by Brenda Joyce
“What wounds?” he asked dryly, turning from her. Now that they were alone again, even though she was covered by the robe, the hot ache in his loins was building anew. He poured them both cups of tea, hoping to distract his body from its intent.
“You know what wounds,” she snapped. “Why do you insist upon this ridiculous marriage? I heartily agree with what you said—that you are a fool to marry me.”
“I did not say that, Nicole.”
“I am not the sort to be a duchess, as you well know,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Perhaps you sell yourself short.”
Her eyes widened.
He calmly sipped his tea, but he never took his eyes from her.
She recovered. “Hadrian—why do you insist that we wed? If what happened between us doesn’t matter to me, then why the hell does it matter to you?”
He winced, but not at her crude language. Could she possibly mean what she had just said—that what had happened in his library several days ago was of no importance to her? “You know why. You may be with my child.”
“If I am with child, I can have it without being wed to you. I am used to scandal—what difference will a little more make?”
He was grim now. “If you think you can change my mind, think again. I am unmovable.”
“Then you will have a very reluctant duchess on your hands,” she said coolly.
“Dare you threaten me?”
“I do not threaten. I advise.”
“And you lie,” he said with a calm he did not feel. He set his cup and saucer down. “We both know in reality just how reluctant you are—the proof being obvious not just five minutes ago.”
She flushed, but whether with anger or embarrassment or both, he could not tell. “Perhaps I am not reluctant when it comes to matters of the flesh, but I am reluctant when it comes to marrying you!”
Her barb struck him with unerring accuracy and he did not like the wound it left. She had not softened one bit towards the prospect of marrying him. She could not know that Francis was not his father, if indeed that had been a concern of hers, but he was too proud to tell her, and more importantly, he did not trust her with such a secret. Not yet. He could not risk his mother’s reputation. “Am I truly so odious?”
She stood very still, her face pale, some of the anger leaving her eyes. When she responded, it was with the utmost care. “Whether or not I find you odious is not the issue.”
“Do you find me odious?” he demanded.
“No.”
Now he was motionless. It was very hard for him to prevent a smile from forming on his lips. “So I am not such an ogre.” His eyes sought hers.
Her mouth trembled. “Do not force me against my will!”
“Nicole, it is too late.”
“It is not too late. You can cry off. People will only say that you have recovered your sanity!”
He could not miss her desperation, and any smile he might have entertained was gone. For whatever reason, she was as opposed to him now as before. “I suggest you change your will,” he said coldly.
“I do not want to be sacrificed to your noble idea of duty.”
“You have made yourself abundantly clear,” he gritted. “In fact, I am damned tired of hearing this refrain. The truth is, I do not care what you want.”
“Damn you,” she hissed. “You only care about yourself. You are cold and heartless, just as everyone says!”
Hadrian smiled, not pleasantly. His feelings were hurt, and he was angry that he could be vulnerable where she was concerned. “I had intended to invite you to accompany me out tonight, but I can see that would not be wise.”
“It would not be wise,” Nicole agreed fiercely. “I would refuse. I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”
He was furious, and only controlling his fury with the greatest of wills. He would not force her to accompany him to the ball. She would only cause more tongues to wag with her animosity towards him so evident. For it would be a miracle if she would bow to appearances and behave as a bride should. “I will see you at the cathedral.” He was already heading for the door, but her next words stopped him in his tracks.
“You hope!” she cried.
He turned slowly. There was no hiding his emotions now. “I am not Percy Hempstead,” he said, very slowly and very distinctly. “Let me make that fact very clear.”
She did not move, did not even appear to breathe.
“I am not a twenty-two-year-old boy; I am not a besotted fool. If you think to jilt me, think again. For I will not turn tail and run the other way as he did, oh no. I will find you, and I will drag you to the altar on your back if need be, no matter how you might be screaming. No matter how scandalous it might be.”
She still did not move.
He smiled dangerously. “And no one would condemn me for my behavior. Because I am the Duke of Clayborough—and because I am a man. While you, you are nothing but a woman—and an eccentric one at that. One whom, they will say, needs a firm male hand and perhaps a beating or two.”
Nicole gasped.
“My actions will be applauded,” he finished ruthlessly. “Yours will be condemned.”
“I despise you,” Nicole managed.
His smile was twisted. “If you choose to create this kind of scandal, so be it. I will wash my hands of the affair and leave you to stew in your own juices. My generosity in protecting you only goes so far.”
“Get out.”
He did not answer. He was too angry. He strode from the room.
The Duke of Clayborough was nervous.
It was his wedding day.
He had not seen Nicole in the past ten days, not since he had last visited her with the intention of inviting her to the ball. It was a deliberate course of action. Once again she had made her feelings for him perfectly clear, arousing his own emotions, which were too explosive around her in any case. It was safer, much safer, to keep his distance from her until after they were wed.
And he dared not think about the battle that would ensue once she was his wife.
The Duke had remained in London this past week and a half. In that short space of time he had attended three at-homes, two balls, one regatta, and one lavish soiree. The fact was, and it astonished London, that he had accepted more invitations in one week than he had in the past year. And not only had he appeared at these various functions. He had actually stayed for several hours, mingled with the other guests, and had been, in short, most charming. This kind of behavior was so uncharacteristic of the reclusive and rather unsociable lord that the Duke had become the most popular topic of conversation among the set.
