by Brenda Joyce
“But I am all right,” Nicole said, managing a bright smile for the Dowager Duchess’s benefit. She received no smile in return. Isobel regarded her speculatively, and Nicole was certain that she doubted every word her son had said. Shame flooded her, adding motivation to the compelling urge she had to flee, not just from the Dowager Duchess with her too-knowing eyes, but from her son.
“You had better get upstairs and out of those wet things,” Isobel finally said.
Nicole nodded, only too glad to leave, when her mother called out from behind her. Her heart sank as she saw Jane and her father descending the wide, winding staircase. “Darling, are you all right?” Jane cried, hurrying to her with her husband on her heels.
“I’m fine,” she assured them, trying to hide her uneasiness. It was one thing to tell everyone else that she had fallen off her mount, it was quite another to foist such a tale off on her parents. Careful not to look at her father, she told Jane how she had fallen off her mount and how the Duke had rescued her.
“You fell from your horse?” Jane said disbelievingly. Her father stared at her.
“I thought I was alone,” Nicole lied with aplomb. “And I was in that awful sidesaddle, which you know I never use. Hadrian startled not just my horse, but me! It was just one of those things.” She darted a glance at her father. She saw from his stern expression that he knew damn well that she was lying through her teeth.
“You must get out of your clothes,” Jane said firmly, pausing only to flash the Duke a warm smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The Duke nodded.
It was then that Nicole realized that she had just referred to him by his given name, and not as the Duke or “His Grace.” Her heart stopped, and she darted a glance at the Dowager Duchess, who was staring disapprovingly at her. Another peek, this time at her father, showed that he was wearing almost the identical expression. Neither one of them had missed her terrible slip of the tongue, and crimson color flooded her cheeks. She did not dare look at the Duke, but she did not have to. She could feel his silent fury.
Only her mother was oblivious, and at that moment, Jane led Nicole toward the stairs.
A silence descended upon the group left standing alone in the foyer. The Duke met Nicholas Shelton’s stare, which was cold and angry. He flinched inwardly. Even before Nicole’s disastrous faux pas, the other man had known that he and Nicole had not been innocently alone all this time. The Duke had sensed it the moment he appeared, and now Shelton’s suspicions were confirmed.
When Nicholas Shelton spoke, his tone was as frosty as his pale grey gaze. “Perhaps His Grace would care to join me in the library? I should very much like to learn all about Nicole’s fall from her horse.”
The Duke almost winced. He had not a doubt that if he did not convince Shelton that his daughter had not been ruined, a disastrous clash would occur. “Nicole is very fortunate,” he said politely. “Had I not taken the situation firmly in hand, she would not have been so fortunate. But I can assure you that she has not been harmed, and that she is in no way any the worse for what befell her.”
The Earl of Dragmore’s expression did not change. “I see,” he said, his jaw tight. “Hopefully there will not be another incident of this nature.” His gaze locked with the Duke’s. “The consequences would be more than unpleasant, I assure you.”
“Of course not,” Hadrian said stiffly. The Earl was well within his rights, but the Duke did not like being threatened, regardless of how justifiable the threat was.
Shelton nodded and turned abruptly, limping slightly from the pulled muscle in his leg. The Duke watched him leave, finally allowing himself to feel the full brunt of his own anger, and practically all of it was directed at himself. The fact that he had very nearly ruined Nicole consumed him, as did how she had misconstrued his intentions.
“You had better start thinking about Elizabeth,” Isobel said from behind him.
It was another warning and his temper exploded. “I am marrying Elizabeth in June,” he snapped. “I have not forgotten that for a second. And then all shall be well, shall it not?”
Isobel looked at him sadly.
“For everyone shall be happy, shall they not?” His jaw clenched. “Or should I say—almost everyone?”
He strode away, his steps hard and angry. He had not meant to let his temper take over like that, but it had, and with it had come knowledge of his deepest, most secret feelings, which he did not want to confront. But it was too late. Everyone would be happy when he married Elizabeth. Everyone except himself.
