by Brenda Joyce
Since Nicole had arrived in London she had tried very hard not to think about the Duke and their last encounter, but it was impossible. She was no longer as angry as she was humiliated. His actions spoke for themselves—obviously he did not consider her a lady. Every time they met she wound up in his arms, eagerly. His intentions had not been honorable from the first, but why should they be? If she dared to be painfully honest with herself, she would admit that he was right in his assessment of her. A lady did not go to masques unescorted in scandalous gypsy costumes, a lady did not jilt her fiancé at the last moment, a lady did not ride about in breeches. And certainly a lady did not let any man, even her husband, touch her the way that she had let Hadrian touch her. If she were a lady like Elizabeth he would have never behaved toward her in such a scandalous manner.
Nicole was ashamed, too, that during the hunt she had completely forgotten Elizabeth’s existence. When she was with Hadrian—and she wished she could stop thinking about him with such an intimate form of address—when she was with the Duke it was easy to forget everything. Nicole wished that Elizabeth were a horrible, mean person like her cousin Stacy, for then she would have no remorse or guilt for what she had done with Hadrian. But she wasn’t like Stacy, she was kind and good, and one of the few people in this town who had gone out of her way to make Nicole feel accepted. Nicole did not want to betray Elizabeth, and was just as sorry for doing so as for failing to be a real lady herself.
And then Regina brought her news which made Nicole feel even worse.
“What has happened?” Nicole asked when her sister came running breathlessly into her room.
“It is Elizabeth Martindale,” Regina gasped. “This past weekend she took a turn for the worse! She is so ill she cannot even get up out of bed, and the doctors say that she is failing.”
Nicole stared, the color draining from her face. “Failing?”
Regina nodded, eyes huge, her complexion ghostly white.
“What do you mean, failing?”
“I don’t know!” her sister cried. “The doctors say she is “failing”! I think that means she is dying!”
Nicole sat down hard on a chair, utterly shocked. “Dying?”
Regina sat down too, just as numbly. The two sisters stared at each other, speechless.
“I don’t believe it,” Nicole finally said. “Elizabeth is young—younger than either one of us! Young girls do not just suddenly die!”
Regina’s mouth trembled and tears filled her eyes. “I cannot believe it either,” she said huskily. “Perhaps it is not true.”
“Of course it’s not true!” Nicole cried, relief flooding her. “It is an awful rumor—and you know how the tiniest thing gets exaggerated by the time it’s run the gossip mill!”
“You’re probably right,” Regina said, relaxing slightly. “She probably has the flu, a bad case of it, and that is all.”
Nicole nodded, but she was still shaken to the core.
Nicole was still distraught when, an hour later, the Dragmore coach pulled up in front of the Stafford residence. Gossip was a terrible thing, true, but often where there was smoke there was fire. Nicole prayed that was not the case, in fact, she refused to believe it. Hoping that Elizabeth was merely sick, she wanted to pay her condolences to the younger girl who had been so kind to her. A coachman helped her from the carriage and a butler let her into the entry hall.
Nicole handed him her calling card, explaining that she understood that Lady Elizabeth was ill and she had come to express her best wishes, if possible. In one gloved hand she held a prettily wrapped box of chocolates, which she had purchased on the way over on Oxford Street.
The butler studied her card, but before he could speak, a furious male voice ground out, “Elizabeth is not receiving visitors!”
Nicole whirled around to see the Duke of Clayborough striding toward her, his expression positively black. He was only in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up; he was not even wearing a waistcoat. His trousers, usually perfectly pressed, were creased and wrinkled. His dark regard was blazing. There were gray circles of sleeplessness and worry beneath his eyes. His hair, always too long, seemed longer and unkempt. Without taking his angry gaze from Nicole, he addressed the butler. “William, you may go.”
William disappeared.
