea would disappear. When it didn’t, Nick groaned. No wonder he hadn’t been able to have another woman since Venice. He’d gone and fallen in love, damn it. And with the one woman he’d never have.

  Bloody hell.

  God, wouldn’t his father love the irony. He’d told Nick over and over how no respectable woman would ever have him, title or no. Even the night of Nick’s wedding, his father had berated him, saying, “I had to pay a king’s ransom for her, you ungrateful whelp. You’d best get a couple of brats on her quickly, before she learns what a terrible bargain you are and locks the door to her bedchamber.”

  And he was a terrible bargain. Coarse, stubborn, and angry, he’d spent nearly all of his life alone. Harry had been the only person Nick felt affection for, yet their relationship had poisoned soon after Harry’s marriage. Despite Nick’s vehement denials, Harry had been convinced Nick was trying to seduce Angela, and the despair over it had driven his brother to take his own life.

  The guilt, the horror of finding his brother’s body . . . Nick would never be able forget it—or forgive himself. Bottle at his lips, he poured the whisky down his throat in one long guzzle.

  So now he’d made it all worse by falling in love with his respectable, beautiful, paragon of a wife—who happened to loathe his very existence. Christ, what a mess, he thought, his surroundings starting to blur a bit. Good. Mayhap he’d stay here and drink all day. God knew there was nothing awaiting him at the Hall.

  A thought of Olivia went through his mind, and emotion swelled around his heart. Sweet and perfect, his daughter was more precious to him than anything. He’d never imagined feeling love like this for his child, and it nearly overwhelmed him. In his experience, children were ignored—but he could never see doing that to Livvie. She needed to grow up knowing that her father loved her.

  Maybe that was why he didn’t want to leave, not just yet. He didn’t want to repeat the sins of his own parents. Olivia should never be made to feel unworthy or unloved. Un-bloody-anything. He may not have wanted a child, but he’d be damned if anyone took Livvie from him at this point.

  So he’d keep his distance from his wife and continue to visit his daughter at night, when the two of them could be alone. They didn’t need anyone else. He had Livvie and that was enough.

  The decision should have made him feel better, but oddly, it did not. Perhaps another drink would help.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Just remember, a man can only be pushed so far.

  —Miss Pearl Kelly to the Duchess of Colton

  A month went by and Julia saw her husband a mere handful of times. He no longer dined with them in the evenings and kept to himself during the day. She knew from Mrs. Larkman he continued to visit the nursery each night to spend time with their daughter, but he never sought Julia out. In fact, she wondered where he slept because she never heard him in the adjoining chamber.

  She tried not to be hurt. After all, she had asked him to leave her be. Yet she hadn’t expected him to disappear altogether. At the very least, she had assumed he would continue to attend dinners. So what was he doing with his time?

  To find out would require pursuing him, which Julia refused to do. Instead, she spent her afternoons with Olivia and Aunt Theo. Her body now completely recovered from the birth, she could take long daily walks about the estate, which she did each morning.

  This particular morning, she had agreed to visit Angela. Yesterday, Lady Lambert had written Julia a note, where she’d apologized for sending Nick away on the night of Olivia’s birth and begged for Julia to come visit her.

  It had been two months since Colton had ordered Angela to the dower house, and Julia’s confusion and anger over the night of Olivia’s birth had not diminished a bit. How could this woman, one Julia had considered a friend, turn on her at such a crucial moment? It made no sense. Julia never would have suspected Angela capable of such cruelty. A
nd while nothing Angela could say would excuse her behavior, Julia needed to hear straight from the woman’s mouth on why she’d done it.

  In the kitchens, Julia was overseeing the preparation of a basket with various treats and foods when she heard the jangle of keys.

  “Good morning, Your Grace. Off for a picnic?” Mrs. Gibbons, the housekeeper, smiled politely from across the room.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Gibbons. I am off to see Lady Lambert and thought she might appreciate some of Cook’s treats.”

  The housekeeper frowned. “A far way to walk alone, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying so. Shall I have one of the footmen go with you?”

  “No, that is not necessary. I traveled nearly as far the other morning. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you insist, Your Grace. It’s quite chilly, so take care with your warmest cloak.”

  Julia nodded. “I will. Thank you, Mrs. Gibbons.”

  Twenty minutes later, she set off, wearing a thick cloak, hat, mittens, and scarf. The weather was indeed cold, the late-autumn wind blowing through nearly bare trees. Leaves of all shapes, sizes, and colors swirled on the ground like a pagan carpet, crunching under her sturdy half boots as she walked.

  The forest closed in around her, and she tried not to think of her accident. True, she hadn’t ventured along this path since, but there was no cause for concern. It had been a strange incident, surely caused by her lack of balance due to pregnancy.

  Through the other side of the thick trees, she could see the dower house on the rise of the hill. It was a sturdy, brick two-story structure, with green ivy snaking up the façade. Since no one had lived there in quite a number of years, Julia was unsurprised to see the grounds a bit unkempt. Angela had taken a servant or two with her, but it would take time to bring the property up to snuff.

  She came up the walk and noticed a horse resting nearby. Did Angela have a visitor?