by Brenda Joyce
There was a knock on her door. Nicole answered, and both Mrs. Veig and Annie stepped in. Annie was white-faced and anxious, and Nicole silently blessed her little maid for her loyalty. Mrs. Veig was somber. Nicole knew that her unusually impassive expression was an attempt to cover up her disapproval, the first instance of it that Nicole had yet to discern.
“Draw Her Grace a bath, Annie,” Mrs. Veig said. Annie scurried to obey. Mrs. Veig set a tray of cakes and hot chocolate down besides the chaise. “I thought you might like a bit of something sweet to calm your nerves.”
Nicole had no appetite, but she nodded.
The housekeeper busied herself in Nicole’s closet, pulling out a warm wool robe and brocade slippers lined with fleece. Nicole shed her boots, breeches and shirt on the floor. Annie called to her that her bath was ready. Nicole was about to strip off her underwear when she saw Mrs. Veig pick up her scattered clothing. Mrs. Veig never attended to her dirty clothes, and an alarm sounded in Nicole’s mind. “Mrs. Veig,” she said, “what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. But His Grace ordered me to take these clothes.”
Nicole stood very still. “And burn them?”
“Yes.”
Her entire body tensed.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said again. She left with the clothes, thankfully leaving Nicole’s custom-made boots behind.
Nicole closed her eyes. She was truly sorry for her role in what had happened, but this was going too far. Yet instead of anger, there was only hurt. This past week had been paradise. Now where had it gone?
Nicole did not leave her rooms. She waited for her husband to return to Clayborough with no small amount of anxiety. She hoped that he would be calmer and more reasonable when he did return. She was determined to undo the damage she had done, she was determined to get their relationship back on the track that it had been on. She would meet him in the library before supper as always, and she would be a paragon of propriety. If he did not bend, if he chose not to forget or ignore what had happened that day, then she would be more aggressive in her plan of attack. She would steal into his bed and seduce him. A night of passion would surely distract him from his anger with her.
It was a simple plan. She prayed she would not have to use it, she prayed that when Hadrian returned he would be in a better, more forgiving mood.
It seemed that Nicole passed an eternity waiting for her husband to return, but a glance at the clock told her it was not even an hour. She waited uncertainly in her rooms, her heart lodged like a stone in her chest. Would he come to see her? Wouldn’t he come to tell her if he had been successful in hunting down the ruffians who had attacked her and O’Henry? Then she would have a chance to judge his mood before she went to meet him in the library. She could not bear the uncertainty, the waiting.
But he did not come. She heard him enter his apartments, which adjoined hers. She waited. She listened acutely to the sounds coming from his rooms. She could not decide what he was doing, but it seemed as if he were changing his clothes. Her hopes lifted briefly as she thought that he was readying himself to meet her in the library, but then they abruptly sank. For she heard him leaving his suite and heading down the corridor—not towards her door, but away from it.
And a few moments later she heard a coach and horses coming around to the front of the house. Nicole ran to the window. Shocked, she watched her husband, dressed for travel in a many-tiered greatcoat, step into the Clayborough coach. A moment later it rolled away amidst its cavalcade of liveried outriders.
Three days later, Nicole began to be quite angry. Hadrian had left without bothering to inform her of where he was going. And he had yet to send a single word to her as to when he would return. Separated as they were, she could not gauge his mood, but she found it hard to believe that he might still be angry over an incident that was fast becoming ancient history.
Nicole had too much pride to ask Mrs. Veig where her husband had gone. But he had taken his valet and butler with him—not an encouraging sign. Again, Annie was put to the task of ferreting out information. She soon told Nicole that he had gone to Clayborough House in London, and that no one had any idea of when he would return.
Could it be possible that he was still angry with her?
Or was he merely indifferent—and completely inconsiderate?
