by Brenda Joyce
Another fierce stabbing lanced through his skull at the thought.
It all came back to him as he slowly, tentatively, rose to a sitting position, pushing the blanket to his hips. She had come there with sympathy in her eyes and on her lips, and he had been overpowered by a need he had never before felt for any human being.
For an instant, he was frightened by the memory. Just as quickly, he regained control and the unruly feeling vanished.
He remembered her warmth as he embraced her, just holding her; then he remembered how furiously and crudely he had driven her to the floor and penetrated her. He could feel a dull, hot blush of shame covering his cheeks, shame that competed fiercely with his anger. He had not only been as callow as a vigin schoolboy, he had been as precipitous.
How could it have happened?
Very grim and very shaken, Hadrian got to his feet, adjusting his clothes. He had long ago added electric lighting to his homes, and finding a switch, he flooded the library with light. He moved behind his desk and sat down hard.
What the hell had he done?
Head in his hands, he was swept up with sensations as if he were experiencing them anew. Too many sensations, too many feelings. He shook them off with a tremendous effort. It was easier—safer—to concentrate on the facts.
No matter that she had come here, and she shouldn’t have, he should have refused to see her. Instead, he had lost a battle he had been waging since he had first laid eyes on Nicole Shelton, one against himself and his own desires. He had lost, it was done. A fait accompli. There was no point in dwelling upon what could not be changed. And now, of course, there was only one course of action open to him. He would marry her.
With Elizabeth barely cold in her grave. At this rude thought, he moaned, his head throbbing steadily now. Yet the festering guilt was gone. He did not know why, and did not bother to speculate upon the answer. It was enough that that particular source of torment had dissipated.
His gaze lifted and he became aware of the two pillows on the floor with the blanket. Had he woken up, he would not have continued to sleep on the floor, much less fetch those items for himself. Woodward would never dare. It had to have been Nicole. He tensed as he imagined her covering him with the throw and placing pillows beneath his head. Damn it! He did not want to feel tenderly toward her!
Yet she was going to be his wife. There was no reason to avoid her any longer, no reason to be so angry, except perhaps with himself. He could not help but be aware that he was not really displeased with the notion of Nicole becoming his bride. In fact, his mouth had softened into a bare smile.
Quickly Hadrian lunged to his feet, pacing. He was not choosing her for a wife, he told himself harshly. This was not a matter of choice. Had it been a matter of choice, he certainly would not choose Nicole. He could not imagine her being a proper wife, much less a Duchess. No, she would most definitely not be his choice.
This was a coil of his own making and he would do his duty. That was all, there was nothing more to it. He needed a wife anyway, sooner or later, and due to the circumstances, it would just be a little sooner than he had anticipated. Tomorrow he would speak with her and settle the matter definitively.
And should there be a life after death, he hoped fervently that Elizabeth would understand.
Nicole had spent half the night awake, unable to think about anything other than Hadrian and what had just happened—and what might happen now.
At first she had been in a state of ecstasy, daydreaming about him as the clock struck midnight. The intimacy they had shared thrilled her and she did not regret it for a moment. Nothing could be more wonderful than having Hadrian in her arms with no anger and no defenses, baring his soul to her. Of course, she hated seeing him so anguished, but he had turned to her for comfort, comfort she would readily give him again and again.
But as the night deepened, some of Nicole’s elation lessened. She wondered what Hadrian would think about what had happened, she wondered what he would think about her. She knew better than to be too hopeful. He certainly would not be lying in his bed with a smile on his face, dreaming about her. She knew him well enough to think that he would not take it in stride. In all probability, he would be angry. And most likely he would be angry with her.
Nicole was no longer smiling dreamily.
And what about Elizabeth? Nicole sobered completely. As far as the dead girl went, she was ashamed. She hoped, fervently, that Elizabeth was already in heaven and had not seen what they had done. But…. Nicole had a feeling that even if she had, she would understand. Elizabeth had never harbored a grudge against anybody in her short life, and she had always sought to see the best in people. Surely she would understand how Hadrian’s grief had led him astray, and how Nicole genuinely loved him and just could not fight her love for him any longer.
Thoughts of Elizabeth were more than sobering, they shattered the last of her pleasure abruptly. Hadrian was grieving. How could she forget? He was grieving for the woman he loved. And it was terribly obvious, after seeing him yesterday, how much he had loved his fiancée. She should not be dismayed, for Nicole already knew of his feelings, but she was. How could there be so much sorrow where just moments ago there had been so much joy?
It was too late for regrets, but Nicole wished that at least a few weeks could have gone by before she had gone to console him. Or a few months. She recalled now how Martha had said that Hadrian needed time. Of course he did. Eventually he would live fully in the present again. And she would be there, waiting. Hoping that he would be able to love her, just a little, once he was over Elizabeth.
Nicole hugged a pillow to her bosom. How could she have forgotten, even for a few minutes, that she was only an object of his passion, not of his affections? But didn’t she have enough love for the two of them? Could that not change? Could he not, one day, come to care for her?
Yet how could she compete with a dead woman, a paragon of the female sex?
