by Brenda Joyce
But Hadrian did not care. He had never cared about what others thought about him. He had stopped caring about what others thought about him long ago.
With women it was no different. Many women had fallen in love with him. Women competed fiercely with one another for his attention. They competed fiercely for the honor of jumping into his bed. Many had hoped to win him away from Elizabeth. Many had wanted to marry him. But it was not because he was handsome, virile, smart or honorable that they wanted him. It was not he himself that they wanted, it was the Duke of Clayborough.
Women even competed to become his mistress, although such efforts had no bearing at all upon whom he chose. And it was not because of his prowess in bed, or how excessively he inundated them with the fripperies they desired, or how lavishly he kept them. His current mistress was the stunning Holland Dubois. She gained a definite stature from being the Duke of Clayborough’s mistress. When she went out to the theatre, restaurants or the fashion houses, wherever she went publicly, she was catered to, her every whim instantly met. She gained vast power from her liaison with him, more power than she could gain from any man other than royalty. She had a degree of power that could only be surpassed by his wife, should he one day take one.
He had proposed to Nicole Shelton. He had intended to marry her, to make her his wife, to make her the Duchess of Clayborough. Never again would society dare to criticize her. She would, finally, irrevocably, be accepted. For the power and position and wealth that were his would become hers.
Yet she had turned him down.
And she had meant it. She did not want the trappings of his position which he offered—and she did not want him. Something had happened to make her dead set against him. It was obvious what that was. His own behavior. His behavior yesterday, in the library, his behavior every time their paths had crossed.
He was no different from Francis, and she recognized this.
Hadrian gasped, turning to stare at his face in the mirror over the mantel. Did she know of his father, of the dissipated, perverted creature he had been? Had she learned of his antecedents? Had she glimpsed these same traits in him?
“I am not like Francis,” he said harshly. “I have spent my whole damned life living honorably—I am not like him!”
He saw the pain in his own eyes. He saw the doubt. For a moment he was stunned by himself. And then the expression he had cultivated so carefully, for so long, was in its place, one perfectly bland and perfectly impassive.
But the truth mocked him. The truth hurt. She had rejected him. It hurt the way he had hurt before—a hurt he had thought was long since dead.
A hurt he was determined to bury now.
The truth was history, a history he had chosen to carefully forget, and indeed, he had been successful in the endeavor. Until now. Until her. Now the truth was in the present, as vivid as if it were today, not years of yesterdays ago. The truth was a very small boy, crying and frightened, alone in his bed, alone in his room, at Clayborough, in the darkness of an endless night.
He thought it was his earliest memory. He thought he was no more than four years old. He was going to be the next duke, so he was supposed to be a man, but he was not a man. He was afraid. He tried to stop the tears, but his sobs woke his parents up. “Darling what is it?” Isobel murmured, quickly entering his room and embracing him. Trying not to cry, trying not to be afraid, he told her about the monster that had been chasing him in the darkness. She soothed him and he felt better, until he heard his father’s voice in the doorway. Even before he understood the words, he tensed. “You spoil him. Leave him be. What a coward he is!” Francis laughed. He understood and was stricken with pain at the cruel statement. Was he, really, a coward? His father was staring at him, smiling in a nasty way. “Sissy boy,” he jeered. “Afraid of the dark! Dukes are never afraid of the dark, but then, you will never be a real duke, will you? You will never be a real duke!” Isobel was on her feet, in a rage. He huddled into himself, already knowing what was to come, already afraid. He knew it was his fault, what was happening. “Stop!” she shouted, flying at Francis. “How dare you! How dare you…” “I dare what I will,” Francis snarled. He caught her and jerked her violently into the hall. “Leave the sissy alone! Do you hear me? Leave your sissy boy alone!” They fought. He watched them fight, knowing his mother was being hurt because she wanted to protect him—a sissy boy. He cried. He could not help it. He did not know how long he watched before, despite his fear, he got up and tried to help his mother. But he was small and not very strong, and his two little fists only enraged Francis and made him turn his slaps to him. His mother was dragged from the room. His father ordered that he be left in darkness, and his door was locked from the outside. He crawled into the bed, hurting, miserable, still afraid. It wasn’t his first realization that his father—that tall, blond, handsome god-like man, the Duke—did not like him. Did not love him. He could not remember how long he had been aware of that. Forever, maybe. He curled up under the covers.
