by Brenda Joyce
“I think I can understand.”
“Do you love him? Because that is what I felt for your father from the moment I laid eyes on him.”
Nicole turned her face away, staring into the fire. For a long time she did not speak, afraid to answer, afraid of the answer. Finally, she said, “He does not love me. He loves Elizabeth, who is kind and good. And I like her, although at first I hated her. He merely…desires me.”
Jane grimaced. “Love between two people is a rare and precious gift, Nicole. Rare and precious. I believe that if he really loved Elizabeth, he would not want you. But that is irrelevant. The Duke is a man of his word and he will never break his engagement. I am glad you see the situation so clearly, that you understand that. You are young and strong and I know you can forget him.”
Nicole turned to face her mother, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to shed. “I will never forget him, Mother, never. But that doesn’t matter at all.”
Jane stood and embraced her daughter, comforting her as she had so many times when she was younger. When Nicole was calm, she sat again. “How I wish I could help you through this.”
“I am fine.”
“It all will work out for the best, Nicole. Trust me. After what he did Saturday at the picnic, everyone now knows that the Duke has accepted you, and others among the set must do so as well. I know that right now you are hurting, but leaving London would be a vast mistake.”
“That’s what Martha said.”
“I want you to stay,” Jane said, gripping her hands. “This is your chance to regain acceptance into society, and to find someone who will love you as much as you love him. Don’t shake your head! You will get over the Duke! You can either be a popular and much sought after lady here, or a lonely spinster at Dragmore. I had given up, and it has hurt me terribly to see you spending the best years of your life alone in the country, just as it has your father. We are both begging you to stay, Nicole, and take advantage of what the Duke has done.”
Her parents rarely asked her for anything, and Nicole could not refuse them. Truthfully, she did not want to refuse them. The part of her that refused to forget the Duke did not want to leave London because of his presence here, did not want to return to Dragmore, where she would, if she were honest with herself, merely pine for him.
“Do you really think that I might gain acceptance and become popular?” She tried to envision the kind of future her mother wanted for her, a future where she held court among the bachelors until one of them, her Prince Charming, claimed her, but she failed. If she could forget him and have a life she had never before wanted, if she could be happy again, with such a life, then she must hope for such an advent, but she did not think for a minute that it was possible.
“I am certain,” Jane said.
“I will stay.”
A delighted smile crossed Jane’s face. Then she hesitated. “If you are staying, I must tell you about an invitation I have accepted for us. It is for a hunting weekend.”
“I love to hunt,” Nicole said, momentarily brightening at the thought of such a weekend.
“The Dowager Duchess of Clayborough is hostessing it.”
“Mother, I can’t.” Yet even as she said the words, Nicole’s mind raced with the possibilities: She could hunt; the Duke would be there; and Elizabeth certainly could not hunt.
“I do not know the Dowager Duchess well, but I have spoken with her from time to time over the years and I admire her greatly. I think she feels the same way about me. We have always gotten on fabulously well. Only thirty families have been invited to this fête, thirty of the most powerful families in the realm. There will only be one or two eligible young men there, Nicole, but there are many eligible bachelors among these families. I want them to see you. That the Dowager Duchess has specifically included you in her invitation is a great act of generosity. As the Duke did Saturday, she is extending her protection to you as well. And Nicole, this is only the beginning.”
It would hurt to go and see the Duke there with Elizabeth, yet her heart soared at the thought of seeing him again. At the same time, she understood exactly what it meant to have been invited by the Dowager Duchess of Clayborough to her home for such a weekend; it was an invitation that could not be refused. “Why has she done this?” Nicole asked, dazed.
“Perhaps because, like her son, she is a decent woman who cannot abide injustice,” Jane said simply. “I know this is an awkward position for you to be in, and while I want you to go, if you are still too heartsore, I will respect your decision and we will say you are ill.”
“If she has invited me directly, then I am going,” Nicole stated. And she firmly told herself that she was going to begin a new life, one that would soon gain her many new suitors and great popularity, but her heart laughed back at her, and told her it was a lie.
It wasn’t until the Monday afternoon following the charity picnic that Elizabeth was feeling better. Although the Duke had taken her to the theatre the evening of the picnic, they had had to leave the performance early so that Elizabeth could retire. She had remained abed for two days. Although she ran no fever, she seemed to be in growing pain and without the will to get up. The physician the Duke had summoned had not been certain what might be afflicting her, finally telling the Duke that she might possess a weak heart, in which case she must rest as often as she needed to, and forever avoid exerting herself.
“But then why does she now say that her body hurts her?” the Duke had demanded, irritated with the doctor’s inability to tell him exactly what was wrong and exactly how to cure it.
“That I do not know, but perhaps it is a touch of the flu as well. You said that this is the first time she has been in any discomfort, have you not?” the physician asked.
“That’s correct,” the Duke replied. The doctor told him to give her some laudanum for her discomfort.
