by Brenda Joyce
“I’m sure you will stop the rumours in no time,” Isobel said softly. She, too, stood, and placed her hand on her son’s arm. “How are you feeling?”
He tensed and moved away. “I will always miss Elizabeth, but she is dead.” He paced to the tall picture window and stared out of it.
“I mean about your marriage. About your bride.”
He turned, his smile polite. “I am taking full responsibility for my behavior, Mother. What more would you have me say? That I really am in love with Lady Shelton? I assure you, I am not.”
Isobel smiled. “I see.”
“May I have your approval?” he asked. “I know she will not make the best duchess, but I imagine with time she will manage well enough.”
“To the contrary,” Isobel said, still smiling. “I think she will make a fine duchess and a wonderful wife.”
Hadrian stared. He grew somewhat red and coughed, loosening his necktie. “I am glad you think so.”
“She is a fine woman. I like her. I admire her resilience and her independent thinking.”
Hadrian sighed. “You would. Mother, she is dead set against this marriage. Her ‘independent thinking’ is already causing me grief.”
Isobel laughed. “I imagine it is. Hadrian, you are too straight-laced by half. A little impropriety in your life will do you good.”
“A little impropriety in my life will do me good?” he echoed. “You make no sense, Mother. Obviously I am nowhere near straight-laced enough.”
Isobel sobered. “Darling, we all make mistakes. You are not the only conscientious man to succumb to his passion for a woman. Believe me when I tell you that a good dose or two of Nicole Shelton’s independent thinking is just what you need.”
“One dose of Nicole Shelton is the equivalent of a hundred doses of any other woman! Nicole does nothing by halves, Mother. When she is daring, it is in full form. Are you accusing me of being too proper?”
“Am I?”
“Would you rather I be like dear Francis?”
Isobel was instantly somber. “Of course not. You are nothing like him, Hadrian, nothing!”
“Really?” He was cool, pacing to the butler’s table and pouring himself another cup of tea. “Perhaps Lady Shelton thinks differently.”
Isobel started. “What does that mean?!”
“I fear she finds my behavior somewhat reprehensible. In truth, it has been reprehensible. There is more of Francis in me than I ever suspected.”
Isobel was white with anger. “That’s not true!”
He lifted his gaze to her. His expression was mocking. “We all have a dark side, Mother. For some, it is just darker than others.”
Isobel was speechless.
“I did not mean to upset you,” the Duke said quickly. “This topic is too morbid. Shall we discuss the wedding plans? I decided that all of London should attend, to see that we have nothing to hide.”
“Hadrian.” Isobel came to him and touched his arm. “You are not like Francis. It upsets me when you speak like that. You are not at all like him!” Guilt was lodged in her chest for denying her son the truth.
“I should have never brought it up.” His face was closed, and she knew he would not discuss such a distasteful—and intimate—subject with her again.
Isobel turned away. Her heart was pounding and her palms were clammy. Francis had been dead and buried for two years now. She had thought him out of their lives. But another quick look at Hadrian’s brooding face told her that he still haunted not just her, but her son. Oh God! She must tell him the truth!
She resolved that she would. She had not realized that Francis still affected Hadrian, even dead and buried as he was, that her son was accusing himself of being a monster like Francis, and that he thought Nicole found him just as dishonorable. Hadrian was the most honorable man she knew—and as such, he had every right to know the truth.
Isobel trembled. The time had never been more right. After all, he was about to marry, soon he would have his own son. She would tell him everything. She must.
“Mother, are you all right?”
“Just a bit faint,” Isobel managed.
“Let’s go in to eat,” Hadrian said, quickly coming to her and taking her arm. His sherry-colored gaze took in her features with vast concern.
Isobel wanted to cry. For the same dilemma that had confronted her for years still loomed before her. What if, by telling him everything, she sacrificed his love and his trust? Hadrian was the most important thing in her life and she could not bear it if he turned away from her, she could not. Somehow she had to reach deep within herself to find the strength and the courage she needed to reveal what she must to her son.
Isobel was born in the spring of 1844. She was the Earl of Northumberland’s first child. Her mother, Lady Beatrice, died giving birth to her. It was fifteen years before Roger de Warenne remarried. In the ensuing time, there were just the two of them—father and daughter.
From the very start she was a blonde, blue-eyed beauty. Her father adored her and doted upon her, as did the entire household and all of her aunts and uncles as well. In consequence she could not but be somewhat spoiled, but by nature Isobel was not manipulative, and her precocious ways were endearing. The Earl proudly noted that she was by far too clever for a lady, even a young one.
The Earl was determined to arrange the best marriage possible for his daughter. The de Warennes were one of the premier families in the realm. They claimed as fact their belief that Rolfe de Warenne, who had come to England with William the Conqueror, was one of his greatest generals and closest advisors. He had become the first Earl of Northumberland in 1085, and every earl since had been a power behind the throne. It was a family tradition of sorts. Roger was no exception; he was a confidante of the Prime Minister’s and he exercised great behind-the-scenes power in the affairs of the country.
