Miserably, Lilian glanced across the room. The bedchamber somehow held no warmth, even though a fire burned brightly in the hearth, and a thick quilt covered her. If she weren’t so desperate to use the chamber pot, she might well remain in bed all day. Eventually, she shoved the sheets and quilt away, and hurried from the bed to relieve herself. On the way back she passed her looking glass, and froze.
“Good heavens,” she mumbled, her mood sinking further at the near-unrecognizable and disheveled naked woman staring back.
Her unbound hair looked a tangled mess. Her lips and nipples puffy and swollen. And while the marks didn’t hurt, her skin was covered in raw, red patches, and fingertip sized bruises. The previous evening she’d reveled in the evidence of Gabriel’s possession, his jaw rasping her breasts, the wicked nip of his teeth, the way he gripped her hips as he’d teased and tormented and taken. But now, in the cold light of day, without reassuring words or a smile to bolster her spirits after the unfamiliar and overwhelming sexual excesses of the night, she just looked tawdry. Used. Unattractive.
About as far away from a proper duchess as it was possible to be.
“Your Grace?”
Lilian practically flew across the room and dived back into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. “Yes, Dawn?”
“Ah, you’re up,” her maid said, smiling as she entered the room with a tray of covered plates. “I popped my head in a few times, but you were tucked up tight and fast asleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
Heat scorched across Lilian’s cheeks. Indeed, she had never slept so deeply. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, perhaps she might have heard her husband leaving. “Is that tea and toast?”
“And blackberry jam. I thought you might need some sustenance before dressing.”
Oh no. Her face must surely resemble a tomato now. “I, er, need a bath. A proper bath in the copper tub, I mean.”
“If you are sure,” said Dawn quickly, her gaze darting away.
Lilian frowned. There was something not quite right here, like her maid wanted to say something but kept biting her tongue. “Of course I’m sure. What on earth is the matter?”
“Nothing! Ah, nothing at all, ma’am. How about I pour you some tea? Hot tea cures all ills, I always say.”
“Dawn.”
The older woman sighed, and put down the teapot. “Downstairs is in an uproar. Everyone heard what happened at the Castlereagh ball, that His Grace punched that other man unconscious. Others are saying he hit you also, and that is why you were crying, and why you didn’t go downstairs for breakfast this morning.”
Appalled, she stared at her maid. “What? These gossips are getting quite out of hand. Exton has never hit me.”
“But you did cry in the carriage,” Dawn said unhappily, folding her arms as she stood next to the bed. “I saw your face with my own eyes. And he rode off early this morning, like a man fleeing his crimes.”
Lilian gritted her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass Exton by sharing personal information about his past, or further details of the ball incident. But if she didn’t say anything, the malicious falsehoods would continue to spread, and become more and more exaggerated. “I was upset. Not at His Grace. Believe me, while the location of the fisticuffs was most improper, the reason behind them was not. The gentleman Exton hit said some unforgivable things about his time in the army. Specifically, the last battle. And, er, what happened to him.”
Dawn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. The duke got injured on the battlefield. I don’t see how that could be a matter of ridicule.”
“Unfortunately not,” said Lilian softly, shuddering at what her husband had actually endured. “I didn’t know the truth myself, that is why I cried. Exton was captured by the French. And…and…tortured.”
Her maid’s horrified gasp echoed in the bedchamber. “Oh, madam. Oh no. His leg…his face…oh, the poor man—”
“I don’t want this spoken of. At least not without Exton’s permission. I do not think he would welcome pity, or appreciate being the subject of further below stairs talk. But I will not stand for any nonsense about him striking me. That, you may silence in no uncertain terms. Tell them I heard some unpleasant news about…about a friend, and felt distressed about that.”
“Of course.”
“Please also make it clear that I will not tolerate a word of slander about His Grace,” she added crisply. “There will be warnings. And then there will be servants looking for new positions. Now, that bath?”
Dawn blinked. Then she curtsied. “I shall see to it right away.”
