by Karen Ranney
She didn’t think he was damaged.
She had a quick wit, was loyal and kind.
He could do worse for a wife. In fact, considering that she was an heiress, he couldn’t think of another candidate for the position who would be so ideal.
She had, even virginal, been eager to explore passion. He’d been caught up by her, enchanted, and nearly overwhelmed.
Would she want him? He had a suspicion she didn’t give a flying farthing if he was a duke or a footman. Would she be miserable if her grandmother forced her to marry him?
The next few minutes would tell, wouldn’t they?
He made his way down the corridor to the guest chamber and knocked on the door. The Yorks’ maid opened it and stood aside for him to enter.
Mrs. York sat up in bed, commanding the room with the aristocracy of the queen. Josephine sat on the chair beside the bed.
Martha was nowhere in sight.
He nodded to Mrs. York.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked.
“No, Your Grace, I find I’m not. In fact, I’m feeling disturbed and disappointed.”
That comment put to rest any thought that this meeting might be for an innocuous reason. No doubt the tension in the room was natural, given the circumstances.
“I’ve been forced to ask you to attend me because of your behavior and that of my granddaughter.”
Was that why Martha wasn’t in the room? To shield her from any humiliation? If such was the case, why was Josephine here? As an unmarried woman, it was hardly proper for her to be present at this meeting.
“Josephine has confessed all,” she said.
He stared at the woman.
He was having trouble marshaling his thoughts, no doubt a residual effect of the elixir.
“What?” It was, in his defense, the only word he could think of to say.
“My granddaughter has told me you’ve taken her virginity, Your Grace. Do you deny it?”
He looked at Josephine, trying to reconcile her image with the one he’d already formed in his mind. His waking dream had been Martha. Hadn’t it been her?
He’d threaded his fingers through her hair, marveling at how it had curled around his hand. He’d kissed her lips, lips that were fuller than Josephine’s. Her breasts had filled his palms. He’d heard her soft, throaty voice in his ear.
Or had it all been wrong, his mind’s wish to make less of a disaster of the circumstances? Because that’s what this was, a bloody, undeniable catastrophe.
“Do you deny it, Your Grace?”
Josephine suddenly gave out a sob, then dabbed at the corners of her eyes. He’d never before caused a woman to weep. Or if he had he was unaware of it.
Words were impossible. They would simply not make the journey from his brain to his lips. He felt as if he was still under the effects of the elixir, the room hazy and not entirely in focus. Sunlight streamed in through the window and it was too bright, almost glaring. His thoughts were chaotic, unformed: the only word making itself known was simple and declarative. No. No. No.
He looked at Mrs. York, caught by her sharp gaze, held aloft by the strength of her will.
When he’d first surfaced after his accident, he’d been told he’d broken his leg and pelvis. He’d never be the same. He would never walk again. He would be in constant pain. His life, as he’d always known it, was over. He’d heard those words with the same disbelief he now heard Mrs. York’s.
His concept of himself, whole and unbroken, had had to endure a new birth, one taking place over months of learning to walk again, pushing himself from one milestone to another.
This transition—a new birth as well—took only minutes, but instead of hope he felt something in him die. An excitement, an enthusiasm, a need he’d not even known was there.
Martha wouldn’t be his wife. He wouldn’t make her the Duchess of Roth. Instead, his lust, his weakness, his need for the elixir had done the worst thing, delivered up to him a hideous choice: to defy his honor or take as his bride a woman he distrusted and disliked.
“Your Grace? Are you going to say anything?”
Josephine’s weeping intensified.
“Yes,” he said, the word forced from his mouth and coated with reluctance.
“Yes, what?”
He was being upbraided as if he was in short pants, except his sin was one of a mature man. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He should have called for Frederick or Mrs. Browning or summoned one of the maids or a footman or two and had her summarily ejected.
He shouldn’t have taken Dr. Reynolds’s preparation. His damnable leg had led to all of this. And his pride had led to the injury to his leg. In other words, the responsibility for last night led straight back to him.
Her look was impatient, but it didn’t matter. Not when he was having to extract every syllable from his lips with a pincer.
“Evidently, given the evidence, I seduced your granddaughter.”
Only it wasn’t Josephine. In his drugged state he’d replaced her with another woman, one he’d wanted. One he respected and admired. One, if the truth served any purpose at all at this moment, he felt as if he’d known for years.
“What do you suggest we do about the situation, Your Grace?”
The point of his honor sharpened, spearing him to the wall.
“There’s only one thing to do, isn’t there?” he said.
No, there were several things, none of which would serve him well. He could banish all the York women from his home. He could explain about the elixir. He could take himself off to Italy, like his brother did whenever anything difficult happened.
Or he could simply bow to circumstances.
“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Miss York?”
There, honor was satisfied. Nothing else mattered, did it? Not even this horror filling the whole of him.
He heard her answer from far away, said something else in response to her grandmother’s words, managed to act in a semicoherent fashion until it was done, over, complete, only the details to be arranged.
