With these few terse words he strolled off towards the drawing-room leaving her to greet his guests as they appeared. By the time the ladies had been directed to their boudoirs and the gentlemen to the billiard room she was quite exhausted. She was also bitterly disappointed there was not one of the half a dozen wives she wished to spend time with. They were all as brittle and shallow as their husbands, and considerably older than herself.
Unfortunately she must act as a charming hostess for the duration of their visit. How long that would be he had not deigned to tell her. At least a married gentleman would not attempt to molest her; she had not forgotten the last time and dreaded such an occurrence happening again. She'd had no opportunity to discuss the matter with Alexander, but it would certainly be she who was blamed if anything similar took place.
Everything went smoothly for the first few days. Tomorrow the men were to shoot and the ladies to join them for an alfresco luncheon. She was almost looking forward to the event. To be outside, even in uncongenial company, would be a pleasure. Nothing remotely enjoyable had taken place at Newcomb these past six months. Unfortunately the heavens opened and the guests were forced to remain indoors. This would mean by dinner time all the gentlemen would be in their cups and the ladies little better.
She was returning, after a brief conversation with Foster about the next morning's arrangements, to rejoin the guests. The majority of the men had retreated to the billiard room to drink brandy and smoke foul-smelling cigars. The ladies, and the remaining gentlemen, were in the process of having card tables set out in the grand drawing room.
Isobel was hesitating in the doorway, hidden by a marble column, when a vile creature lurched up to her.
'I've been searching for you, my lady. I've noticed that your husband ignores you. I should be happy to take his place— I'm sure you understand my meaning.'
Making such a licentious remark was bad enough but his hand snaked out to clutch her breast. No one took liberties with her person. No one touched her breasts apart from Alexander. Without a second thought she snatched up a large silver candlestick and struck him on the head.
He staggered back, clutching his forehead. Blood poured unchecked down his face. From the screams and cries of distress of the female witnesses one would have thought she had murdered him. Head wounds bled freely, she was certain he was not seriously hurt. Then she was surrounded by a ring of accusatory faces. This was too much and she fled to her bed chamber in distress.
Alexander was going to be so angry. She huddled under the coverlet dreading the moment when his footsteps approached her bedchamber. She clenched her fists, her heart pounding, going over the horrible incident which had occurred in full view of many of his cronies. Should she have brazened it out? Remained in the room and not fled to her apartment in disarray? Maybe she was overreacting— perhaps when he heard of her appalling behaviour he would laugh and continue his game of billiards. She might as well be invisible to him nowadays. Was it possible he might chose to ignore her this time as well?
Her failure to conceive was a bitter disappointment to them both. He had selected her for her breeding qualities and her impeccable pedigree in exactly the same way he would chose a mare to put to his stallion. She no longer had any illusions about her marriage. Her family had been saved
from financial ruin by her settlement, The Duke of Rochester had bought himself a duchess. Her immature fantasies that one day he would love her had long since been trampled under his indifference.
How wrong, how naïve, she had been to believe she was anything more than an object, and one that did not live up to expectations at that. Thank God he spent his time in Town, leaving her to our own devices in the country.
She should be satisfied with her lot. After all, wasn't she a duchess, dressed in the first stare of fashion, given as much pin-money as she wanted? For many women being left alone at night would be a bonus. He had not repeated his invitation that she join him at Grosvenor Square and she would not have gone if he had.
The mantel clock struck midnight. Alexander rarely retired until the small hours when he had acquaintances with him. The shooting season was well established and cub hunting was about to start. There was nothing these gentlemen liked better than to be shooting and chasing defenceless animals about the countryside.
Her stomach curdled. Why didn't he come and get it over with? She closed her eyes, but tears spilled anyway. She bit her lip—she would cry no more. She'd done enough these past months. Indeed, she couldn't even recall the name of the obnoxious man who waylaid her in the drawing-room after dinner.
However justified her actions, she was the Duchess of Rochester. One thing her husband had made abundantly clear was that he would not tolerate her behaving in anything but the most seemly of manners. She shuddered as she remembered what he'd said when she'd thrown a glass
of wine over that other gentlemen. She was going to cast up her accounts. Her face was drenched with sweat. He had never raised a hand to her. Tonight, would he extract a physical retribution?
****
Alexander downed his brandy before chalking his cue and preparing to take the shot. A hush fell on the billiard room— this was a crucial moment. A thousand guineas was staked on the outcome of this pot. As he drew back his arm someone cleared his throat loudly and he miscued. The resulting screech of delight from the cronies of the man who stood to gain fuelled his anger. With clenched fists he turned to find Foster standing rigidly behind him. His butler knew better than to interrupt unless it was a matter of extreme urgency.
'What is it it, man? It had better be good or you'll be leaving Newcomb this very night.'
Foster's whispered words were barely discernible in the hubbub. 'If I could be permitted to have a word with you, your grace, in private.'
Alexander tossed his cue to one of the gentlemen still celebrating the wager and stepped out of earshot. 'Well?' His head thumped like the very devil. He'd been drinking heavily since early afternoon which did nothing to improve his digestion or his temper. Even in his befuddled state he saw his servant stiffen as if expecting a blow.