By the third day, Nicole was becoming thoroughly angry. Was this his way of punishing her? Hadn’t she apologized? She had even learned her lesson! In the future she would ride in public with an escort and in proper attire. No one would have any grounds to say one accusatory word about the Duchess of Clayborough. Her husband would be proud of her. Privately, however, she would continue to do as she chose. She thought this the fairest of compromises. She had yet to exercise this last step, though, wanting to resolve her relationship with her husband first. She could imagine only too well that if he happened upon her riding in breeches, even if it were on Clayborough land at the crack of dawn with a few grooms, he would jump to the wrong conclusions. She would put this disastrous argument behind them, not fan the flames of another fiery fight.
Nicole had just decided to go to London to join her husband when Mrs. Veig informed her that she had a caller. Nicole raised a brow, surprised, wondering whom it could possibly be. She had yet to receive anyone other than her family, and Nicole was glad that they had come when she was still living in a state of paradise, and not now, when she felt as if she were about to walk through the gates of hell.
Mrs. Veig told her it was Lady Stacy Worthington.
Nicole got a very bad feeling.
She resolved to be gracious. She would be a role model of propriety, the perfect duchess. Quickly she had Mrs. Veig help her change into a spectacularly expensive gown, one suited to an afternoon in the city, not at home in the country. With it she donned her diamonds—all of them.
A half an hour later she descended the stairs like a queen to greet Stacy in the rose salon. That particular room was the size of many a gentleman’s ballroom. Of course, Stacy had undoubtedly been to Clayborough many times, but being a guest, she could not have done more than glimpse a quarter or less of the palatial residence. Even if she had been in this room before, it was still imposing.
Stacy rose to her feet from the sofa where she sat. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
As Nicole came closer—and it took some time to cross the room—she saw the gleam in the other woman’s eyes and her sense of suspicion grew. “Hello, Stacy. What a surprise. Mrs. Veig, please bring us more sandwiches. And some sweets.” Nicole smiled at Stacy. She had addressed her without her deferential title purposefully. For Stacy would not really be Lady Stacy until she married a nobleman.
Stacy smiled back. It was feral.
Nicole sat in a bergere facing her visitor, Stacy sat back down on the sofa. The two women looked at each other. Silence reigned.
Normally, Nicole would have bluntly asked Stacy what she wanted. But she was resolved to be the epitome of a hostess. “The roads are becoming bad, are they not? I hope it did not make traveling too difficult for you.”
“They’re not too bad, not yet. So, when will Hadrian return?”
Nicole was dismayed at the possibility that Stacy might know that Hadrian was in London, and not here with her. “Excuse me?”
“From town.” Stacy was still smiling.
“Why, as soon as he concludes his business.”
“How urgent it must be. After all, you have not been wed more than a week or so.”
Nicole held onto her temper. “It was of the utmost urgency.”
“Hmmm. But he still had time to go to No. 12 Crawford Street.”
Nicole blinked. Whatever Stacy was driving at, she had no notion what it might be. “Yes, well, I imagine he has business there as well.”
Stacy hooted. “You don’t know, do you! You don’t know what No. 12 Crawford Street is!”
It was very hard to maintain her poise. “No, I don’t.” But she su
ddenly had an idea, a distasteful idea.
Stacy was gleeful. “Hadrian has apartments there. He has had apartments there since he was eighteen.”
Nicole tried very hard not to understand. “I see.”
“You still don’t comprehend me, do you! He keeps those apartments for his mistress!”
The color drained from Nicole’s face. When she spoke, it was numbly. “I don’t believe you.” She didn’t—she did not believe her! She would not believe her!
“Surely you did not marry Hadrian with ignorance of his reputation for women! Why, his current mistress is considered to be the most beautiful woman in all of London. She is French, an actress they say. Her name is Holland Dubois.”
No, Nicole thought, it is not true. He could not. He could not. He could not have gone to another woman, not after what they had shared. But she had known he had a mistress. She had known of his reputation. Hadn’t that been the reason she did not want to marry him in the first place? Hadn’t she known that one day he would tire of her and go to other women?