When it was finished, when the noose was laid around his neck and he was led to the gallows—with instructions to step lively, man—he left the room knowing that, once again, his life had changed. Only there was no hope this time.
Regardless of what he did, he could never make this situation bearable.
Chapter 20
When Martha went to the boathouse the next morning she found it empty. Jordan was nowhere in sight. Nor was there a note explaining his absence.
She sat there for a half hour, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
Was the duke deliberately avoiding her? Was he ashamed about last night? Did he wish it had never happened?
What could she possibly say if he felt that way? Nothing, of course. She would simply have to pretend that his regret meant little to her.
She returned to the house to discover that Gran was meeting with him, an event that had her stomach plummeting to her toes.
Josephine had said something. Gran had summoned Jordan. Her world was about to explode in a firestorm of recriminations.
She retreated to her room, feeling a cornucopia of emotions. Fear, perhaps a little of that. Dread—yes, that, certainly. Shame? Society would say she should be ashamed. It was a rule, one of those she didn’t particularly like. Perhaps she should try to summon some regret. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother or Jordan in any way. Embarrassment? It was there in large measure. How could she possibly be expected to talk about last night in front of other people?
Perhaps she could go back to Griffin House with the wagon driver if he hadn’t left, anything but be subjected to that.
She sat in her room for an hour until Amy knocked on the door.
“You’re to come to a meeting, Miss Martha,” Amy said. “Your grandmother says it’s important.”
“A meeting?”
The maid nodded and gave her directions.
She was to go to yet another of
Sedgebrook’s parlors, this one called the Veldt. When she arrived, she realized the room was most definitely not a woman’s chamber, not with the spears and shields painted in wild slashes of brown and black and arranged along the pale green walls.
Fearsome masks, some round, some elongated until they stretched at least three feet, were mounted on a far wall.
The room was on the second floor and no doubt filled the function of an office, due to the desk sitting by the window. She wondered if the duke had chosen it for that reason or for the fact that it didn’t require her grandmother to descend the steps. She had a feeling it was the latter, because he’d always struck her as being considerate of others, even when it wasn’t convenient for him to do so.
Look at how kind he had been to Gran, as well as the hospitality he’d shown them.
She was the first to arrive, and wanted to ask someone if the masks and weapons came from Africa. Unfortunately, the next person to enter the room was Josephine.
They hadn’t spoken since last night.
She wasn’t surprised to see that Josephine’s sparkling green eyes were pink. Someone who didn’t know her well would think she’d spent the intervening hours crying. Or that the dark circles meant she was feeling ill.
She knew her sister and had seen Josephine redden her own eyes with a mixture she’d purchased in London. A tiny bit of soot would explain the dark circles. Josephine was not above dulling her beauty if it meant succeeding in manipulating people.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
No one had told her. While Amy said it was important, she hadn’t added any additional information. When Amy didn’t want to say anything further no amount of coaxing would get her to speak.
“Gran wishes to make an announcement,” Josephine said now, studying the room with an almost acquisitive look.
She needed to speak to Josephine about her behavior, but now was not the time.
Besides, she was getting the feeling she was about to be called to account for her behavior last night. The fact that Josephine refused to look at her, instead choosing to studiously examine the masks, was a form of premonition.
Why here, though? Why hadn’t Gran summoned her to her room? Was it because she was also going to ask Jordan to be in attendance?
Please, no.
She sat on one of the dark brown overstuffed settees with a rosewood frame carved with horns and animal faces. Josephine sat on the opposite settee.
Her sister was wearing yet another dress, this one a dark blue with a white-and-blue striped sash. The fabric of the skirt was drawn up from the hem, revealing a white-and-blue striped underskirt before meeting in a bustle at the back. She’d never seen the garment before and under normal circumstances she would tell Josephine how lovely it was. However, she wasn’t feeling charitable toward Josephine at the moment.
Amy had done miracles with Martha’s dress, sponging off the dirt at the hem, freshening up the bow at the bustle, but it was the same lavender dress she’d worn for days.
Why was she worried about what she was wearing? Did her appearance matter?
She didn’t want to be here, dread settling over her like a warm blanket.
“Did you tell anyone?” she asked Josephine.
Her sister wouldn’t look at her.
“Josephine, please. Did you tell Gran what happened last night?”
Her sister only smiled at her, a small, almost pitying expression that only increased Martha’s anxiety.
Her sister had betrayed her, a fact that unfortunately didn’t surprise her.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. Both she and Josephine glanced at it, each other, and then away.
The tale would be spread to London, she was certain. People liked to talk about the York family. York Armaments was an important institution, both for the government and the military. She could almost hear the gossips’ words.
Martha? The older one? Oh, the spinster girl. Oh yes, Martha. You say she did what? How droll. You wouldn’t think it of her, as plain as she is. Studious, though, isn’t she? A bluestocking, I hear. She works on weapons, can you imagine? But to go to the duke’s bed? What did she think to accomplish by her actions? Other than shaming herself, of course. Did she actually think the duke would offer for her? Well, she isn’t that smart after all, is she?