He was also close friends with the seventh Duke of Clayborough, Jonathan Braxton-Lowell, another extremely influential man, although in those days he was with the opposition. Politics aside, both men were not only well-acquainted, but they genuinely liked, admired and respected one another. It was one fateful night at their exclusive James Street club that they decided to wed their children to each other.
Of course, for two such men there was much more than friendship involved in forming such an alliance. Roger de Warenne did not know the details, but he guessed the facts from the marriage contract that the two men agreed upon. Isobel was one of the greatest heiresses in the land, but Jonathan insisted she bring a great deal of sterling into the Clayborough dukedom as well as two very productive estates. Roger could only surmise that Clayborough was cash-poor. That did not disturb him, not in the least, for Northumberland was very very rich.
Francis was one of the most sought-after bachelors in Britain, so it was not surprising that Roger chose him for his daughter. One day he hoped to have a legitimate son to inherit his title, his wealth and his power, but Isobel was his first child and he loved her dearly. She had wealth already by being a great heiress. As his daughter she held the complimentary title of “Lady.” She could have any man she wanted, but it was not up to her to choose. Roger wanted more for her, much more than what was obviously attainable. By marrying her to the future Duke of Clayborough he achieved much more, for one day she would be a duchess, her rank surpassing even his. One day her son would be the ninth Duke of Clayborough. Roger exercised great power, but his grandson would have—unbelievably—even more.
Roger was too shrewd to take any chances on his vision of the future. Because Jonathan was so desperate for the sterling, he succeeded in maneuvering him into a corner. Should Francis die before Isobel, with no issue from their union, Isobel would inherit Clayborough. De Warennes lived long lives, so Roger had not a doubt that Isobel would outlive Francis, and should they be unlucky enough not to have a child, Clayborough would revert to the de Warennes. And should they have a child, his surname would be de Warenne Braxton-Lowell. Either way, Roger ha
d won for his family what he wanted.
The contract was signed, sealed and delivered. But the friendship between Roger and Jonathan was never the same. The Duke of Clayborough could not forgive the Earl of Northumberland for what he had demanded.
Isobel was sixteen, and for the first time in her life she was unhappy. The year before her father had married a woman not much older than she was and their relationship had changed terribly. His new wife, Claire, was a widow in her early twenties, a stunning, dark beauty whom her father could not seem to be apart from. Suddenly Isobel was no longer the focus of his universe. Suddenly he was barely aware that Isobel existed.
Isobel was thrilled when the Earl announced her betrothal. She was eager to escape her home—and her father. She was so eager that she demanded her wedding be moved to an earlier date instead of waiting until after her first season, and her father agreed.
Without even having met Francis, she was already in love with him. She knew all about Francis Braxton-Lowell. He was twelve years her senior and considered the catch in all of Britain. He was blond and dashing and had every female who met him swooning. When Isobel met him she was not disappointed. He was beautiful, and his cool disdainful arrogance only made him more attractive.
In May of 1861, on Isobel’s seventeenth birthday, they were wed.
And her illusions were promptly shattered.
Prior to their wedding night, Francis had always been the perfect gentleman. In fact, he had never even kissed her, never even offered her any of the flowery flattery Isobel was so used to hearing. Not that she cared. He was the prince of her dreams and he could do no wrong. It was his sophistication, she assured herself, which made him aloof—and exciting.
She vaguely knew what to expect on her wedding night. Her grandmother had explained to her in some detail what her husband would do. Isobel had been shocked—yet titillated. She could not imagine a man having an appendage that grew big and hard which he would put inside her. Thinking about the kisses which her grandmother assured her would proceed the momentous event excited her even further. How she had been yearning for Francis’ kisses!
Francis came to her with a cold glint in his eyes, unsmiling, offering no comfort, no tenderness, and no words of love. “Are you ready for me?” he asked, his tone mocking. His gaze swept her as he leaned against the closed door of her bedroom,
Isobel felt a moment of panic. She was clad in a sheer, beautiful nightgown, her hair down and flowing to her waist. Yet he seemed unimpressed, even indifferent. “Yes,” she managed to keep her voice firm, she managed to smile.
“Such a brave lass,” he mocked again, approaching her. “Will you still be brave in another moment?”
Her eyes widened, she could not respond. She had the distinct impression that not only didn’t he love her—he didn’t even like her! But she had to be wrong.
He tossed aside his dressing gown and Isobel was treated to her first sight of a naked man’s body. Francis was slender, but all lean muscle, yet she could not focus on that. What did draw her attention was the appendage her grandmother had referred to, and it seemed huge to her innocent eyes and suddenly she was very afraid.
He laughed, coming down on top of her. “Not so brave now, are we?”
“Francis, wait,” she cried, panic engulfing her.
He ignored her and kissed her.
Isobel instantly gagged. His breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey. His kiss was wet and slippery—she did not like it at all.
“Frigid little bitch, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Spread your legs.”
Isobel froze at his words. Before she could react he was opening her thighs for her—and then he was ripping her apart. Had she known the pain would be so great she would have been prepared and she would not have screamed. But she did not know, she wasn’t prepared, and she did scream. Fortunately, Francis spent himself quickly, and just as quickly he left her.
