by Brenda Joyce
Unnerved by what had happened, Isobel was determined to appraise for herself the family’s state of affairs. She took it upon herself to go through his desk. To her shock, she found a great many bills unpaid, all of which were owed by the estates. Several managers of Clayborough’s different holdings had come to her requesting funds recently, and she had put them off, too. Now Isobel sought out the manager of their ancestral home and questioned him closely. She learned that while there were managers for the various Clayborough holdings and estates, they had always been in charge of day-to-day operations while the purse strings and general supervision had been left up to the Duke. Jonathan had been dead for nine months now, yet Francis had not taken up his responsibilities. Isobel was appalled.
She knew what she wanted to do. She thought that Francis might be displeased. Yet she had long since stopped caring about what he thought.
She traveled from one holding to the next, inspecting every inch of Clayborough property, poring over the books and holding meetings with the managers. When she had a firm grasp on the situation, she went to their bank and had a bank draft drawn up. She then presented it to Francis.
“There are many bills which have not been paid, Francis,” she told her husband one morning when he returned home disheveled and unshaven from the night of revelry before. “I have gone over all of the accounts thoroughly and I need access to eighty thousand pounds to pay our debts. Our banker has drawn up this check. Would you kindly sign it?”
He grabbed the draft. He saw that it was payable to his wife. He tore it up. “If we had eighty thousand pounds in the bank, do you think I would let you spend it?”
“But Mr. Pierce was only too glad to draw up the cheque.”
“You fool! He would gladly lend us the sum—with interest!” Francis stormed out.
Isobel thought for a long time. Then she met with the Clayborough solicitors. She went back to Mr. Pierce. Her father went with her. A loan was arranged—in her name only. All of the estate’s bills were paid off and they began running smoothly again, under Isobel’s close supervision.
She was now running the vast ducal estates with all their affairs. Although she was a novice, she was clever, and she had the solicitors and her father to aid her. When the first small profits came in from her farmlands in the south and from timber sales in the north, Isobel felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction as she signed a draft and sent it to Mr. Pierce. It would be a long time before Clayborough would be on an even footing again, but with prudent management, she intended to make it happen.
And the more successful she was, the more Francis taunted and mocked her—the more he hated her.
In the fall of 1867 Isobel took her first voyage to America. It had been three years since Jonathan died, and the Clayborough estates were holding their own despite the bad economic times. Isobel had made some investments that she hoped were wise, including one in a mining company. She had leased them vast tracts of land as well as undertaking a partnership with them. In the future she hoped to see sizeable profits—she was gambling on it when she did not have the means to gamble at all.
With the end of the War Between the States, she, as well as many others, saw the possibilities for gain that would come with the rebuilding of the South. Isobel was on her way to Virginia to invest in land that was now burned out and dirt cheap, but that would one day be worth a fortune. Of course she did not have the funds to buy, but Mr. Pierce had been only to glad to give her what was now her third loan.
It was no secret that she was running the Clayborough estates, and that she had undertaken several business ventures. The peerage had been shocked, even scandalized. That she, a woman, a duchess, had gone into business, was beyond their belief. The peerage disdained business as a matter of course, and could not believe a lady—a duchess—had actually and actively immersed herself in such a pursuit. They still disapproved. Yet as the Duchess of Clayborough, Isobel was too powerful to be shunned; no one would ever refuse one of her highly coveted invitations, no one would ever leave her off of their guest list. Indeed, hostesses prayed she would attend their affairs. No one dared even look askance at her. Isobel knew she was the height of gossip and she found it amusing. Francis did not shock anyone (except for her) with his new found penchant for young men but she shocked everyone with her obvious intelligence and resolution.
Francis was not amused. Not by the gossip, and not by her. He had never thanked her for rescuing him or his home, and he never forgave her. He also never failed to mock her as a barren, sexless bitch of a woman.
Isobel did not care as long as he left her alone. She supposed he was right, that she was barren, for they still had no children. Yet he had not come to her bed in over a year, as if he had given up, too. Isobel knew that he was too involved with his current paramour to find time for her. And while Isobel was relieved, she couldn’t help but also be sad. She was intelligent enough to know that to want a child was foolish, not with Francis for a father, but she did. It was not, she realized, going to happen. She was only twenty-three, but she felt as if she were fifty and well past her child-bearing years.
The Sea Dragon was sleek and white-masted, one of the fastest clippers on the ocean. She normally did not carry passengers, but once Isobel decided to make this business trip, she wanted to get to America as quickly as possible. Knowing his employer, her secretary arranged her transportation on the Sea Dragon by paying an exceptional fee.
Isobel saw him before she even boarded. She stood on the wharf with her maid and a single trunk, unable to move. Her heart was lodged in her throat.
She could not even see him clearly. The sun was behind him, obscuring her vision. She only saw an impossibly tall, powerful figure of a man, in high boots and breeches and a carelessly worn linen shirt. She heard him shouting orders. Her blood raced. Her body quivered. He was impossibly male. What was wrong with her?