The truth. Hadrian stared at himself in the mirror and regained control of himself. God, that had been so long ago, and he had thought that particular memory dead. He had thought the pain dead. The pain of his father’s rejection had somehow become tangled up with the pain of Nicole’s rejection.
He told himself that he was being a fool. But it was too late, he had already faced raw, naked emotions and taken one step off the precipice. Yet there was still time to step back.
He could dwell on the hatred which had never died. The hatred he felt for Francis still gave him strength. And power. Francis had given him his strength, even though he had meant to make him into a weakling. Francis had been the sissy after all, and because he was a weakling he had victimized those who were weaker than himself, especially his wife and son. It was so easy to understand now—it had been impossible to understand then.
He would not brood about Francis—and he would not dwell upon Nicole’s refusal of his suit. Francis was dead, the past was dead. He was proud of who he was. If she thought he was like his father, then she was wrong—and he would prove it to her. He would reach deep inside himself for even more strength. And the beast which had been revealed would never surface again.
Calmer, he could now consider Nicole without emotion. It did not matter what she thought about him, or what she thought she wanted. She was rash, reckless, unconventional, and in this case, foolish. He knew better. She did not want to marry him but it would not stop him from doing what he knew was right.
And that meant making her his wife.
Not even an hour later, the Duke returned to Shelton’s home on Tavistock Square. He was ushered inside by the butler, to whom he gave his draped coat and gloves. An inquiry assured him that the Earl was in residence and Hadrian was shown to the Earl’s study.
He was, of course, circumventing etiquette. Especially in an instance like this, he should have sent a formal note requesting an interview at the soonest time convenient to Shelton. But Hadrian felt he must settle this matter as soon as possible.
Nicholas Bragg Shelton greeted him informally, and Hadrian knew that he had forgiven him whatever trespasses he suspected he had taken with his daughter during the hunt. The man was about to be shocked. There was no avoiding it. Hadrian hoped his honorable intentions would diffuse what could be a terribly unpleasant situation.
“Hello, Hadrian. What brings you calling like this?”
“Nicholas.” The two men shook hands. “I must apologize for calling without notice,” he began, but Shelton cut him off.
“You should know me better than that. I don’t give a damn about propriety and I never have. Shall I send for that damned tea you prefer?”
Hadrian shook his head, wondering if Shelton’s attitude explained Nicole’s defiance of convention. He sank into a lush emerald-green wing chair opposite the Earl. “I’ll get right to the point, Nicholas. I want to wed your daughter.”
Shelton sputtered, recovered, and stared. “Nicole?”
&nb
sp; “Yes.”
“I am afraid that you have taken me completely by surprise.”
“Somehow I had thought I would,” Hadrian murmured.
Shelton leaned forward, his regard piercing. “Elizabeth is barely cold in her grave.”
“Unfortunately that is true.”
Shelton’s gaze had hardened. “Why are you coming to me now? As you damn well know, Nicole is not deluged with marriage proposals. There would be little to fear if you had waited another six months before asking me for her hand.”
Hadrian grimaced. There was a possibility that waiting six months could be disastrous, but he did not wish to point that out, not yet.
Shelton stood abruptly. “Is there a reason for haste?”
Hadrian also rose to his feet. “Unfortunately, there is.”
Shelton was motionless.
“My behavior has been indiscreet.
For an instant there was another silence. “How indiscreet?”
“There could be a child.”