But not before a cruel parting word. “I do hope your attitude improves.”
After that, Isobel hated him. She had never been abused before, not physically and not verbally. And she was not a woman who could hide her feelings. Francis was amused. She quickly realized that he was glad she hated him and he liked hurting her in bed.
Fortunately he did not come to her bed very often.
Although Isobel despised her husband, she had been born to nobility and she took to being a future duchess with ease and aplomb. They entertained at least once a week, and she was an outstanding hostess, soon considered one of the premier hostesses in the realm. She received more invitations than she could accept, and she was out every night of the week, without Francis, who went his own way with his own friends.
Isobel also got on famously with the Duke and Duchess, whom she grew extremely fond of. The Duchess was a stern, aloof woman, but when she gave praise she meant it, and she approved of Isobel. The Duke was warm, hearty and kind, and he doted on her. Isobel could not understand how two such people could have had a cruel son like Francis.
She soon heard the rumours. It became apparent to her that Francis spent all his time with a wild crowd of young men, most of whom were bachelors. They devoted themselves to gambling, racing, drinking and the hunt. Isobel also learned from one of the women in her social circle that Francis kept a beautiful dancer as his mistress.
She was furious. She knew men had mistresses, but it had never occurred to her that her husband would be like other men. Indeed, she had never dreamed a marriage such as hers could even exist! It was the greatest insult to her pride that Francis spent most of his nights with another woman—even though she did not want him at home with her. And the worst part of it was that the whole world knew of his infidelity.
“Someone told me that you keep a mistress, Francis,” she said furiously. “And apparently it’s common knowledge. Is it true?”
There was no hesitation. The blow came before she could even see it coming. He struck her across the face so hard that she fell to the floor and saw stars. When she began to focus dizzily, her face throbbing in pain, Francis was bending over her. “Don’t you ever speak to me in such a manner again, Isobel. What I do is none of your affair. You have one purpose in my life—do you understand? And that is to give me my heir.”
Wisely, Isobel did not answer and she did not move. He strode away from her, leaving her on the floor. Then she sat up. Despite the pain, which brought forth hot tears, her eyes blazed.
There were no more illusions to shatter, no more innocence to lose. She was not yet eighteen.
Isobel could not conceive a son. Francis came to her bed less and less frequently, which did not help matters. Yet the more time that went by without her becoming pregnant, the more he accused her of being barren and worthless and the quicker he was to find an excuse to strike her.
Four years after they were wed, the Duke of Clayborough died. Isobel was deeply saddened by the loss of the man who had become such a friend to her, almost replacing her father, and she wept at his funeral. Francis showed no remorse. If anything, he took up the title of Duke eagerly enough. He remained isolated in mourning for less than an entire week.
Isobel was furious with him. She was careful to ignore him and say nothing, however. She had learned to not only avoid her husband, but to refrain from criticizing him. Besides, everyone knew that Francis was an alcohol-addicted wastrel, she knew that now.
It was during this time that her father came to see her without Lady Claire. He came to comfort her, yet Isobel was cool. These past few years he had begun a new family; Claire had given him two sons. Isobel had rarely seen him, and that he no longer seemed to love her as he had hurt her more than anything.
“I know how fond you were of Jonathan,” he said heavily, suffering his own grief over the loss of his friend. “I, too, shall miss him.”
He had always seemed immortal to Isobel, yet suddenly she saw him as a man of his age. Suddenly she realized that he was not much younger than the Duke of Clayborough had been—and the Duke was
dead of natural causes. Fear swept her. No matter what had happened since he had married that woman, he was her father—and she loved him. “Father, we must spend more time with one another,” she said firmly.
He looked suprised, and pleased. “I am always willing to make time for you, darling,” he said. “But you are always too busy.”
“Me! You are always with Claire and the boys.”
“Since your marriage I have invited you repeatedly to join us in London or in the country—and you have always refused. Yet I know you and Francis go separate ways. I assumed you have such a busy and important social schedule that you have no time for your father.”
Shocked, Isobel realized he was hurt. She went into his arms. “I thought you were too busy for me,” she murmured. “It appears we have misunderstood one another.”
After that, she began accepting his invitations, and soon found that she adored her half-brothers. Claire wasn’t really so bad, in fact, she went out of her way to befriend Isobel. And her father always managed to find time so that the two of them could be alone. Isobel realized that she had been a foolish young girl to turn away from him all those years ago. It was obvious that he was content with Claire and that he worshipped his boys. She was happy for him.
Six months later the first of Francis’ debtors came knocking upon her door. He was exceedingly nervous and apologetic, but he had a note that was four months overdue—for twenty thousand pounds. Isobel was shocked, and when she told Francis, having put the man off, he told her to mind her own business. In the following month several more debtors appeared. Isobel did not pay anyone, telling them they must speak with her husband, who was very adept at avoiding them. The astounding amount Francis seemed to owe was a hundred thousand pounds.
He finally told her that he did not have the money.
The debtors kept hounding her. Francis merely laughed, shrugging off the entire affair. Finally one of the debtors threatened to take Francis to court. Isobel hated Francis, but she could not allow that to happen. She pawned her family jewels.