For he was no longer looking forward to his upcoming marriage. Suddenly it loomed before him as nothing more than an ultimate act of self-sacrifice.
It was not until late that evening that Isobel was finally awarded the peace and privacy of her own apartments, her guests having finally retired to their beds. Alone at last, she was finally free to think—and to worry.
She stood in front of the vast, marble-mantled hearth in her sitting room, staring at the dancing flames. Gone was the convivial gaiety which had marked her expression earlier and in its place was grave concern. Her blue eyes were anxious and she worried the rose-colored sash of her silk peignoir.
Isobel was no fool. She had never been one, although, at one time, when she was young, she had been naive, innocent and gullible. Francis had changed that quickly enough—she had been introduced to life’s unpleasant side with little ado, and she had learned and adjusted swiftly. Now she was in her mid-fifties and not merely a Dowager Duchess, but an educated, experienced and intelligent woman, and something of a businesswoman as well. Few women had experienced all that she had, and Isobel knew better than most that life forever dealt wild cards, especially when one least expected it.
Hadrian had fallen for Nicole Shelton and it was obvious. It was equally obvious that the poor young woman was wildly in love with her son. And they made such a striking couple, in ways that had nothing to do with their individually astounding good looks. Isobel was sad.
She was no stranger to illicit love, nor to heartbreak. She knew too well the overwhelming pain forbidden love generated. Although the pain would die a slow, lingering death, the sadness at what could not be would never die, at least, for her it hadn’t. Her heart ached now for her son. She desperately wished that Hadrian was not in love with Nicole Shelton, to spare him the grief that was certain to be his fate.
And poor Elizabeth. It was a terrible triangle, for Isobel knew how dearly Elizabeth loved Hadrian. Hadrian would never jilt her, Isobel was certain of that, he was far too honorable. Just as she had been too honorable to run away from Francis. Like mother, like son. It was frightening.
Isobel sank onto a chaise, feeling the urge to shed tears. Her emotions were raw, as if she were in her twenties again, as if she were that young woman falling in love for the first time and tortured with her own illicit feelings for a man who was not her husband. His image loomed before her as if it were only yesterday that they had been together—tall and powerful, brown hair streaked gold by the sun, his face weathered and rugged yet compellingly attractive. Her heart clenched painfully. She realized that she was wrong—the pain never died.
She did not wish such an ill-fated love upon anybody, and certainly not upon her son or Elizabeth, nor even poor Nicole Shelton, who did not deserve all that her life had so far meted out to her.
Isobel knew only too well how love knew no bounds. Love did not submit to reason or to logic, it defied all attempts at being circumscribed. Hadrian was powerful, noble and honorable, but he was only a man. He would never intend to ruin Nicole, but having seen them together, having felt the tension between them, how much longer would it be before the inevitable happened? Hadrian would survive such an indiscretion much more easily than Nicole, and it was not Isobel’s place to worry about the other woman, but she did. It wasn’t fair, but then, life was rarely fair.
She closed her eyes, thinking of Hadrian—but not the man who was her son, rather, his namesake. Not for t
he first time, and not for the last, she wished desperately that she dared to tell her son the truth. Yet she, who had never been a coward before, was a coward now. She was afraid to witness his shock, worse, afraid of the revulsion he might feel, and she was afraid to lose his respect and his love. No, she could never tell him, not even when he had every right to know, and the truth had nothing to do with trying to teach her son so he would learn from her own past mistakes. Because had she the opportunity to go back thirty years; she would change nothing.
The Duke of Clayborough could not sleep.
He had stopped at the Stafford residence twice that day, as he had on his way back to London yesterday, but both times Elizabeth had been sleeping and he had not spoken with her. Even had he wanted to disturb her, he would not have been able to, for she had been dosed with laudanum for the pain that was suddenly and constantly afflicting her.
It was several hours past midnight. Alone in his high-ceilinged bedroom with only the Borzoi for company, Nicole’s exotic image haunted him, and with it, Elizabeth’s pale, delicate one. No small amount of guilt tormented him, and no small amount of confusion. He could no longer escape the truth.