“By the by, what did you mean about Exton riding off?”
“He left early, just as the sun came up. Mr. Hobbs was cross because His Grace refused to wait to be shaved. Just got himself dressed and went out to the mews. A stable boy helped him mount his stallion with one of them wooden blocks on account of his limp, but after that, he was good as gold. Galloped away so finely you wouldn’t even know about his injuries.”
“But he, ah, didn’t say where he might be going?” asked Lilian casually, as though it didn’t cut her to the heart that he’d not only left her bed without a word, but the townhouse. Perhaps even the city.
“No ma’am.”
Forcing a smile, she waved her maid away to arrange the bath. Dawn would of course see the marks and bruises on her skin, but far better that conversation happened without the murky addition of last night’s crying in the carriage. More important was the miserable news of Exton’s abrupt departure.
Why had he left?
A man pleased with his wife didn’t do that. Had she done something wrong? Angered or disgusted him in some way? Perhaps the cold light of day had been sobering for him as well, and he blamed her for encouraging his attendance at the disastrous ball. Or maybe he just sensed in her this ridiculous, growing need for a much closer, more affectionate marriage, and wanted to make his refusal of that quite plain.
Sliding down under her quilt and sheets, Lilian pressed her face into her pillow. Not in a thousand years had she thought marriage would be this difficult, so filled with uncertainty and missteps. Wedding a stranger would never be easy for anyone, but living under the scrutiny of servants and the haut ton alike, made it so much worse. And she had a husband who forbade physical touch, and preferred to ride out in the gloomy early morning chill of London than speak to her.
It felt like abject failure. That she might never master the role of wife and duchess.
And that was very troubling indeed.
* * *
“Colonel! Colonel Jordan-Ives!”
Startled from his self-inflicted fog of chill and limb numbness, Gabriel turned his head to see who hailed him on Rotten Row. Clearly not a member of the ton, the feminine call had been far too warm and cordial, and referred to him by his army rank. Besides the fact that no member of society would even be out of bed right now, let alone outdoors. It couldn’t yet be ten o’clock.
Then he smiled in genuine pleasure as a plump, pretty redhead trotted her horse toward him and maneuvered it alongside his. “Mrs. Aggie Taylor, as I live and breathe. What are you doing in London?”
The older woman, who had followed the drum for years as both the wife of a captain and an experienced nurse, glared at him and shook her head. “I think, more to the point, the question is what are you doing out this early? Far too cold for a man recovering from severe wounds.”
Gabriel grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on his saddle. “Don’t start with…a scolding. I’m not under…your care now, madam.”
“Perhaps you should be. On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in at present?”
He looked away. Thirty minutes ago he might have said ten, but as numbness set in and his limbs seized up, the pain had changed from sharp and shooting to a relentless dull ache. “Not far to go now. I…needed the air.”
Damned right he did. After somehow falling asleep in Lilian’s bed, he’d awakened a few hours later
to a near-darkened room and the posts of her bed closing in on him. For a terrible moment as the night terror strangled his breathing and paralyzed his limbs, he wondered if he’d cried out, but his wife had slept on without so much as a twitch. And then, oh hell, then, moonlight had shone through a window and onto her naked body.
Bruises. Scrapes. Chafed raw wrists.
Inflicted by a monster. Him.
Sick to his stomach, Gabriel had left her bed. For a long while he’d sat in his own well-lit chamber and downed a bottle of brandy to calm himself, before dragging on the nearest fresh clothing available, and escaping outside to the mews. The sleepy stable boy had been stunned, but quick to fetch a block to help him mount, then he’d galloped away into the frigid gloom. Frantic for the freedom of fresh air. Frantic not to think about how broken he was, physically and mentally. What kind of man forced an innocent lady to participate in those kinds of acts? Even worse, he’d hurt her. Lilian would quite rightly never forgive him.
Aggie coughed, startling him back to the present. “Dear boy. Please don’t be offended, but you look bloody dreadful. I suspect far too much drinking and not nearly enough rest.”