Hopefully, none of them would realize that she’d lost her mind, that she’d been so taken by Jordan’s looks, by his manner, by the way he spoke she’d lost all sense around him. Or that she’d been so filled with desire—a word heretofore meaning absolutely nothing to her—that she hadn’t given any thought to her reputation, or any other ramifications, for that matter.
She deserved every single bit of gossip anyone might say about her.
She knew when the duke entered the room, because Josephine whipped out a handkerchief and began dabbing at the corners of her eyes. She uttered a choked sob, patted her chest with one hand, then sighed loudly.
“If you would put the tray there, Sarah,” he said.
The maid who followed him put the tray on the table between the two settees with a second maid replicating her actions. Both trays were laden with teapots and plates filled with delicacies both savory and sweet.
Evidently, refreshments were to be served at the scene of her humiliation.
Josephine stretched out one trembling hand. “Shall I pour?” she asked, her voice sweet, demure, and faint.
The duke glanced at her. “If you wish.”
“Don’t you think you should wait for Gran?” Martha asked.
Josephine looked toward the duke, smiled tremulously, and said, “It’s up to you, Jordan. Would you like a cup now?”
“I’m content to wait on your grandmother, Josephine.”
He walked to the desk, turned one of the chairs in front of it toward them, and sat. He couldn’t be any farther from them unless he left the room.
She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t even look in his direction. Perhaps she should just scrawl a confession on a note admitting to everything and leave. She hardly needed to be here.
Nor was she in the mood to witness Josephine’s theatrics.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Gran said.
Martha turned to see her grandmother standing in the doorway, looking healthy, hale, and as autocratic as a duchess. Her gaze touched on Jordan, then Josephine, and finally lit on Martha.
She nodded, as if coming to some kind of decision.
Martha straightened her shoulders, placed her hands flat on her knees, and stared at the tea set. They had a similar set at home that they rarely used since silver didn’t hold the heat well. But their service didn’t have a crest on it, this one belonging to the Hamiltons.
She wasn’t certain the Yorks could trace their lineage back as far as the duke’s family could.
Why on earth was she reflecting on tea sets and lineage? Because she’d rather think about anything but what Gran was about to say. She’d have to be courageous, admit to her behavior, and somehow endure the chastisement of those present.
When Mr. Burthren entered the room, followed by both Mrs. Browning and Frederick, she was shocked. Amy was the last to arrive, taking up a place beside the door. Evidently, she was going to be publicly excoriated. Martha took a deep breath and readied herself.
Gran squared her shoulders and looked at all of them one by one.
“I have something to tell you,” her grandmother finally said. She let a moment elapse before she continued. “It is my pleasure to announce that the Duke of Roth and my granddaughter, Josephine, are to be married.”
Martha had never before considered the act of blinking. What an absolutely marvelous cooperation of brain and eyes. Her eyelids closed and then opened again on their own. Her heart beat and she breathed the same way, too. Each separate function was performed without her conscious thought. A good thing, because she was suddenly incapable of it.
Her heart beat, another automatic function. She would have sw
allowed, but there seemed to be an impediment in her throat.
There was nothing wrong with her hearing, however, or her sight. She watched as Mr. Burthren crossed the room to shake Jordan’s hand. Amy proffered her congratulations as did the housekeeper and the majordomo, each of them stiffly proper.
She wanted to ask for clarification or explanation. Nothing made any sense whatsoever.
What had her sister done? How had she gotten the duke to offer for her? What had happened in the hours between Martha’s returning from Jordan’s room and this meeting?
“We shall leave tomorrow morning, return to Griffin House, and prepare for the wedding,” her grandmother was saying.
Josephine was going to be wed. Josephine was to marry the Duke of Roth. Josephine had gotten her wish—she was going to be a duchess.
She should turn to her sister now, paint some kind of smile on her face, and say something.
While her heart might beat, her eyes blink, and her lungs work, her capacity for speech had suddenly ceased.
“When is the ceremony to be held?” Mr. Burthren asked.
Good, someone else had asked. She didn’t need to push the words past her numb lips.
“There’s no reason to wait,” Josephine said, smiling brightly. “In a month.”
She was going to be ill.
Jordan glanced at Martha and for a moment their gazes held. She was the one to finally look away, only to see Josephine’s triumphant smile.
A month from now her sister was going to marry Jordan.
The York family consisted of numerous cousins and second cousins. Their side of the family would make up for any lack from Jordan’s. They could fill a church easily. Add in all the inhabitants from the two villages not far from Griffin House and there would be an overflow crowd at the church.
How was she going to endure this?
Josephine had called him lame. She hadn’t seen the man behind the injury. She cared nothing for Jordan’s character or his questioning mind. His curiosity didn’t impress her at all. All she wanted was the title and the house.
Somehow, Josephine had managed to get exactly what she wanted.