But Hadrian’s nature had not changed. He was no more interested in the social life of his peers than he had been before. He was, in fact, champing at the bit to get home to Clayborough, where various affairs awaited his personal attention. He had stayed in London only because of Nicole.
He was making a new beginning for them both. He had never been unpopular, of course, he was too powerful not to be a coveted guest, but he had not been overly popular because of his blatant indifference to the social whirl. By the end of the ten days, he had, indeed, become popular. And his popularity would soon be his wife’s.
The ugly rumours were no longer circulating in London, either. If any gossip about the ill timing of his and Nicole’s wedding lingered, it was in the throes of a slow death. The new gossip was exactly as he had contrived. At every function Hadrian attended, when congratulated upon his engagement, he was appropriately enthusiastic. Any open display of emotion from the Duke was so unusual that this might have been enough to do the trick. However, word had spread like the worst firestorm of his advent into Nicole’s bedroom the other day. And this time the gossip was favorable.
Everywhere Hadrian went, people were talking about them. Just the night before, at the Avery soiree, he had overheard two matrons and one single lady, all acquaintances of his.
“Shocking,” Lady Bradford decl
ared. “He actually chased Madame Lavie out so they could be alone!”
“Scandalous,” Lady Smythe-Regis responded fervently. “He must be completely mad about Lady Shelton to forget propriety like that!”
“Can you imagine being the object of such interest on the part of the Duke?” Lady Talbott said dreamily. “It must be love!”
Hadrian quickly turned away before they could spot him eavesdropping. He was more than pleased.
He wasn’t pleased, however, on the afternoon that he decided to make an appearance at his club on James Street. Upon entering the den he favored, he was aware of all quiet conversation stopping. Usually he was greeted politely and then ignored by the other members, all of whom knew his preference for solitude. Grimly he wondered what had caused this change in his cronies’ reaction to him. It would be too hopeful to think that it did not have something to do with his bride and himself.
He shortly found out. The Earl of Ravensford, whom he knew better than most of the other lords, approached him. “Do you mind if I join you for a moment, Hadrian?” Jonathon Lindley asked.
Surprised, Hadrian agreed. It quickly became obvious that the Earl had something on his mind. “Just what is it that you want to tell me, Jonathon?”
“You won’t be pleased,” Lindley warned, keeping his voice down.
Hadrian gestured for him to continue.
“Nicole is like a daughter to me, so I must tell you what I have just learned. Two members of this club have made a wager.”
The Duke stiffened. “What kind of wager?”
“The kind of wager that needs redressing. Lord Hortense and Lord Kimberly have a bet that your bride will bear you a child within nine months of your wedding.”
Hadrian did not move. Although his face was as still as chiseled granite, fury swept over him in one hot wave. When he could speak, it was to thank Ravensford for the information. A moment later he took his leave.
He found Hortense that evening at his home as he was preparing to go out. The interview was short and to the point. One well-placed blow loosened several of Hortense’s teeth. The threat which followed was taken to heart. Hortense was very apologetic.
Lord Kimberly met with exactly the same fate.
More gossip, more scandal, but all of it was in the Duke’s favor. He had acted honorably in defending Nicole’s reputation, while the other two gentlemen had never been known to be anything but rogues. Besides, the ladies whispered, it was just so romantic!
The only thing which did not go well that week was an interview with the Marquess of Stafford—Elizabeth’s father.
Hadrian had gone to call on his friend himself, hoping to somehow explain what would be unexplainable to the desolate man. Stafford was still locked up in his home in an inconsolable state of grief. Because he had seen no one since the funeral, he did not know of Hadrian’s engagement. And because Hadrian had been like a son to him, as well as his daughter’s betrothed since childhood, Stafford received him when he was not receiving callers.
“I will not ask you how you are, George,” Hadrian said quietly.
“Do not.” Stafford was gaunt, thin and red-eyed. “I cannot stop grieving. How I wish I could.”
“I know it is trite, but in time, you will be able to remember her without so much pain.”
“No,” Stafford said. “You are wrong. This pain is never going to die.”
Hadrian was silent. He was terribly uncomfortable, for how could he tell this man that he was marrying another woman on the heels of Elizabeth’s death? Yet he had to inform him personally, before Stafford should learn of the engagement himself. “George, I too, miss Elizabeth. I always will.”
Stafford began to cry. With a great effort he regained control. “I know.”
Briefly Hadrian closed his eyes. In truth, as much as he had cared about Elizabeth, and as saddened as he was by her death, it was distinctly hard to visualize her now. “She is happy, George. She is at peace when she was in so much pain. For if there is a paradise, she has found it.”
Stafford started to weep again. Hadrian handed him his handkerchief, wondering if he should, after all, depart and let Stafford learn of the nuptials after the fact.
“Yes,” the Marquess finally said, trembling, “Elizabeth is in heaven. No one deserved heaven more.”