By Monday afternoon Elizabeth was sitting up and smiling and feeling much better. Tuesday she went out with her maid to do a little shopping, and it seemed that the doctor had been right, she had had a flu and her heart was weak, which explained why she tired so easily. The Duke was relieved.
Elizabeth’s worsening condition had not just dismayed him, it had begun to frighten him. The Duke was a man used to being in control. He was a man with a will of iron and a strict self-discipline. Should business matters go awry, he worked ceaselessly to correct them, for as long as necessary, doing what had to be done with the utmost patience and perseverance. It had been many years now that he had run the ducal empire, and he was used to an extraordinary amount of power. In this instance, though, he was suddenly powerless. His fiancée’s condition was beyond his control, but fortunately she had become better as mysteriously as she had taken a turn for the worse.
It seemed suddenly as if his entire life were tilting in a precariously topsy-turvy manner. The normal routine he was accustomed to, one predominantly devoted to hard work, no longer existed. And it was not just Elizabeth’s illness, which seemed to defy explanation. There was also the matter of Nicole Shelton and his indefatigable interest in her. That, also, defied explanation, and exercising control where she was concerned seemed to be a losing battle. The Duke was not a man who had lost very many battles.
Although the Duke had many pressing matters with which to occupy his time in London, he made it a point during this short interlude to visit the Stafford home twice daily to check upon Elizabeth’s progress. It would have been thoughtless and rude of him not to. But what was even ruder were his own thoughts as he looked upon his fiancée.
His thoughts came unbidden and unwanted. They consisted of an unseemly and surreptitious comparison. Elizabeth was unwell, so small and so fragile. Nicole Shelton’s image formed in his mind. She was neither unwell, small nor fragile, but precisely the opposite. She was vibrantly healthy and vitally alive. On one particular visit, during which Elizabeth had fallen asleep as he sat beside her, it occured to him that he felt not the slightest bit of desire for her and tha
t he never had. In fact, he had never even kissed her, except once on her eighteenth birthday, and then only because he knew she expected it. And it had been a chaste kiss.
He had done more than kiss Nicole Shelton. He had touched her intimately, with his mouth, his hands and his own loins.
Elizabeth was going to become his wife and he knew she would be an exemplary one. He was not sure how he would perform with her in bed, indeed, he had never thought about it until now, a highly inappropriate time to speculate upon such an event, but he assumed that when the moment came he would manage.
As he stood there looking down upon her as she slept upon the chaise in her sitting room, her face young and innocent, a niggling doubt arose. For the first time in his life, he questioned having been betrothed to his cousin while she was an infant and he a child. And it was because of Nicole Shelton.
Her intrusion into his life and his mind had become dangerous.
If he was a man obsessed—and it seemed that he was—his obsession had become worse.
He was sorry he had gone to the picnic the other day, sorry that he had rescued her. He wished like hell it could have been some other man. In the same breath, he knew he was lying to himself.
If only…
Shocked at where his thoughts were about to wander to, the Duke cut them off. Life was concrete. Circumstance begat circumstance, reality led to reality. Fantasizing about what might be was for the weak, the foolish and the romantic—not for someone like him.
He was glad she had left London, he told himself, glad and relieved. Her presence seemed to precipitate passions in him which he was not able to control, and he had been in complete control of himself since he was a very small child—he prided himself on his self-discipline. Now it would not be put to any further tests.
On Tuesday evening Elizabeth was well enough to join him at an at-home at the Earl of Ravensford’s. It was a small intimate gathering. The Duke could not but be slightly dismayed when he saw that two of the guests were the Earl of Dragmore and his wife. They were two of the last people he wished to converse with, but to avoid them would be the height of rudeness. With some determination, he sought them out before supper.
He introduced Elizabeth and chatted with the Earl and Countess amiably. As he did so, he was aware that the Countess of Dragmore was studying Elizabeth discreetly. He had an uneasy feeling that she might know more than was appropriate about his relationship with her daughter, but he shook the feeling off as a foolish one, or, perhaps, a guilty one.
By the time supper was over, Elizabeth was looking pale. Quietly, before the men adjourned separately to their port and cigars, Hadrian took her aside. “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”
She gave him her fetching smile, the one that made her almost beautiful. “You worry too much, Hadrian, like some old fuddy duddy.”
He had to smile. “Do you wish to go home? You look tired.”
She hesitated. “I don’t wish to appear rude and I do not want to interrupt such a pleasant evening.”
“I will explain everything to our host,” the Duke stated. While he did so, Elizabeth excused herself to attend to matters in the powder room. The Duke was in the hall awaiting her, alone except for a servant who held Elizabeth’s fur-lined mantle. He was momentarily startled to see the Countess of Dragmore slip into the hallway.
And she was heading directly for him.
“Your Grace,” she said, gliding towards him, “I know this is unusual, but might we have a word?”