No woman had ever haunted his waking—and sleeping—moments the way that Nicole did. No woman had ever created such enormous lust within him, and worse, no woman had ever caused him to behave as abominably and dishonorably as he had with her. He was furious with himself for responding to her the way that he had—for allowing himself to respond to her the way that he had.
Leaving his bed, the Duke slipped a velvet paisley robe over his naked body. He paced to the fireplace, where the Borzoi thumped his tail in a happy greeting. The Duke reached down to pet Lad’s large head. “I no longer know who I am,” he admitted to the dog.
Every meeting they had ever had replayed itself instantaneously through his mind. It was not the first time, but the zillionth. It was torture. His body was tortured.
Was he like his father after all? Had Francis been so obsessed by his young paramours that he could not help himself but to consort with them and cuckold his mother? Perhaps Francis had been tortured by his morals as well. Perhaps father and son were more alike than anyone knew.
If there was any reason to stay away from her it was this one, his own fear of turning out to be a replica of his father, a man he could still hate to this day with no remorse. Clearly he harbored within himself a dark side, one he had obviously inherited from Francis, one which he must, at all costs, subdue.
“Damn her,” he said to the dog and the fire. Then he grimaced. “No, it is not her fault—it is mine.”
Now Nicole Shelton sought to re-enter society and gain a husband. The Duke knew he should not be angry with her for such legitimate interests, but he was. Had she hoped he would be a suitor, despite Elizabeth? That he would throw over one fiancée, only to take another? He believed so.
His pulses had quickened disturbingly. The Duke paced faster, the Borzoi watching him with hopeful interest. The fire was dying to a soft glow. The Duke ignored the chill seeping into the room. He was determined not to question his own reactions. Absolutely not.
The Clayborough motto of “Honor First” was not just embossed on his coat of arms, it was emblazoned on his heart. No matter how he might now feel about his upcoming wedding, he would not—could not—break the engagement. But what about Nicole?
He closed his eyes. She wanted a husband. Every woman he knew wanted a husband, she was well within her rights. She hoped to re-enter society successfully. Now she could do so because he had extended his patronage to her. He could extend it even further. He could be even more than honorable, he could be charitable—he could encourage suitable prospects. He could even find her a husband.
It was the right thing to do. Somehow, Hadrian knew it in his heart. Yet the very idea was terribly distasteful. And the more aware he was of how bilious he found the role of matchmaking to be, the more determined the Duke became to aid her by finding her a proper husband.
The Duke had scheduled business engagements for all of the following day. Therefore he returned to the Stafford residence early the next morning, hoping that this time he might be able to visit Elizabeth. As it turned out she was awake and eager to see him, according to her father, the Marquess of Stafford. Hadrian had only to look at the man to know that she had not improved during the past few days. The Marquess was red-eyed, as if he had not been sleeping well and his face was drawn. In the few short weeks since Elizabeth had become visibly ill, he had aged twenty years. Hadrian exchanged a few polite words with the man, and was shown upstairs by the butler.
He stopped in the entrance to her sitting room, motioning the butler to leave. Elizabeth appeared to be sleeping. She reclined on a large chaise, covered with a heavy violet angora blanket. She was terribly pale and frail-looking, dwarfed by the chaise, which made her seem even more tiny and fragile. His heart clenched. She looked much, much worse, and for the first time since she had become so obviously ill, fear for her seized him.
Sensing his presence, or perhaps hearing him, she opened her eyes. The Duke came swiftly forward, managing a bright smile. It took her a moment to focus, then she smiled too. “Hadrian.” With that one word—his name—she expressed all of her feelings for him and all of her pleasure at seeing him.
“Hello, Elizabeth, I did not want to wake you.” He sat down on an ottoman, pulling it up beside her.
“I am glad you came.”
He managed not to show his distress. Her voice was soft, breathless, barely audible. “Are you feeling better today?”
Her eyes shifted away from his. “A little.”
He knew it was a lie. And Elizabeth never lied. His fear increased, chilling him. He took her hand. “Shall I tell you about the hunt?”
She nodded, the movement eager yet slight.