“Devil take it, woman,” Gabriel snapped. “You can’t be…so plain spoken anymore. I’m a goddamned duke now. Duke of Exton. Both Quentin and Simon…died in a carriage accident.”
Her eyes bulged. Then the healer who had spent months coaxing him back from the brink of death before he’d been deemed fit to travel back to England, sighed and leaned over to clasp his hand in her gloved one. “Hell. After everything…hell.”
“Indeed. Last night I went to…my first society ball. Smashed a glass. Punched a dandy unconscious…when he started…needling me about Bayonne. Said me…and Wellington and Hope…were abject failures…and that I allowed myself…to be captured and tortured.”
Aggie gasped indignantly. “Give me his direction. I shall go and finish the maggot off with a rusty blade.”
“I don’t think he’ll venture…near me again. Although I doubt…I’ll be invited to another party. But let’s not talk about me. How are you?”
She leaned down and gave her horse a soothing pat as it snorted and shifted on the gravel path. “I’ve only recently returned to London. Decided I’d had my fill of blood, death and marching. Despite the foul weather, I’m glad to be back. I didn’t realize how much I missed the sights and sounds of England. And meat pasties.”
“Hobbs is still a bachelor,” Gabriel said abruptly.
Her cheeks went bright pink. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, stop it. You think I never noticed…the calf eyes…you two made at each other…over my sickbed?”
“Stuff and nonsense. You were out of your head on laudanum.”
Gabriel stifled a laugh at the barefaced lie. “Come for afternoon tea. Thursday, perhaps? Exton House in Grosvenor Square. You can get reacquainted. And meet my duchess.”
“Good God. You’re married?”
“Newlywed,” he confirmed, rolling his shoulders, and flexing his feet in the stirrups to ease the ache. If he didn’t get off this horse soon, he would never walk again. “To the former Lady Lilian Nash.”
Aggie frowned. “Why is that name familiar?”
“She was…Quentin’s fiancée.”
“Oh. Oh my,” she choked out, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Colonel…I mean Your Grace, I accept your invitation. I hope to meet your wife. I hope to find out why you are drinking heavily and not sleeping. If Mr. Hobbs happens to be there, I suppose I will greet him also. But for now I insist you return home. Don’t make me drag you by the ear.”
Bloody hell, she and his valet were made for each other. Both highly competent, big-hearted, and prickly as one of those American cactus plants. “Yes, ma’am,” he chorused like a choirboy, saluting her with his riding crop.
She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved in a smile. “Until Thursday, then. Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor.”
Gabriel watched her mare trot away, then coaxed his own mount to continue home to Grosvenor Square. One thing could be said for Quentin, he’d had an eye for prime horseflesh. This stallion, named Onyx for its gleaming black coat, was an absolute pleasure to ride.
Unfortunately, when they finally returned to the mews, Hobbs waited with the darkest of Nanny frowns on his weathered face. Attempting to dismount with numb legs and a cramped foot would only make that frown worse, and Gabriel was in no mood for a lecture.
“Your Grace,” said Hobbs, as he took Onyx’s reins and guided him over to where the block sat. “May I say—”
“No, you may not. If you start bleating…I won’t tell you about…a certain redhead… riding astride along Rotten Row.”
His valet halted. “A redhead riding astride?”
“Yes. One who has left…the army behind…and is now residing in London. And who may be…coming to tea on Thursday.”
Hobbs, his sturdy, uncompromising, steel-spined man, blushed. “I see. Well.”
“Certainly hope you’ll improve…your conversation before then.”
“Never mind about that. You look chilled to the bone and in need of a hot bath and balm. Can you walk?”
“Yes,” lied Gabriel as he clumsily dismounted onto the block. On the second step his foot seized in a vicious cramp, his stiff legs buckled, and he was only prevented from kissing the cobblestones by Hobbs hooking an arm around his waist. “Don’t say a word.”
“I won’t. Would hate to be dismissed for the three hundred and twenty-second time,” sniffed his valet, as he half-walked, half-dragged Gabriel across the courtyard and through the narrow stone tunnel that led to the townhouse proper.