He stepped out of the blinding sun, then froze, turning his head slowly toward her. His chestnut hair, tarnished with gold, carelessly brushed his shoulders. It framed a strong, compelling, fascinating face. With sharp eyes he searched the dock until he found her.
Isobel could not look away. He stared at her for what seemed to be an eternity, an eternity she had waited for her entire life, and then he smiled. The smile was direct and intimate. It was meant for her and her alone. Isobel blushed.
“Go,” she urged her maid, Bessie. “Go find someone to carry on my trunk.” There was relief in focusing her attention elsewhere, but she knew he was still staring. Just as she knew with every fiber of her being that she should not board this ship—his ship. She didn’t have to be told to know it was his. Just as she also knew she would not—could not—turn back.
“Who are you?”
“Isobel.”
It was sunset. They had been sailing all day. It was the first word he had spoken to her. He had come up behind her silently, but she was not startled. She had been standing alone at the rail for some time, expecting him. Waiting for him.
“Isobel.”
She turned to face him fully.
The impact he had on her was just as powerful as before. He left her breathless, senseless.
“My name is Hadrian,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping her face. Studying it, memorizing it. “Hadrian Stone.”
“I know. I asked.”
They stared at each other. Isobel’s heart was pounding wildly, almost in fright. But it was not fright. And she knew she should be frightened. For it was desire. Desire which she had never ever in her life experienced before, not even in the slightest degree. Wild hot tormenting desire, desire that pooled between her thighs.
He wasn’t quite handsome. His face was hard, his jaw too strong, his nose a touch too large. His eyes were amber, a blaze of gold. He had stubble on his face, and his hair was too shaggy, too long. He towered over her by a half a foot at least. He was big, he was powerful. She thought if he touched her, she would die.
He inhaled long and slow. “God damn it,
” he said. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—and all day today I kept telling myself you were a dream—that you couldn’t possibly be real. But you are real—aren’t you?”
“I’m real,” she whispered, wanting desperately to touch him.
He lifted his hand. Isobel waited, suspended in agony. His fingers brushed the high curve of her cheekbone. She closed her eyes, praying that he would take her in his arms. She did not care who would see.
Abruptly he stepped back from her, cursing. Her eyes flew open and she saw that he was angry. She could not guess why. He turned on his boot heels and strode away without another word.
After a moment, Isobel followed him.
“Stop,” he said in the corridor below decks. A muscle in his neck bulged. “Stop right there.”
She knew without being told that his cabin was behind the door he guarded with his back. She wet her lips. She was nervous, as if she were sixteen again. “I can’t,” she whispered.
His face hardened. “You’re a lady,” he said. “And from the look of that ring, a married one.”
“Yes, I am,” she said sadly.
“Is this so damn easy for you? Do you do this all the time?”
She was aghast at what he thought. “No! Never, never have I been unfaithful to my husband in the seven years we’ve been wed. Until now.”
He gripped her arms, practically dragging her up against him. “Are you telling me the truth?”
The truth was in her eyes. “Yes.”
His grip tightened. It hurt. Isobel didn’t care. “Don’t you see?” He was almost shouting. “I don’t want one night from you. I would rather not have you at all.”
It was too much, Isobel sobbed. She clutched his soft white shirt and found her fists pressed against his rock-hard abdomen. “Hadrian! I don’t want one night either!”
He crushed her body with his, down into the hard mattress of his spartan bed. Isobel still wept, with need. He understood, sweeping her skirts and petticoats away, ripping apart her drawers, touching her hot, slick flesh. She cried out wildly, attaining her first climax instantly in huge, unbearable waves. He held her as she rode it out.
“God, Isobel,” he gasped, ripping open her bodice.
The tears of joy shone in her eyes. “That was the first time,” she whispered, and then she started to cry in earnest.
He didn’t understand, but he sensed the change in her. He swept her up into his arms and held her hard in his embrace while she wept. She wept for herself for the first time in her adult life. She wept for all the hurt she had suffered in Francis’ hands, for lost innocence and shattered illusions. She wept for meeting Hadrian when it was too late. And she wept because, for the first time in too many years, it was safe—for at long last she had found her haven.
“You must think me mad,” she said finally. A long, long time had passed. Later Hadrian would tell her that she had cried out her grief for hours.
He still held her, she in her torn clothes, half naked and snug against his side. “I have never seen a woman with such heartbreak,” he said softly. He stroked her hair, loosening it. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Isobel smiled, sadness and joy intertwined. “No. Not now. Maybe never. The heartbreak is gone. You chased it away.”
He smiled, kissing her forehead gently. “I am glad.”
If only Isobel had realized how wrong she was. The heartbreak wasn’t gone. It was only just beginning.
She watched him disrobe. Her breasts were heaving from the many caresses she had endured. She lay amidst her torn clothes on the single blanket he slept with. That now-familiar heat was already burning between her thighs. She stared with mouth-watering longing at his massive, naked chest.
He stared back, a fierce wanting in his eyes. “I am proud you look at me like that,” he said.
“You are so beautiful,” Isobel returned.