Nicole had not expected to see him here and his rage also took her by surprise. Instinctively, she backed up a step, but he kept coming. He grabbed her arm. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I have come to see Elizabeth. I heard that—”
“You have come to see Elizabeth? Why? To see her condition first-hand?”
She tried to draw away, but he would not release her. “Let go of me! Please!”
He ignored her, shaking her roughly, drawing her closer so that her face was near to his. “Do you dare to think that if she dies, I will marry you?”
For one long moment, Nicole was stunned speechless. Then she wrenched her arm free. “How can you imagine I would think such a thing!” she cried.
“Then why did you come!” he retorted. “Why in hell would you come here?”
She was as stunned by his obvious distress as she was by the accusation he had just made.
“You are not welcome here!”
She managed to stand her ground and hold her chin high, but her eyes were glazing with tears. “You despicable man! I came to say how sorry I am that she is ill!”
“Why would you be sorry?” He laughed mirthlessly. “I imagine that you are the last person in England who would be sorry!”
That he should continue to slander her character so directly—that he obviously believed her capable of such cold-blooded emotions—managed to set a spark to her temper in mere self-defense. “She has never been anything but nice to me, when everyone else in this town—present company included—has been nothing but rude and insulting!”
“I find it very hard to believe that you came here out of a charitable spirit.”
“What you believe, you have made more than clear.” She stared at him, wanting to call him every godawful name under the sun, wanting to tell him just what she thought of him now, but she did not. But only because poor Elizabeth was obviously ill in this very house, and the servant was undoubtedly lurking around a corner, listening with fascination to their every word. Nicole was horrified to think that any gossip about her and the Duke might reach Elizabeth. “I no longer care what you think,” she said stiffly, numbly. “If she is not receiving visitors, then would you kindly take her this gift and tell her how sorry I am?”
The Duke made no move to reach for the parcel she was holding out. Tears stung Nicole’s eyes, and she quickly set the box of candy down on a chair. Abruptly, before he might discern how hurt she was, Nicole turned her back on him and strode to the door.
He stopped her. “I want you to know,” he said, his voice cutting, “as soon as Elizabeth…recovers…I am leaving London.”
Nicole shrugged her shoulder from his grasp, turning to face him. “Your schedule does not interest me.”
“And Elizabeth will be coming with me. We are not going to wait until June to wed. We shall be married immediately.”
She lifted her chin, meeting him stare for stare, when his words were more effective than any knife in wounding her. How could this man be the same one who had held her so passionately in the woods of Maddington—just two days ago? He acted as if he hated her. Nicole could not contain a shiver. Had she done something to turn his desire into hatred? Or did he blame her for what had happened at the hunt?
She might be hurt, but she still had her pride. Somehow she managed to hide her feelings. “Then I wish the both of you much happiness.”
In that moment, while they stared at each other like the worst of enemies, a rapid series of images flashed through Nicole’s mind, of them together, of her in his arms. She could feel his touch as if he touched her now. When he held her, she had thought he cared. But that had been her imagination running wild, for the m
an facing her now did not care at all for her—not in the least. If anything, he despised her.
And the Duke did not seem satisfied with her polite response, if anything, he seemed even angrier. Abruptly Nicole turned to leave.
William materialized to open the door for her, and Nicole again prayed no ugly gossip would reach Elizabeth. She had yet to cross the threshold when the Duke slashed his verbal sword one more time. “I meant it when I said that you are not welcome here. Do not return.”
She stiffened, flushing. She had a hundred retorts, but not one of them was suitable for the butler’s ears and the consequent belowstairs gossip. Certainly they had just generated enough of that. Then she decided that any reply she chose to make could not possibly make much difference in the face of the magnitude of gossip which would surely follow this exchange. “Contrary to what you think—and you seem intent on thinking only the worst of me—Elizabeth is my friend. She deserves happiness. No one I can think of deserves it more.”
Nicole paused before exiting the door, now held open for her by the butler. “But the one thing she does not deserve is you. And you certainly do not deserve her.”
