by Brenda Joyce
The coach came to a halt in front of Clayborough’s oversized, engraved front doors. Hadrian alighted from the carriage, the box under one arm. Mrs. Veig greeted him on the steps. He inquired after his wife and was told that she was upstairs in her rooms.
Hadrian was as nervous as he had been as a schoolboy being called before his principal. He moved somewhat slowly up the two flights of stairs. In the corridor his stride lengthened. His heart jack-hammered anxiously now.
Her door was open. He stepped into her sitting room and heard sounds of movement coming from her bedchamber. He walked to that doorway, a sudden fierce joy filling him. He would always feel a rush of exhilaration upon seeing her, he realized. And then, when he was standing on the threshold, his exhilaration died.
Nicole’s back was to him. One large trunk was on the floor, open and nearly filled with clothing, none of which was folded neatly. On her bed were piles and piles of gowns, petticoats, chemises, drawers, shoes, gloves, scarves and reticules. Annie hovered anxiously by one side of the bed. As Nicole picked up another heaping pile of garments, Annie saw him and froze. Nicole dumped the heap in the trunk and saw him as well.
He stood very still. “Madam,” he said stiffly.
Her eyes snapped with fury, but her tone was more than polite, it was formal and arctic cold. “Your Grace.” Abruptly she turned her back on him and grabbed another pile of clothing.
The Duke set the box down very carefully against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “May I ask what you are doing?” But he didn’t have to ask, for it was obvious. The curtains of numbness started to part a little, and pain pierced through his chest.
“Can you not see?” she retorted, dumping the clothing in the trunk. “I am packing.”
“That is obvious. Where are you going?”
She stared at him, her gray eyes as brilliant as diamonds, and equally hard. “I am leaving.”
There was no numbness now. Yet because the Duke had spent a lifetime learning to keep his reactions masked, nothing showed on the exquisitely chiseled planes of his face. “Leaving?”
“I am leaving you.”
“I see.” His composure threatened to crack. Quickly, he walked into the room and to the window, staring unseeingly out of it, his back to her. He heard her resume her packing. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he fought to get an iron grip on the panic swirling in him. He turned. “May I ask why?”
She whirled. “You dare to ask me why!” It was a scream. As the words erupted, she reached him in three agile strides and slammed her open palm across his face as hard as she could. He reeled back under the impact.
She did not move away. She waited, eyes glittering wildly, eager to do violent battle with him. But he would never hurt the woman he loved. “That is, I believe, the fourth time you have struck me.”
“And the last.”
No words could have given greater testimony to her irrevocable intentions. Her irrevocable resolve. To leave him. The panic was there, lurking beneath the surface, a black mist threatening to choke him, to drag him down.
When she saw that he would not rise to the challenge, she nearly snickered, with great bitterness. With hate. She turned her back on him abruptly and slammed the lid down on the trunk. “Annie. Get two servants up here to bring this down.”
Annie could not speak. She fled the room. The Duke had not even been aware of her presence during their exchange.
He reached deep within himself for more strength than he had ever required of himself for any endeavor, and miraculously, he found it. With apparent casualness, he moved towards his wife. She did not back away, and he dispassionately comprehended that she still wanted a confrontation with him. He was not about to give her one. Not now. Not when he was in complete control. He took her chin between his fingertips.
“A warning, Madam,” he said dispassionately. “If you leave me now, you will not be welcome back. Not ever. Do I make myself clear?”
She laughed, the sound maniacal. “I am never coming back! Not ever!”
He still did not know why, but he no longer cared. For the colors were all gone now, and the blackness had consumed him. But it was familiar, almost soothing. “Very well,” he released her. His smile was cold. “You have been forewarned. This time, Madam, your reckless nature will lead you where it will, and you will not be rescued by me.”
“Good.”
He turned on his heel. He quit the room. He was more than numb now, but it did not matter. He had left behind the splintered pieces of his heart, so he was incapable of feeling, and that suited the Duke of Clayborough as well as anything could.
Life quickly returned to normal. The Duke forgot that he had even had a wife, that his wife even existed. He slipped back into a routine he had adhered to for too many years to count. He rose with the sun and tended to the many operations that required his supervision on his vast estates. He spent his afternoons and evenings locked in his study with his papers or his managers. He slept heavily, dreamlessly.
Except he always awoke in the middle of the night. Always, he felt like a boy of six, not a man nearing thirty. In the dark midnight hours, panic engulfed him, and it was real. It was only then that he remembered her, and hated her. Again, hatred was his refuge, his strength.