It was more than unusual, but the Duke nodded. He wondered what she wanted, and wondered even more at her daring and disregard for convention. She was only ten years or so his elder, and still strikingly beautiful. Servants loved to talk, and the one holding Elizabeth’s cape, pretending not to see them, would soon be spreading rumours about the Duke of Clayborough and the Countess of Dragmore. However, if she didn’t care what might be said, then neither did he. It occurred to him that Nicole’s disregard for convention might have come from her mother, who, he knew, had once been a stage actress. The Duke leveled his regard upon the butler. “Kindly leave us a moment.”
The man disappeared.
“Thank you.” Jane smiled softly. “My husband and I both wish to thank you for what you did the other day at the picnic.”
The Duke was expressionless.
“You not only saved our daughter from a terrible embarrassment, you have made it possible for her to regain acceptance in society. We cannot thank you enough.”
“Elizabeth is very fond of her. I could do no less.” But as the Duke said the words, he wondered just how Nicole Shelton would regain acceptance in society if she had departed London.
“Nicole is fond of her, too. And I am glad she is better.” There were no secrets in London.
“Thank you.” Hadrian’s expression did not change, but he was certain that Nicole Shelton was not fond of his fiancée, He would be stunned if she actually were.
Elizabeth appeared and greeted the Countess. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” she added. “I do admire your daughter terribly, Lady Shelton. Please, send her my regards and tell her I will call on her as soon as I am able.”
“I shall.” Jane smiled.
The Duke could not refrain from frowning. Nicole had left London, hadn’t she? “Are you returning to the country, Countess?” he asked politely.
“Not immediately. Nicholas will be returning to Dragmore in a few days. But I must stay. After all, it is rare that I have both of my daughters in town, so I must take advantage of the situation, and of course, chaperone them properly.”
“I see,” the Duke said. She had not left the city after all.
He should be angry. Just a few days ago, her presence in London had infuriated him. But where was his anger now? It eluded him.
He wondered if she had deliberately lied to him, but instinctively knew that she hadn’t. He had avoided thinking about the day of the picnic, but now he could do nothing but remember it. Something had flared up between them, something he was afraid to inspect too closely, something that was more than just passion. And it was because of that something that she had said that she would leave London immediately. It was because of that something that he had been relieved that she was going. Yet she had not gone.
Elizabeth noticed his change of mood instantly, and commented upon it in the imposing Clayborough coach as he took her home. “Are you upset, Hadrian? Have I done something to displease you? Did you wish to stay at the Langleys’?”
He found it hard to focus on his fiancée when his mind was spinning. “Of course you have not displeased me.”
“I am glad,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “As soon as I feel better I shall call upon Lady Shelton.”
He was silent. The feelings rushing in upon him were overwhelming and turbulent, chaotic and nameless, impossible to escape. He did not want to identify them. He would not even try to. For just a moment he had the strangest sensation of being tossed about in the ocean by a rough wave, tumbling him every which way and making it briefly impossible for his feet to find the ground. And then the moment passed.
His senses sharpened and two potent, powerful images came to his mind. He saw Nicole at the Adderlys’ masque, so inappropriately and daringly costumed as a gypsy. He had rescued her then, although at the time he had not dwelled upon it or his motives, yet any fool would have been aware of the undercurrents swelling in the crowd as they prepared to trounce her for her boldness. Instantly he had approved of her so no one would dare but do the same.
And he saw her as she had been at the charity picnic, frozen with humiliation and trying to hide it, so damned proud.
He did not want his fiancée calling upon Nicole Shelton. Yet he could not, would not, take away the chance he had given Nicole to be accepted by his peers. “That is very thoughtful of you, Elizabeth,” he said.
Elizabeth smiled happily. The Duke did not.
The Sheltons arrived at Maddington, the home of the Dowager Duchess of Clayboroug
h, Friday afternoon. Maddington had belonged to the Clayboroughs for more than five hundred years, and once it had been a vast estate that had been the cornerstone of the family’s possessions in Derbyshire. Over the years the land had been sold off, and now it was a small estate of some hundred park-like acres. The manor still contained the original keep built in late Norman times, but so many additions, in so many different fashions, had been made to the original edifice that one had to be an architectural expert to discern when each pan of the sprawling, turreted and domed structure had been built.
Upon arriving Nicole and Regina were shown to the room they would share, as were their parents. Supper was at eight, they were told, and they were asked if they would like hot baths drawn and tea served. Both girls replied in the affirmative.
While Regina flopped down on one of the four-poster beds, Nicole wandered to the tall windows overlooking a small balcony and the sweep of emerald-green lawns below. Her heart was in her throat and she was trembling nervously. She wondered if the Duke was already there.
In the middle of the week, when gossip held that Elizabeth was quite sick and bedridden, Nicole had thought that they would not come—and she had been disappointed. She knew it was the height of foolishness to want to see him, when she could not have his attention and when he would be with his fiancée. Yet she could no more rein in her emotions than she could a maddened, runaway horse.
But Elizabeth had recovered. Nicole had become an avid fan of gossip, pretending great interest in all the goings-on of the set, much to Martha and Regina’s suspicion, while actually only seeking information about the Duke. She knew he had taken Elizabeth out twice this week; there was no reason the couple would not come to Maddington this weekend.