Nicole did not know how she would survive the days until she saw Hadrian again to judge his mood and his feelings toward her. She was certain that she should not be the one to visit him, that she should wait for him to come to her. But she was terribly afraid that he would not call upon her. Elizabeth suddenly loomed between them with more force than she had when she was alive.
Late that afternoon, when she was changing out of her riding habit into a simple dress for supper, Regina flew into her room without knocking. Nicole paused, regarding her curiously, while Annie buttoned up the back of her silk dress with dexterous fingers. Regina’s eyes were nearly popping from her head.
“What is it?” Nicole asked.
“You have a caller! You won’t believe who it is.”
“I am in no mood for guessing games,” Nicole said. All day long her humor had been foul—she felt as if she wanted to tear her hair out or jump right out of her own skin. She could not stand the unknown, the waiting.
“It is the Duke of Clayborough!”
Nicole’s mouth dropped. “Hadrian? I mean, the Duke? But—what does he want?”
“I don’t know! It’s astounding—what with Elizabeth just buried and all! Mother is with him, for Father is not back from his meetings yet. What could he want?”
Nicole began to tremble. That exact question was echoing in her mind. It made absolutely no sense that he would come here after what had occurred yesterday, unless he was so angry that he had come to rage at her. Only raw fury would bring him here in complete disregard of convention and propriety. If only a little more time had elapsed so that he could calm down!
Nicole fidgeted while Annie and Regina pinned up her hair, then thanked them breathlessly and hurried down the stairs. She skidded to a halt before she came to the door of the tea room, caught her breath, and gracefully stepped in.
The Duke sat beside her mother on a sofa with a cup of tea in his hand and scones on his plate. His head turned at her entry and his gaze fixed upon her. Nicole expected to see blazing wrath, but she saw n
othing in his expression at all. He rose to his feet.
Nicole flushed, remembering everything, curtsying unsteadily. “Good day, Your Grace.”
He returned her greeting perfunctorily. Jane poured her a cup of tea and Nicole sat opposite them on a small, straight-backed chair. Her hands were too unsteady to hold the cup and saucer without rattling them, so she set them down. “This is very unexpected,” she said.
His expression was enigmatic. He did not look as well as usual, but he did not look as he had yesterday. The circles were gone from beneath his eyes, although they were still bloodshot. His face was grim, the lines around his mouth strained, yet he was cleanshaven and impeccably dressed in a tan sack jacket, a darker necktie and brown trousers. “Is it?”
Nicole’s flush deepened. She knew exactly what he was referring to, and she very nearly wanted to die. An awkward silence fell when he did not continue. Jane, looking from one to the other, attempted to ease it. “Now that you have come out, will you be attending the Fairfax ball this weekend?”
“I do not anticipate doing so,” Hadrian said, turning his attention to the Countess. “I am not exactly in the mood for dancing, eating and making merry.”
“Of course not,” Jane replied. “I cannot help but be surprised, also, Your Grace, that you would come here.”
“Perhaps if you give me a few moments alone with your daughter, all matters will soon make sense,” he returned, unsmiling.
Jane nodded, giving Nicole a speculative glance before rising to her feet. “I do have some letters I must answer,” she said. “It should take about fifteen minutes.” She left, leaving the door open behind her.
Bless her mother, Nicole thought, for she could not imagine any other lady leaving her daughter unchaperoned with a gentleman caller, even with the Duke of Clayborough. Nicole shifted as he continued to stare at her. He was making her exceedingly uncomfortable.
She clutched her hands, waiting for him to speak. He seemed content to just sit there and stare. Today he was a different man from the one he had been yesterday—it was as if he were another person entirely. Or had yesterday been some wild figment of her imagination? It was not just that he was sober. There was no grief for the public to see, no desolation, no despair. His face was a mask. But she knew he must still be feeling all of those things—she could not have imagined the depth of his grief. “Are you all right?” she whispered unsteadily, wanting to reach across the small table and touch his hand. She knew instinctively that he would reject such a gesture on her part immediately.
“That is a question I should be asking you.”
She blushed. “I am fine.”
Now he seemed uncomfortable. “Is my visit really such a surprise?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think that after yesterday I would not come?”
She blinked, sitting up very straight and very still. Did he mean what she thought he meant? That he had come because he wanted to see her? She gave him an uncertain smile.
“I have come to rectify matters, Nicole.”
“To—to rectify matters?”
“I would like a word with you in private,” the Duke said abruptly, rising to his feet. He crossed the room with hard strides and shut the door soundly. He turned back to her, arms crossed. “The one thing I am is honorable. I live by my honor, or I try to. Yesterday I failed dismally.”
Nicole’s hopes plunged downward. “You are angry at me.”
His face tightened. “There is no point in anger. You are not to blame. I am to blame. My actions speak for themselves.”
“I do not blame you,” she whispered, wanting to cry. He regretted what had happened, he regretted what they had done—what they had shared.
“Whether you blame me or not is irrelevant. The consequence of your visit is what is important, nothing else.”
Nicole wet her lips. “The consequence?”