Shelton drew in his breath.
Hadrian said nothing, giving the man a moment to absorb this information.
Shelton kicked back his chair and paced to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the mansion’s spectacular gardens.
“I see,” he finally said, the words clipped. “Now I understand your offer.” He turned to stare at Hadrian, his gray gaze as sharp as steel, glittering. It was a look that would make a lesser man cower. “I would very much like to take my fist to your face, Hadrian.”
The Duke said nothing.
“But I am not a fool, even if my daughter has allowed herself to be used as one. Despite that unhappy fact, both you and I know that this is the best thing that could ever happen to her.”
Hadrian nodded, relieved that the worst had passed. “I will send my lawyers over first thing tomorrow morning, if it is convenient, to draw up the marriage contracts.”
“You do not wish to haggle over the details now?”
“If your daughter’s dowry consisted of one pence, I would marry her anyway,” Hadrian said flatly.
“Of course,” Shelton returned. “Honor first. But perhaps you should have recalled your family motto before you ruined my daughter.”
“Touché,” Hadrian said with another grimace. “I can only apologize. I am truly appalled by my own behavior and I take full blame for all that has happened.”
Shelton eyed him thoroughly. “Maybe you had better direct your apologies to Nicole.”
“She refused to accept them. Perhaps you should know, she is not keen on the idea of our wedding one another.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
“Do not worry about Nicole,” Shelton said firmly. “While I do not relish the idea of forcing her again to the altar—surely you have heard what a disaster it was when I arranged for her to marry Percy Hempstead—she will do as she is told this time.”
“I assumed that you would feel that way.”
“Have you thought of a date?”
“Yes. I have already begun the proceedings to procure a special license so that we can be married immediately. Does the second Sunday from today meet with your approval?”
“That kind of haste will cause a scandal. People will guess why the two of you are marrying.”
“I will take care of the gossips. There will be no scandal, not the kind you are thinking of. I shall make it abundantly clear that I am besotted with Nicole, a man so in love that I could not wait a moment longer to wed her. Because of Elizabeth I shall be condemned—not Nicole.”
An expression which Hadrian could not read crossed Shelton’s face. “All right. I thank you for sparing my daughter any further hurt.”
Hadrian’s jaw tightened. He did not think he had misunderstood the Earl’s reference, and he could not let it pass. “I am sorry if I’ve hurt your daughter, Nicholas,” he said, very softly. “And if it will ease your mind, when we first met she did not know I was engaged and she wanted to marry me. So much has occurred since then, but in time things will straighten themselves out between us, I am sure of it.”
“But the question really is how you will feel in time.”
Startled, Hadrian took a moment to answer, and when he did it was honestly. “I do not object to taking Nicole as my wife.”
Shelton stared at him, his gaze searching. Hadrian felt an embarrassing tell-tale blush.
Shelton suddenly smiled. “Yes,” he said, just as softly, “I think you are right. I think, with a little time, things will work out very well indeed.”
“Aren’t you ready, yet?” Regina asked.
Nicole sat on her bed in her underclothes. She glanced at her sister, who was a stunning golden vision in yellow chiffon, and sighed. “I wish I hadn’t promised to go.”
“Nicole! You have promised, and unless you claim you are sick, Uncle John will be terribly hurt if you do not come!”
Nicole knew that Regina was right. Although John Lindley was not actually her uncle, he was her father’s best friend and she had known him since she was a toddler. When she was a child, he never failed to arrive at Dragmore with gifts for her and her brothers and sister. Nicole could not have loved him more even if he were her uncle.
But she had not recovered from that afternoon. From Hadrian’s wretched, so-honorable proposal. She would never recover. How could she? When she wanted to marry him so much it hurt—and when to marry him would pain her even more?
Regina approached, her skirts whispering around her as she moved. “Nicole, what is it? I have not seen you so up and down since you have come to London.” She sat beside her sister on the bed, her amber eyes registering their concern. She lowered her voice. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Nicole nodded, meeting her sister’s gaze.