'There has been an incident in the drawing-room, involving her grace. Your presence is required immediately.'
He had been angry before. Now he was incandescent. The only kind of incident he could imagine that could involve Isobel was that some bastard had made advances to her. If that was the case, he'd put a bullet through the man's heart after he had beaten him to a pulp.
He strode out and the cold air all but flattened him after the fug of the billiard room. The long passageways in this barrack were never heated. Although not yet winter, the nights were cold and the prodigious amount of glass along this side of the house did not help. He was obliged to stop for a moment, resting his hand against the wall until his head stopped swimming.
When his stomach settled and his eyes had cleared he continued, his fury building at every step. He was about to turn to the grand drawing-room when Foster spoke from behind him. The man was slightly out of breath.
'I beg your pardon, your grace, but Sir John is in an ante-room. I thought it best to remove him immediately.'
So much the better, one thing he could always rely on was the loyalty of his staff. Opening the door to a room he couldn't remember entering before, he saw a man, slumped in an upright chair, Sir John Farnham—his head was encircled by a clean white bandage and judging by the amount of gore on his person he had received a serious head wound.
His sharp features were not enhanced by the blood. The man glared at him. ‘No-one treats me with disrespect. Be very sure every house in Town will hear of this.’
Two gentlemen were hovering behind their friend. The shorter one, he misremembered his name, stepped forward.
'It's a disgrace, Rochester. Sir John did no more than exchange pleasantries with your wife and she struck him down with a candlestick. He will demand substantial reparation for this outrage.'
Without hesitation Alexander grabbed the speaker by his cravat, lift
ing him bodily and shaking him like a rat. 'If my wife was obliged to strike Farnham then it can be for only one reason. He made improper advances.' He tossed the man aside and he fell like an empty coat to the boards.
The second man instantly dodged behind the chair in which the bastard sat. Alexander wanted to throttle Farnham. He loomed over the seated man and Farnham flinched. Isobel would never encourage a gentleman to take liberties; she kept herself apart from his friends and hated every moment he forced her to act as his hostess.
Farnham shrank against the chair back. Alexander decided he wasn't worth the trouble. 'You
and your associates will depart from here immediately. If I discover you when I rise tomorrow I shan't hesitate to kill you.'
As he left the room he heard Farnham call after him. ‘You will pay for this, Rochester. I never forget a slight.’
Alexander ignored the comment. The man was of no account. The matter here was dealt with, but there were still his other guests. Before he entered the grand drawing-room, he needed more brandy to steady his nerves. He detoured to his study, his private sanctum into which no one ventured without invitation. He was shocked to find his hands were trembling— another drink should settle him down.
This incident would take more than diplomacy to defuse. His anger turned towards Isobel. Hadn't he warned her that this kind of behaviour was unacceptable, would not be tolerated or excused a second time? Whatever the provocation, the family name was sacrosanct, it must never be besmirched. Striking a man with a candlestick in front of his guests was going to send ripples throughout the ton. The people he'd gathered around him would not hesitate to gossip about what had happened.
He stepped into the drawing-room and viewed the assembly through narrowed eyes. There was not a person among them he would wish to call a friend—they were sycophants and hangers on. Some, like him, aristocrats, but others merely on the fringe of Society, there to lap up what largesse he was prepared to throw their way. He shook his head and regretted it, almost losing his balance. He cared not what this assortment of scroungers thought about his family. They could all depart the following morning. The shooting party was over. His icy stare sent shockwaves around the chamber and gradually the chatter stopped and every head turned his way.
'I regret that you were obliged to witness the unfortunate incident. Farnham has been dealt with. You’ll understand I am obliged to ask you all to leave at first light tomorrow morning.'
Turning his back on the silent group he stalked out. He would not demean himself by asking for their discretion knowing the incident would be all over Town whatever he said. Over the years his intimate friends had dropped him. He was married to a barren wife. But the one thing he could rely on, was the family name. Tonight Isobel had bought it into disrepute and this could not go unpunished. He returned to the study to allow his guests to retire for the night. Whilst he waited he finished a decanter of brandy.
The house wasn’t silent until after midnight. Time for a reckoning. He could not blame his wife for being childless. The least she could do was behave with decorum. He paused, heartsick and lonely. Even in his befuddled state he understood the fault was not hers—but his. He was a pitiful specimen and it was hardly surprising he had failed to father further children.
He punched the wall, the pain sending shockwaves up his arm. He was master here and whatever the provocation Isobel must pay. His anger grew with each step he took. He had been too lenient with her and allowed her to run wild when he was absent, to ignore her duties as chatelaine. She had become impertinent, not at all the submissive wife he thought he'd married.
From tonight everything changed. He'd lavished money and gifts on her, had not overburdened her with his demands in the bedroom, and what had she done? She had thrown it all back in his face by behaving like a common trollop. A lady would have fainted, run weeping to fetch him, or possibly slapped the bastard across the face. But no, she must pick up a candlestick and brain the man in full view of a dozen people.