“If you do not believe me, then why don’t you go and see for yourself?” Stacy was triumphant.
Although Nicole’s numbness was rapidly turning into a searing pain, she spoke with the utmost calm. “Why should I do that? All men have mistresses, and yes, I certainly knew of my husband’s reputation before we were wed. The news you bring me changes nothing. I am, after all, the Duchess of Clayborough. You think I care about his dalliance with an actress?”
Stacy was taken aback. Her glee was gone. “Well,” she said in a huff. “I was only trying to help you.”
“How kind you are.”
Stacy rose. “I can see you don’t want my friendship! I think I had better leave!”
“You can certainly do as you choose.” Politely, Nicole also stood, summoning Mrs. Veig. “Please escort Lady Worthington to the door,” she said.
She knew it was true.
She would not believe it, not until she saw Holland Dubois at No. 12 Crawford Street with her own two eyes.
She would not believe that Hadrian had left her after what they had shared—after the promise that had been inherent in the blossoming beginning of their relationship—to go to another woman.
She would not, she did not.
But of course it was true.
He was a womanizer. Everyone knew it. She had known it. She had learned of his reputation early in their relationship. Elizabeth had probably known, too. But she had probably not cared. Ladies were not supposed to care about their husband’s lovers. If anything, they were supposed to be relieved that their husbands cavorted elsewhere.
Nicole was not relieved. Nicole was sick.
How could she have forgotten for a moment why she had not wanted to marry him in the first place? But in one short week she had forgotten, because of the carnal bliss they had shared. But it was only that, carnal bliss, yet she had foolishly, naively, thought it something more.
Nicole peered out of the carriage window. Her gloved fists were clenched tightly in her lap. As soon as Stacy had left, she had immediately departed Clayborough for London, taking only Annie with her and not even informing the distressed Mrs. Veig as to where she was going. Once in the city, she had ordered her driver to Covent Garden. (A place Hadrian would never go, and thus never chance upon his own carriage.) She had ordered her driver and Annie to await her there. She had climbed into a hansom, and now they were pulling up in front of No. 12 Crawford Street.
It occurred to her that Hadrian might be within that residence even now.
If he were there, she would die. No—if he were there, she would be strong. She would be impassive, cool, perfectly composed. She would not let him know how he was hurting her.
Nicole barely looked at the townhouse with its wrought iron fence and its painted brick facade. She climbed from the hansom, asking the driver to wait. She was numb, as if in a dream, or a daze. Slowly she walked through the gate and up the steps. She banged an old-fashioned brass knocker.
A butler immediately answered the door.
Nicole’s mouth was so dry that she could not, for a moment, speak. “I would like a word with Miss Dubois.”
The butler let her enter. “Whom should I say is calling?”
Nicole hesitated. He had not said that there was no Miss Dubois there. Briefly she closed her eyes, nausea overwhelming her. So far, Stacy had not lied. Just as Nicole had known.
When Nicole opened her eyes, she had regained control. “It does not matter. Tell your mistress I am here.” Nicole was imperious. She had at least learned to be a duchess—when it was too late to matter.
She walked past the butler, head high, strides graceful and fluid, her fabulously expensive gown swirling about her silk shoes. She walked right into the parlor. She did not sit down, just as she had not taken off her gloves or coat. She gave the butler no choice but to do as she asked.
While she waited, Nicole took in all of the fine furnishings—the delicate furniture, the Persian rugs, the papered walls and landscape paintings. Miss Dubois lived well. She lived well beyond the means of an actress.
Several minutes later a woman said from the doorway, “You wish to see me?”
Nicole turned. She turned to see a small, petite woman in a stunning and expensive gown, one too low-cut to be appropriate for midmorning at home. The woman was as exquisitely beautiful as any woman could possibly be, she was as perfect as any china doll. Her blue gaze was puzzled, but as Nicole stared at her, the truth hitting her like a sledgehammer, the confusion left Holland Dubois’ lovely cat eyes.