He laughed, the sound raw, shaky. He shed his pants. Isobel moaned at the sight of his long, hard powerful legs. Then she saw his huge straining phallus. “I may explode just watching you,” she whispered.
He made an inarticulate sound, instantly coming down on top of her. She reached for him wildly. Their mouths fused. He was already settling between her spread thighs; she was already locking her legs around his waist. He thrust into her. They both cried out.
“Dear God,” he said. “Isobel, Isobel—is it possible I am already in love with you?”
She clutched at him fiercely as he rocked her with his strength and his power and his love. “I hope so. How I hope so!”
She never told him about Francis. He asked, but when she made it clear that it was not important, not to them, he respected her wishes and withdrew. Isobel knew he loved her as much as she loved him. She did not want Francis to intrude upon their happiness. Nor did she wish to think about the future.
But as they approached the shores of America, he would not let it be. “When are you going to tell me that you are the Duchess of Clayborough?”
Isobel lay naked in his arms in his small, bare cabin. She gasped. “You know! You’ve known all along!”
“Yes, I know. Did you really think I wouldn’t make inquiries the moment I saw you standing on the wharf?”
Isobel was angry—and relieved. “You could have told me that you knew.”
“You could have told me who you are.”
She was silent, sitting up; he was silent. They gazed at each other. “Not now,” she finally said. She touched him, stroking his chest. “Not now, Hadrian.”
He sat up, gripping her hand and stopping her from deferring their discussion. “Yes, now. I know you don’t love him. I know you love me.”
“I will always love you.”
He smiled, satisfied.
She did not smile.
He grew uneasy. “Isobel, I’ve never wanted to marry before. Until you. I want you, not just here in my bed. I want you as my wife. I want to give you children—little sons and daughters.” He was intense.
“Maybe you have. Given me one, at least.” She could not smile either. A sense of panic enveloped her.
“You’re not going back to him.” It wasn’t quite a statement, it wasn’t quite a question.
Isobel whimpered. “How can I run away?”
He was shocked. “You love me! That bastard—and I don’t know what he did to you—but I know he’s broken your heart! You can’t go back to him!”
“But ran away?” She was shocked with the very idea, an idea she had avoided at all costs.
“Was this a game, then?” he shouted, furious and on his feet.
“No! It was never a game! I love you! But Hadrian, I am a de Warenne.”
“You mean that being a goddamned duchess means more to you than I do, is that it?”
“No! It means that de Warennes do their duty—as painful as it may be. A de Warenne does not run away from her husband and her life. She does not.”
“Oh my God,” he said, when he realized that she believed what she was saying with all of her heart. “You are serious? You are serious?”
Isobel closed her eyes. She was a de Warenne. She had always been a de Warenne. And now she was a part of Clayborough. It wasn’t that she loved Clayborough—although she did. It was that she believed in loyalty, duty and honor. If she did not, then she was not Isobel de Warenne Braxton-Lowell. If she did not, then she was nobody.
He left the room abruptly, his face white with the realization of what he would never have. What they would never have.
Isobel stayed in Virginia for three months with Hadrian Stone. It was bittersweet. They both tried not to think about their parting, they tried desperately to only live in the present. Never had Isobel loved more. And the day she had to finally leave America, she had never hurt more.
By now he knew her as only a man can who truly loves a woman. He did not bring up her leaving Francis again. He knew how much she hurt. He took her to the dock.
Isobel was resolved not to cry, because
if she started, she knew there would be no holding back the storm of her emotions. She refused to entertain her doubts, too. It would be so easy to stay with him, to turn her back on who and what she was, if she even dared to contemplate doing so. At all costs, she had to close her mind down to the option which did not—could not—exist.
His hands closed over her shoulders. Beyond them, another clipper, not the Sea Dragon but an insipid imitation, bobbed at her moorings. Above them the sky was flawlessly blue. Spring was in the air everywhere, except in their hearts.
“I love you and I respect you,” he said finally, staring into her eyes. “That’s why I’m letting you make the most important decision of your life. If this is what you feel you must do, then I support you.”
She could no longer contain the tears. They flooded forth copiously.
“I will always love you,” he said harshly. “And I will always be here. If you change your mind—next year, the year after—or in ten years, I shall be here. There will never be anyone else, Isobel, never.”
“I don’t want you to wait for me,” she tried to tell him, but it was a lie and they both knew it.
“There will never be anyone else,” he said again. “I love you, Isobel.”
Isobel boarded the ship, blinded by her tears. She was bedridden with her grief. She left America, and with it, her heart. For that belonged to Hadrian Stone, and it always would. She returned to England, but she was never whole again.
He was sure he had not heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
Isobel was white, whiter than any ghost could be. “Hadrian…I should have told you long ago. Francis is not your father.”
The Duke of Clayborough stared.
They had just finished supper and retired to one of the more intimate salons so the Dowager Duchess could indulge in an after-dinner port despite the fact that ladies rarely drank anything stronger than sherry. No sooner were the two heavy, gleaming teakwood doors closed behind them, than Isobel had asked her son to sit down. Bemused, he had complied. And then she had stated that Francis was not his father.