The Duke was furious.
William, the butler, gaped.
And Nicole decided it was time to take her leave.
Elizabeth died that night. Her father, the Marquess of Stafford, found her the following morning in her bed. News of her death did not reach Nicole’s ears until a few hours later, and by noon all of London knew that the beautiful, kind young lady had passed away.
Nicole was in shock. Elizabeth Martindale, dead? Sweet, kind, pretty Elizabeth? Elizabeth whom everyone liked? Elizabeth, who never saw the bad in anyone or anything? No one had deserved to the less—it was the height of unfairness. Nicole immediately retired to the privacy of her bedroom. She was in shock.
Now, perhaps, she could understand Hadrian’s inexplicable temper and rudeness yesterday. Elizabeth had been dying, and although she herself hadn’t known it, he certainly had. A man facing the death of someone he cared for—or loved—could not be expected to be polite, rational or pleasant. Nicole sank onto her bed, trembling. He must have loved Elizabeth very much. She had never been certain of the extent of his love for her, but his distress yesterday proved how deep it ran. Nicole’s heart went out to him as she imagined his grief.
Elizabeth was laid out that night for three days. Nicole went to pay her last respects, accompanied by her family, with the exception of Chad who was at Dragmore. Edward came from Cambridge so he, too, could express his condolences. The huge Stafford residence was eerily quiet although it was full of hundreds of guests. Everyone moved about speaking in hushed tones, pausing to look at Elizabeth laid out in her finery in a handsome mahogany coffin. The Marquess, having first lost his wife and now his only child, was inconsolable. He could do no more than nod when the mourners stopped to speak with him, for he was incapable of speech.
Elizabeth looked serene in death. She even looked pretty, and someone had placed a smile upon her lips—or she had died that way. Nicole paused by the coffin, Regina at her side. She bit her lip as the urge to cry came over her. How could someone so kind and so young die before her life even began? Somehow, death was understandable when the deceased was old and had lived a full life, or was not a particularly nice person. But in this case it was shocking and sacrilegious.
“I can’t look at her,” Regina whispered, her voice husky with unshed tears. “I just can’t.” She hurried away.
Nicole took a deep breath and said a small prayer, hoping Elizabeth could hear her. She thanked her for her kindness, and wanted to apologize for having been intimate with Hadrian. But she just could not confess the latter, she could not. Perhaps Elizabeth would never know. She hoped not.
Dabbing at her eyes, she moved past the coffin. Her gaze lifted and settled on the Dowager Duchess of Clayborough.
For a moment Nicole was startled, remembering how the woman had looked at her in the foyer at Maddington, as if she knew that she and Hadrian had been up to no good. The Dowager Duchess was the last person she wanted to see, other than her son. Yet Isobel, although teary-eyed, managed a small smile.
Nicole had no choice then; she had to greet the woman. She moved to her. “I’m so sorry.”
“We all are,” Isobel said softly, her eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you for coming.” Her voice broke.
Nicole nodded and slipped by her. She found Regina waiting for her outside the salon where Elizabeth lay in final repose. The two sisters exchanged looks of fatigue, distress and sorrow. “Father and Mother are speaking with the Marquess. They said we can leave in another half hour or so.”
Nicole nodded, wanting to depart at that very minute, but knowing to do so would be impossibly rude. She and Regina huddled against the wall in the hallway, having no desire to move on into the larger salon where a buffet was laid out for the guests. Across the throng of people moving through the corridor into the salon, she glimpsed Martha and her husband. Martha excused herself from the group she was in and made her way over to the two women.
“This is so terrible,” Martha whispered after they had exchanged hugs. “I am in shock, I cannot believe it.” Her eyes watered.
“None of us can believe it,” Nicole answered.
“It is so unfair,” Regina whispered. “How could God let this happen?”