“Mrs. Taylor is aware…you are a bachelor, still,” he said, wincing in pain as they entered the rear door and the warmth of many lit fires began to return feeling to his rigid muscles.
Hobbs made a harrumphing sound. “Don’t look to arrange my future happiness, Your Grace. Arrange your own.”
Gabriel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I know your ears still work. The duchess is a good woman. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the kitchens and order your bath.”
“Where is she?”
His valet hesitated. “I understand Her Grace received an urgent summons from the dowager Lady Kingsford and won’t be back for a few hours.”
Sympathy and annoyance curled in Gabriel’s chest; no doubt the dowager would have plenty of thoughts on the ball news. But also, a tinge of relief. His body hadn’t been in such a state since their wedding night, and he had no desire for her to see him like this, all frail and wretched. When he saw Lilian next, he would apologize for his actions. Swear it would not happen again. And he needed to do that as a calm, measured, formally-dressed duke.
Not a broken soldier.
Chapter 13
Oh, how she wished she’d declared herself indisposed.
Lilian barely stopped herself from hurling the tea tray onto the floor of the Kingsford House blue parlor as her grandmother stirred lemon into her cup, the act deliberately and gratingly slow to show her profound displeasure. On top of Gabriel’s abrupt departure from the townhouse this morning, a lecture from the family matriarch would be far too much to take.
It had become clear as soon as she’d arrived that this would be no friendly chat. Grandmother was extremely unhappy, and her long-established method of breaking her grandchildren—first with frigid silence then whatever punishment she deemed appropriate— remained as effective as ever. Even Dawn had abandoned her to take tea with the housekeeper.
“So…” said Lady Kingsford, as she at last set her teacup down. “Let us discuss the events of the week. The unacceptable, shameful, vastly disappointing events.”
Lilian struggled for composure as hot color flooded her cheeks. “It is hardly the worst scandal London has witnessed,” she replied, but frustratingly, her voice quavered.
“Nonsense, gel. Everyone in London knows about the debac
le at the Castlereaghs, and is utterly appalled. You were supposed to be the refining influence on the duke and his rough soldier ways, and you have achieved nothing.”
“But—”
Icy hazel eyes fixed on her. “Do not dare to ‘but’ me, Lilian. Smashed glasses and fisticuffs in a ballroom!”
“If you heard the revolting things that Sir Roger said to Exton, you would have been moved to violence, too,” she burst out.
Lady Kingsford’s jaw dropped momentarily, before her expression turned to one of utter contempt. “In no circumstances would I ever resort to such an uncouth display. That you would even say such a thing. To think I had such high hopes for you…perhaps it would have been better if your father had found you a chimney sweep. If you behave like this at Exton House and interrupt His Grace with such outbursts, it is no wonder he beats you. I have no sympathy, a proper wife knows her place.”
Lilian froze, anger and dismay roiling together in her stomach. Oh Lord. Grandmother had been informed about the carriage crying incident before Dawn halted the gossip. Only a fool forgot how fast news spread between servants—and addresses. Chatter at the markets, maids who were related or good friends sharing stories…while most had improved in their duties, there were still some with loose lips. Or malicious intent. But she still had yet to pin down exactly who led the bad behavior. “My husband does not beat me,” she gritted out.
“Lying serves you poorly, Lilian. The servants witnessed your distress. How many times have I told you that ladies, true ladies, show a calm and composed face to the world, and keep their upsets behind closed doors? You behaved in a common, emotional fashion, much like your mother used to do. She was a vulgar countess, and now you are a vulgar duchess who clearly doesn’t have her household, or marriage, in order.”
The words lanced her to the core, and all those simmering doubts and fears bubbled to the surface. For the words were true. Gabriel had turned her world upside down both at the ball and in the bedchamber, then ridden away, so she hadn’t eased his burden like she’d hoped to.
Duke in Darkness: Wickedly Wed, Book 1 Page 17