Having left the butler to supervise the departure of those three men he was free to take the necessary action that would ensure no further breaches of etiquette occurred. His valet was hovering nervously. Alexander smiled grimly. When his evening coat had gone, his cravat, boots and waistcoat also, he held up his hand. 'Leave me, Duncan, I can do the rest myself. I shan't require you until the morning.'
'Your grace, allow me to help you into bed. You're trifle unsteady.'
'Silence. Know your place or lose it.' What was it about tonight that all about him were defying his every order?
He glared and his valet collected the discarded garments and retreated into the dressing-room. The door clicked shut. What was going to take place in the adjoining apartment needed no eavesdroppers.
****
Isobel tensed at every passing footstep, but so far he had not burst in through her sitting room door to berate her. The house was quiet, even the most recalcitrant of the guests had retired to their bed chambers. He was not coming tonight. Thank God for that, he had been drinking steadily for hours. With luck he had passed out in his study and would wake with a sore head in the morning and no recollection of what had transpired.
She turned, plumping the pillows and finally relaxing. On the verge of sleep she heard the distinctive click of the door that led from his bed chamber. He entered quietly, pushing the door closed behind him. She held her breath. If she feigned sleep would he retreat? Her heart was hammering—a wave of nausea engulfed her.
Through the slit of her eyelids a flickering light showed he was in his shirt sleeves and pantaloons. When he came to her in the usual way he wore only his silk bed-robe, was naked underneath. She could not welcome him into her bed when he was angry and in his cups. Here was the only place she could still cling to the faint hope that one day he would learn to love her and this marriage would become like his first. If he took her in anger, it would be over— with no children to keep them together she would have nothing to hope for. The rest of her life would be lonely and miserable, trapped in a marriage that had failed them both.
Perhaps he was not angry about had come to check she was unharmed from the unpleasant experience. She dare not raise her head to look at him for this would reveal she was awake. The sound of further candles being lit could mean only one thing. She could no longer dissemble. He had not come to make love to her or to check if she was distressed— he had come to punish her for besmirching his precious name in public.
Would it make things easier if she apologised? Pushing herself upright she forced her lips to curve in a smile of welcome. His face was unrecognizable. His eyes glittered strangely, an arctic grey— he was a stranger to her. She tried to find words to mollify him. He was not himself, anger and drink was making it appear as if he hated her. Her words remained locked behind her teeth. Her mouth was too dry to release her tongue from the roof of her mouth.
With slow deliberation he placed his candlestick on the ormolu table beside the bed. Isobel shivered— she feared her bladder would empty. Why didn't he speak?
'Tonight, madam, you brought disgrace to my name. The last time you did this I warned you what to expect. I am master in this house and it’s high time you learnt what happens when you disobey me.'
His words were clipped, each one enunciated clearly. This was the voice of a madman. He stepped forward and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and, ignoring her protests, he carried her into the anti-room in which she took a bath.
'You disobeyed me. You have only yourself to blame for this.'
The door slammed and she heard him pushing a large piece of furniture against it. She was shut in a freezing room in only her nightgown. How dare he treat her like this? She was not a recalcitrant child to be punished. There were no other doors in the room and she couldn't escape into the servants' quarters even if she'd wished to.
She pressed her ear to the door. His footsteps faded into the night. Slumping onto the icy tiles she hugged her knees and tried
to stop her teeth from chattering. How long would he leave her here to freeze? After an hour she was too dispirited and cold to do more than huddle in a corner praying for release. She shivered and froze for what seemed like hours before she heard him removing whatever he'd used to barricade her inside. She scrambled to her feet.
His voice reverberated through the door. 'I hope you have learned your lesson, madam.'
She would never forgive him. Rage overwhelmed her—she was blinded by it—her fear and misery burned away by its ferocity. The door swung open and she sprung forward snarling with anger.
Before he had time to react she lashed out punching him squarely in the mouth. His teeth ground into her fist, his lips split, but she ignored the hurt that travelled up her arm. He reeled back, blood dripping from his mouth, his eyes wide. Not giving him time to retaliate she punched him with her left hand. This connected with his eye.
She was incapable of speech. Her cheeks were awash with tears of rage. He stepped away from her shaking his head, wiping blood from his mouth with his shirtsleeve. She turned to see what she could snatch up to hit him and her fingers closed around a candlestick. As she lifted it, his hand grasped her wrist and he prised it from her.
'Enough, little firebrand, there are better ways of venting your spleen than that.' He flung her full length onto the bed, his weight pinning her down, then held her arms on either side of her head. She bucked frantically to get free.
'Alexander, I beg you, not like this. Haven't I been punished enough tonight?'
He disregarded her plea, trapping her. His tongue invaded her mouth—she could taste his blood. He took the two sides of her nightgown and ripped them apart leaving her naked and exposed. His lips closed on hers but they were not hard but soft, persuasive, seducing her into submission.
He trailed hot kisses down her neck; taking a nipple into his mouth he nipped it gently between his teeth. Her treacherous body began to respond. Although she hated him, was still imploring him to stop, inside her primitive urges took over. It had been too long since she'd made love to him.
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