The two older women turned to look at her for daring to express a thought which they were all having. Silence fell; Regina did not expect an answer anyway. Then Martha spoke to Nicole. “The Duke is here.”
Nicole said nothing, but her heart tightened, with dread, with sorrow. Even though she could now understand why he had been such a monster the other day, it did not ease the pain he had inflicted upon her.
“Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“He looks awful. I tried to speak to him but it was like talking to a wall. I don’t think he heard a thing I said, but that is understandable.”
The urge to cry again overcame Nicole. Hadrian must have loved her very much, more than she had thought, for him to have been so out of sorts the other day and to be so grief-stricken now. “He loved her very much.”
Martha stared at her. “He knew her all her life. That’s a long time to know someone, and they were cousins as well as betrothed.”
“It’s a long time to love someone,” Nicole whispered tremulously. It was inappropriate, but insight hit her with the strangling strength of Jack the Ripper. He had really loved Elizabeth; he had never loved her, Nicole. He had lusted after her, which was something entirely different.
“He needs some time,” Martha said, touching Nicole’s hand.
If there was an innuendo there, Nicole did not want to entertain it. Fortunately, she did not glimpse him in the next few minutes, and shortly thereafter she left with the rest of her family. That night she cried, for Elizabeth, for Hadrian, and maybe, just a little, for herself.
The day of the funeral was particularly appropriate for mourning. The sky was a dark swirling gray, threatening rain, a northerly wind gusted incessantly, and by now, most of the huge oaks surrounding the Stafford crypt were bare, their gnarled limbs bleak and crooked. They morbidly reminded Nicole of skeletons—of the many skeletons which must be in this very cemetery. Nicole suspected that close to a thousand mourners had turned out for the service at the cathedral in London, but here in Essex, only a hundred or so had actually come to Elizabeth’s graveside.
She stood between her mother and Regina, surrounded by the rest of her family. Chad had come for the funeral, and Edward, of course, had stayed in London so he could be present as well. Although they did not stand in one of the front rows, Nicole was taller than most of the mourners, and she had a clear view of the coffin being lowered into the dark vault beneath the Stafford chapel. She also had a clear view of Hadrian.
He stood on the far side of the tomb from where she stood with her family, clad in a black suit, hatless, head bowed. He had one ar
m around his mother, who unsuccessfully tried not to weep. Beside her was the Marquess of Stafford, who wept as well. The sound of a grown man losing the last of his control was terribly unnerving and distressing.
Beside them stood the family patriarch, the Earl of Northumberland, with his wife and immediate family. Roger de Warenne was Stafford’s brother-in-law. He was a tall, thin man in his mid-seventies, his hair strikingly white. He was accompanied by his second wife, who was Isobel’s age, and their three sons and their wives, including his heir, Isobel’s half-brother, the Viscount of Barretwood. De Warenne had a dozen grandchildren from these marriages and they were all present, the youngest only five and trying to look terribly solemn. The Northumberland family could trace its power and antecedents all the way back to the Conquest.
Behind the de Warennes were their relatives—the Martindales, the Hurts and the Worthingtons. Included among this last group was Stacy Worthington, Elizabeth’s cousin. She wept ostentatiously into a handkerchief.
Nicole couldn’t help staring at Hadrian as the coffin was carried into the mausoleum. He looked terrible, and her heart clenched painfully at the sight. He was haggard and pale, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. It was too far for her to see his face clearly, but she could feel, even from this distance, the grief he was suffering. How her heart went out to him.
Standing there as Elizabeth was finally put to rest, Nicole forgot all that had been between them. There was no more anger, no more shame, no more hurt and no more pride. On a day like this day truths were laid recklessly bare. She looked at Hadrian and wept inside for the pain he was afflicted with, and there was no doubt that she loved him completely and thoroughly. Had they been alone she would have gone to him and taken him in her arms as one would a child, to hold him, comfort him, heal him. But they were not alone, and she could only watch him and commiserate with him from afar.