After a few minutes had passed and the Marquess was more composed, Hadrian spoke. “George, I am terribly sorry that I have come to personally inform you of something and the timing is most inappropriate. If there was any other way, believe me, I would not intrude upon your grief now.”
“Hadrian, dear lad, you are always welcome here.”
Hadrian trembled. For a moment he felt a guilt he had not felt since he had consummated his passion with Nicole. And suddenly he saw Elizabeth with crystal clarity, as if she stood before him in the room behind her father. She was smiling and looking at him with love. There was no accusation of betrayal upon her face. The Duke’s eyes widened and he sat straighter, but it was a figment of his imagination—a ghostly hallucination—for the image was gone. And so too, miraculously, was the guilt.
With difficulty Hadrian began. He felt he owed it to Stafford to be honest with him, and although he knew he would be upset, he trusted the man’s honor and was certain the truth would be safe nevertheless. “In my own grief, I turned to another woman in a moment of passion.”
Stafford looked at him. Then he said, “I understand. What does it matter? You are a young man. Do not blame yourself.”
“I do not think you understand, George. The other woman was not my mistress, nor was she a whore.”
Stafford was puzzled.
“She was a single young lady, one whom I now must wed.”
Stafford stared, unable to immediately comprehend what he was being told.
“I am marrying Nicole Shelton in a week.”
Stafford still stared.
“I am sorry,” Hadrian said.
Stafford lunged to his feet. “You are marrying some other woman next week?”
Hadrian also rose. “I am sorry.”
“How could you!? Dear God, how could you do this?” Stafford shouted. “Elizabeth barely dead, not even cold in her grave! How can you do this, how?!”
“It is a matter of honor,” Hadrian said, only outwardly composed. “Elizabeth is dead, and I have ruined Nicole. And of course there is the need for haste.”
Stafford was red-faced. “How dare you come here to tell me you are marrying another woman next week! Damn your cold heart, Hadrian! Damn you! Damn you to hell! Oh—you did not love my daughter, I see that now! You never loved her! How glad I am that she is not marrying a cold heartless bastard like you!”
“I am sorry.”
“Get out!” Stafford screamed. “Get out! Get out, get out, get out!”
The Duke of Clayborough arrived at the church early. The ceremony was to take place at St. Martin-in-the-Fields on Trafalgar Square. A small chapel had originally existed on this site in Norman times, and by the twelfth century a church there had its own parish. It had been rebuilt several times, most recently in the early eighteenth century. It was now a magnificent piece of architecture—a large rectangular building with an imposing portico straddled by a high steeple, with a dashing statue of Charles I in the foreground.
Hadrian entered through a back entrance, leaving his mother, the Earl of Northumberland and Lady Claire, and the Earl and Countess of Dragmore to greet the guests, which numbered nearly a thousand. Because of the circumstances surrounding his wedding, he had decided to make it the wedding of the year, at the least. He was determined that no one of any importance be left off of the guest list—and that no one think he and his bride had anything to hide. Isabel had agreed, as had the Sheltons and his grandfather. Roger de Warenne. Thus the guest list included not only the most important aristocracy in the land, but many influential politicians and businessmen as well, and even Queen Victoria herself.
Hadrian chose to brood alone in a small antechamb
er. He was exceedingly nervous and he could not fathom why. He was struck with an unpleasant image—of himself standing alone at the altar, waiting for his bride, who never came. He paced, filled with tension. Nicole Shelton would not dare; the idea was ludicrous.
After what seemed like hours of waiting, there was a knock on the door and his grandfather walked in. Roger de Warenne, the Earl of Northumberland, eyed him thoroughly. “You look a bit green about the gills, lad.”
“I feel green,” Hadrian returned. “Is she here?”
“She’s here. She didn’t run out on you.”
Hadrian scowled, but despite his best intentions, he felt relief. He told himself that no man could possibly relish the idea of dragging a furiously unwilling bride quite literally to the altar in front of a thousand guests.
The Earl of Northumberland laughed. “Nothing like a challenge, is there?”
The Duke’s jaw clenched. “I am amazed you approve of her.” The moment he had decided to wed Nicole, he had gone to his grandfather to apprise him of his intention. Of course he could do as he chose at this stage of his life, but it was a matter of respect to seek out Northumberland’s approval. He had expected some amount of opposition. There had been none.
“I don’t know yet if I approve of her,” the Earl of Northumberland said bluntly. “I approve of her family and I approve of a timely marriage. I am not interested in having a bastard grandchild.”
Hadrian had not told him the reason for the marriage and at the time his grandfather had not asked. He lifted a brow, knowing that he should not be surprised at Roger de Warenne’s insight.
“You may be able to fool all of London, lad, but you can’t fool me,” Northumberland said.
“Indeed.”
“Your necktie needs straightening, Hadrian.”
The Duke began to fumble with it and preoccupied, he did not see the Earl of Northumberland’s satisfied smile.
Nicole sat very still, barely breathing. Her sister was with her, and unfortunately Regina was as nervous and frightened as if it were her own wedding. Martha sat beside her as well and held her hand. She was the only relatively calm one in the room—yet even her palm was damp. “Relax. You look as if you are going to your funeral.”