For a few minutes he proceeded to regale her with a description of the hunt. Her eyes almost shone as he described the more difficult fences he had taken. When he paused, she smiled. “It sounds wonderful. I’m so glad you went, Hadrian.”
Holding her hand, looking into her adoring eyes, hearing her selfless words, he cursed himself for all the disloyal thoughts he had been having—and his disloyal behavior. Elizabeth did not deserve him, she deserved better, but she was engaged to him, and he owed her his loyalty. His determination to see Nicole wed increased.
“Hadrian,” Elizabeth said, hesitantly. “What will you do if—if I die?”
Hadrian froze. “You are not going to die,” he said, horrified. She was expressing the terrible fear he had and was too cowardly to face.
A slight sheen of tears appeared in her eyes. “I fear you are wrong.”
He swallowed, gripping her hand. “You must not even think this way,” he said firmly, but God, she looked like she was dying. No one had ever looked closer to death’s door.
She blinked, turning her head away. “I don’t want you to grieve,” she said unsteadily. “I want you to be happy, I have always wanted you to be happy. You are young and strong and already you have waited far too long to get on with your life.”
“Elizabeth,” he protested, ashen.
A tear slid down her cheek. “Do you think that I don’t know? I know that you are not really happy, Hadrian, I have always known it, from the time I was a small child.”
He could not speak.
More tears fell. “I wanted so much to be the one to bring happiness into your life. But it’s not going to be.”
He gripped her small hands.
“You need a son. You should marry quickly and have a son.” Now she was crying. “I wanted to be your wife, I wanted to be the one to give you a son, I wanted to make you happy. But for some reason, God is not going to let it happen.”
Anguish flooded him and he took her into his arms. She was as fragile and thin as an undernourished waif of ten. He held her gently, the only time he had ever held her since she had outgrown her pinafores, other than the one time he had kissed her on her eighte
enth birthday. How could she talk like this?
“I don’t like this kind of talk, Elizabeth,” he managed. “You are young and you are certainly not dying. We shall be married in June, and you shall give me a son.” He stroked her hair. “You are wrong, you make me very happy.”
She leaned back to look at him and he saw that she was still crying, but silently now. “I don’t want to die. I love you so. All I’ve ever wanted was to be your wife. Oh, Hadrian! It is not fair!”
He was stricken, he was aghast. And all he could do was hold her and soothe her as if she were a child. Now he could understand why the poor Marquess had been so red-eyed. It hadn’t been from lack of sleep, but from weeping.
“You must sleep,” he said, frightened by her increasing pallor. “I will come back later tonight, but if you are asleep I will only look in on you—I won’t wake you.”
Her eyes had drifted closed, but she was clinging to him with a surprisingly strong grip. The Duke gently disengaged his hand from hers and stood, trembling. He had exactly one thought—he must get a physician here immediately. He turned to go. Then he hesitated.
He returned and bent over her. She appeared to be sleeping. He touched her forehead, it was cool and dry. “Elizabeth,” he murmured. “You mean so much to me.” And he brushed her lips slowly with his.
And this time, when he looked back across the room before leaving at the door, he saw that she was smiling.
It was Regina who was the bearer of bad tidings.
Nicole had returned to Tavistock Square Sunday evening with her parents and sister, emotionally exhausted from the weekend and all too eager to leave Maddington. She had not laid eyes upon Hadrian since the fox hunt, or rather, since that uncomfortable incident in the foyer with the Dowager Duchess and her parents when they had returned bedraggled and wet from the stream. She had not known what to expect after Jane had shepherded her upstairs. She hadn’t precisely expected Hadrian to leave Maddington immediately, but he had. For not minutes after she had changed out of her wet clothes, she had heard a commotion outside her window in the courtyard. With sudden intuition she had run to the window to see him entering the black lacquer Clayborough coach. The dozen liveried outriders awaited the vehicle, paired up in a motionless line like soldiers behind it. Just before climbing in, the Duke had paused and suddenly glanced behind him—as if feeling her watching him. But he hadn’t seen her, and moments later he and his magnificent entourage were gone.