“Oh dear,” Hadrian’s mistress said. “It’s you! Oh dear!”
For another long moment, Nicole did not move.
“Your Grace,” Holland said breathlessly, “I am not sure what you want, but please, do sit down!”
Nicole had seen enough. Quickly, before the other woman might start to see the moisture forming in her eyes, she moved past her and into the hall.
“Wait!” Holland Dubois called. “Why did you come? Wait!”
But Nicole did not pause. Her long strides carried her through the hall and out the front door in a blurry haze. Somehow she made it into the hansom. She made it into the hansom before her tears fell, and with it, all of her dreams, crumbling into the dust on the floor at her feet.
Hadrian shifted forward in his seat. He peered out of the window of his coach and glimpsed his home. Tension lanced through him.
He had left Clayborough four days ago. Four agonizingly long days ago. He had not left in a fit of anger, although he was still half-heartedly angry at Nicole for putting herself in the danger that she had by riding alone with O’Henry on the public roads. He had left in a moment of fright. He had, in fact, been running away.
But it had not worked.
He could no longer run from himself, his feelings, or his wife.
The episode with the ruffians—all of whom had been caught and dispatched forthright to the local gaoler within an hour of Nicole’s return to Clayborough—had brought Hadrian into a violent confrontation with his deepest, most heartfelt feelings. Knowledge he had sought to avoid—probably from the very start of his relationship with Nicole—loomed up bluntly and inescapably in his mind. The instant that he knew, without doubt, that he loved his wife, was the most terrifying moment of his life.
He had spent a lifetime maintaining cool control of himself and his passions. He had spent a lifetime keeping his emotions rigorously in check. As a very young boy he had learned how to hide his feelings, even from himself. For to feel was to be vulnerable. To feel was to be hurt.
And now he was no longer invulnerable. To the contrary, he had never been more vulnerable in his life. He loved Nicole so passionately that it bordered on obsession. Those vagabonds had almost hurt her, perhaps they might have murdered her. The mere thought, even now, four days later, terrified him and consumed him.
After apprehending the three men, he had quit Clayborough immediately for London. As if to out
run his emotions. As if to outrun the knowledge he now faced. He had intended to regain control of himself—and his heart—no matter the cost. Even if it meant abandoning his wife indefinitely at his country home and seeking refuge in the arms of other women.
Neither escape route had succeeded. He had gone to Holland Dubois with the intention of bedding her so soundly that he would never think about Nicole again, yet he had found himself politely terminating their relationship instead. He had intended to remain in London, immersed in his business affairs, yet instead he was heading home eagerly.
The knowledge, so new, so powerful, was still there within him, and it was still frightening. There had been moments in the past few days when he had awakened in the middle of the night feeling the kind of panic and aloneness he had felt as a very young boy. As sleep had fled, so had the anxiety, but not before he had recognized it and his own vulnerability. His own humanity.
He had finally given up, and given in, to himself, to her. She was his wife and he was in love with her. She had rejected him many times in the past, yet he had survived—just as he had survived Francis’ cruel rejections. Recently, though, she had no longer rejected him. Recently there had been a truce between them by day, one that, at night, vanished completely into the most compelling form of intimacy. There was hope. Their marriage could succeed. The first week of their marriage promised that. Yet Hadrian knew he would never be content with what they had shared so far. Now he wanted so much more. He wanted her love, and he wanted it to be as fullblown and passionate and obsessive as his.
As the coach rolled up the long graveled drive he began to perspire. The last time he had seen her, they had been in the midst of a furious confrontation. One that he had initiated, due to his own heart-rending fear for her safety. He had probably compounded matters by leaving without even a word about his plans. He was not sure what kind of reception he was about to get.
He carried with him a peace offering. A large box, gift-wrapped, lay on the seat opposite him. When she saw its contents she would recognize his sincerity in wishing to make amends for the extent of his rampaging anger and for his inconsiderate departure from Clayborough.