Regina took her hand. “He likes you, Nicole, it’s so obvious. Once he has ceased mourning for Elizabeth, you shall see. I am sure he will come forward to court you. And you must encourage him—I will teach you how.”
Nicole almost burst into tears. She said, “He has already proposed marriage to me.”
Regina gasped. “What!? Why, that is stunning!”
Nicole shook her head. “I refused.”
“You what?!”
“I refused.”
“Are you insane?”
Nicole gripped her arm. “He does not love me, he loves Elizabeth. He has given his heart to a dead woman. He only offered to marry me because he has kissed me…improperly.” She blushed. She did not dare tell her sister the truth. “Intimately.”
Regina stared, confused. “What do you mean, intimately?”
Nicole closed her eyes. “Hasn’t Lord Hortense kissed you?”
“Of course.”
The way Regina responded told Nicole that she had no idea of how a kiss could be intimate and shameless—open-mouthed, hot, tongues touching.
“What did he do, Nicole? What do you mean, he kissed you intimately? A kiss is intimate.”
“There are kisses,” Nicole said softly, “and there are kisses.”
Regina was perplexed—and more than a bit curious. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“All right!” Nicole nearly shouted. Tears swamped her. “He kissed me so hard my mouth is bruised! For ages and ages and ages! Our tongues touched! He touched me—where he shouldn’t! Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
Regina was shocked speechless.
“Don’t ever let Lord Hortense—or any man—take such liberties with you!” Nicole cried. “Or you will find yourself in my position!”
Still clearly stunned, Regina managed, “You must wed him.”
“I will not. I cannot! He admitted that he was asking for my hand out of duty and nothing more.”
Her sister’s eyes widened again. Finally she found her voice. “All right, so it’s not ideal. But he is the Duke of Clayborough. You must say yes.”
“I cannot!” Nicole said again. “He treats me hatefully! I love him—and he has not one s
hred of love in his heart for me! Don’t you understand? I could not bear to be his wife, loving him, while he feels nothing for me, while he runs to other women—to his mistresses. Can’t you understand this?”
“No,” Regina said bluntly. “All men have mistresses, Nicole. We are talking about the Duke of Clayborough! You are stupid if you don’t marry him—especially when you love him!”
“I don’t care that he is a duke. I care about how he feels about me. And all men don’t have mistresses. Father doesn’t have a mistress,” Nicole fired back. “Neither does the Viscount Serle!”
“They are exceptions,” Regina stated. “And you are being exceedingly foolish.”
“If you marry Lord Hortense, will you be so blithe when you learn that he keeps a woman, too?”
Regina colored slightly. “I will not be surprised.”
“Then you do not love him!” Nicole lunged to her feet to pace in a flurry of silk petticoats.
“I do!” Regina cried. “I am madly in love with him!”
“If you loved him, you would not be able to so casually accept his womanizing.”
“Perhaps I am a realist and you, Nicole, are a romantic!”
Both sisters stared at each other. The very notion seemed absurd. Anyone who knew them would swear it was the other way around, yet in that moment it appeared that Regina was right. A knock on the door saved Nicole from responding.
Jane poked her head in. “Nicole, when you are dressed could you join your father and me in the library?”
Nicole was uneasy. “Whatever for, Mother?”
“There is something your father wishes to discuss with you,” Jane said, her mien serious.
Dread overwhelmed Nicole. It was about Hadrian. She was certain of it. Had they somehow found out about her visit to Clayborough House yesterday? “What is it?”
“Just join us in the library, please.” It wasn’t a request. Jane smiled and closed the door.
Nicole realized how nervous she was when Regina touched her arm, making her jump. “You had better dress,” she said. Her expression, usually gay, was grim. “And you had better change your mind—quickly—and tell the Duke you will accept his proposal!”