“You are no longer a virgin, and you could be with my child.”
“I don’t care about the first, and as for the second…” She trailed off. Nicole hadn’t thought of that, purposefully.
“Only you would respond like that.” He seemed grimmer. “I have come to make certain you understand that I would not leave things between us as they are. That would be even more intolerable than my behavior yesterday. We shall be wed.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Normally we would wait one year,” he said, his gaze piercing, his tone commanding. “But being as there could be a child, we shall be wed immediately. I will speak with your father when he returns this afternoon.”
Nicole was stunned. For a moment her head was spinning and she could not sort out her thoughts. Yet even though she could not, there was no jubilation, just the dawning of darkness, of despair. “You don’t wish to wed me.”
He paused. “What I wish is irrelevant. My actions yesterday have decided your fate—and mine.”
“I see.”
“You look distraught,” he remarked, striding across the room and pouring her a sherry. “I did not mean to be so blunt.”
“You could not have been more blunt,” she said. Nicole felt tears brimming and furiously batted them away with her lashes. “You have made it clear that you seek to wed me out of duty and honor.”
He handed her a sherry—she refused it. “You speak as if my intentions are those of swine. It is my duty to marry you.”
“Just as it was your duty to wed Elizabeth,” Nicole said. “Yet her you loved.”
He did not respond.
“You do not really want to wed me, do you, Hadrian? If you had a choice—”
She saw his anger for the first time. “There is no choice! What I want is inconsequential!”
“Not to me.”
Silence fell.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
Nicole was about to confess all, but she stopped. He had come here to do his duty, “to rectify matters”, as if she were some business affair that needed adjusting. How noble he was. How very noble—when yesterday he had been as near tears as a man of his caliber could be—over another woman. He loved another woman. The one thing Nicole had left was her pride. “If you do not know, then I shall not tell you.”
He turned and stared at her.
Proudly, mouth pursed hard, she lifted her head. “I cannot wed you, Your Grace.”
He was shocked.
Finally she could read his expression, and it almost made her change her mind. He looked as if she had struck him a painful and unexpected blow across the face. Nicole looked away, at her hands trembling in her lap. She wanted to marry Hadrian and be his wife more than almost anything—but the one thing she wanted even more was his love. She did not have it. He loved and grieved for a dead woman. He did not want to marry her at all, he would do so only because he had taken her virginity. How could she accept his offer on these terms? How could she give him her heart—while all he gave her was a cold gold ring?
He had already broken her heart too many times to count, and being an unloved wife would be worst of all.
“Did I hear you correctly?”
“I will not marry you,” she said, more firmly. “Elizabeth is not even cold in her grave and—”
“As I said,” he ground out, “we will be married immediately. I have already had my solicitors begin drawing up the documents and they are procuring a special license.”
Nicole was on her feet, furious with his presumptive actions. Anger was a refuge she welcomed. “My mind is made up. I think you should leave—now.”
He did not move. “You are the rashest woman I know. I suggest you think this through very clearly.”
“There is nothing to think about. And if you do not go, then I am afraid I shall have to be the one to leave.”
A long moment stretched between them while he stared at her and she looked anywhere but at him. Finally he said, “I do not believe this. I do not believe you. There is not a single woman in Great Britain who would refuse me.”
She looked at him sadly. “There is one.”
“You will not have to leave,” he said, striding across the room. He flung open the door and was through it before she could blink. “Good day, Lady Shelton. Forgive me my audacity.”
Her anger died instantly. She opened her mouth to call him back—and shut it abruptly. Nicole watched him with anguish. She watched him until she could see him no more, and listened until his footsteps had faded away.
“Good bye, Hadrian,” she choked.
Hadrian returned directly to No. 1 Cavendish Square. Shaken. Angry. Yet there was so much more behind the anger, so much more.
She had refused him.
He could barely believe it. Yet he recognized a will of steel when he saw it, and Nicole had not been coy. As resolved as he had been to marry her and rectify the situation, she was equally determined not to marry him.
He locked himself in his library. The Borzoi was sleeping there under his desk, and upon seeing the Duke, he rose eagerly to greet him. The Duke was so preoccupied that he did not even notice. The question echoed, screaming inside his skull. Why did she not want him?
Was it possible, after all the passion they had shared, that she truly did not want him? Hadn’t she wanted to marry him the moment they had first met? What could have happened to change her mind? Something had happened, that was very clear. For why else would she reject him, the Duke of Clayborough? Hadrian was not vain, not at all, but he was astute enough to know that with Elizabeth’s death he was now the preeminent catch in the land. So why now this rejection?
This rejection which was searing.
The Duke was no fool. He was well aware that he was catered to because of his position, wealth and power. He was well aware that he could—and did—do as he pleased solely because he was the Duke of Clayborough. It had nothing to do with his being Hadrian Braxton-Lowell. He was eagerly sought after by his peers only because he was the Duke of Clayborough—and if he were not, he would not be popular at all. In fact, his reclusive nature and his penchant for business would be loudly frowned upon—he would most likely be considered somewhat odd.