One week later, the Duke rose from his desk to greet his mother. Her visit was unexpected. He was not pleased to see her; he was in the middle of a meeting with the manager of his timber farms who had spent an entire day traveling south for this appointment. The manager was told to wait, and the Duke closed the door behind his mother. “Mother, this is a surprise.” His tone was polite but nothing more.
“Hadrian, what is going on? I have heard the most impossible rumor! That your wife has taken up residence with the Serles at Cobley House!”
“My wife?” He was cool. “Ah, the Duchess.” He shrugged, distinctly disinterested in the topic of conversation. But a sudden throbbing began behind his temples.
“Have you two had a row? Or is she really just visiting the Serles? I pray the latter is the answer, but what bride of a few weeks runs off to visit a friend and leaves her husband?”
“Mother, this is a matter I do not wish to discuss. However, I shall answer your question this once—and then we shall drop it. We have chosen to live apart.”
“To live apart!” Isobel was horrified.
Sudden anger swept him. It was so strong and consuming that it almost knocked the Duke off of his feet. “It is done all the time,” he said coldly. “Indeed, I must thank you for reminding me. I must see that a proper residence is provided for her.”
“A proper residence! Hadrian—what has happened?”
His brow lifted. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” But a part of his mind clicked, and a thought materialized, its vast meaning condensed into one word: everything. He quickly shut his eyes, not wanting to be conscious of what his subconscious mind already knew.
“This is ridiculous,?” Isobel cried. “Go and fetch her back. The two of you are meant for each other! If she has left you, forget your pride—put your foot down!”
Instead of answering, the Duke walked around his mother and opened the door for her. “I am in the middle of a meeting,” he said bluntly. “I believe that this discussion is over.”
Nicole dressed for dinner. She did so with vast concentration. She did every minor thing with vast concentration. Even the simplest tasks consumed her mentally, wholly, such as brushing her hair or drinking a cup of tea. She found that by focusing completely on whatever it was that she was doing, she could survive each and every day.
She had arrived at the Serles’ country home a week ago unexpectedly. Martha had taken one look at her face—tear-stained, her eyes swollen—and hurried her upstairs into a guest bedroom. Nicole, having no facade to maintain, had wept copiously in her best friend’s arms. In between the tears were bouts of near violence, where she had punched at the pillows with all the strength she had, wishing it were Hadrian she were pummeling
into shreds instead. And she had told Martha everything.
She existed, but that was all. She took each day moment by moment, keeping her mind blessedly blank or thoroughly occupied with mundane chores. She dared not think of him, she dared not feel. The heartbreak lurked within her, threatening to erupt. She had dared to hope, she had dared to dream. For the briefest of times, it had seemed as if her dreams would come true. And that made his betrayal impossible to bear. The grief that lay buried deeply and solidly within her was so immense she knew she must not ever uncap it.
And he had not even tried to stop her. He had let her go without the slightest hesitation. She was so unimportant to him that he had not even fought for her.
Nicole dared not allow such knowledge to slip into her conscious thoughts.
At the end of the week Regina appeared. Nicole had known it would only be a matter of time before her family learned of her whereabouts. Nicole was glad to see her, but she was also afraid to see her.
“What have you done!” Regina cried, never one to beat around the bush. “Nicole, you had better think about what you are doing!”
Nicole had a flashing remembrance. She recalled how Regina had last seen her when she had come to visit her at Clayborough with Jane and Martha. Nicole recalled exactly how she was dressed, right down to the last detail of the tiny pearl studs she wore in her ears, just as she recalled exactly how she had been feeling. She had been on a sky-high cloud, in an impossible state of ecstasy, she had been in love.
She closed her eyes, hugging herself, fighting for control. She found it.
“Please, Regina, do not even bring the topic of my marriage up. It is over. I am never going back.”
“You fool! You fool! What could he have possibly done to make you behave so stupidly! A few weeks ago you were ecstatically happy and madly in love!”
Nicole managed to smile at her sister. “Are you returning to London soon? Are you still seeing Lord Hortense?”
Regina blinked. “Don’t change the subject!”
Nicole was instantly angry. “Don’t badger me! It is my life! If he cared at all he would come after me—goddamn him to hell!”
Regina was shocked.
And Nicole had almost allowed herself to feel the immensity of the grief which she did not want to feel. She buried her face in her hands. Regina suddenly moved to her and embraced her.
“I am sorry,” her sister whispered. “You are right, it is your life. It is only that I love you so and I want you to be happy.” She released her.
Nicole wiped away a tear and managed to nod. “What would I do without you? And without Martha? Please, please, be my ally. Please don’t take his side.”
Regina bit her lip. Her expression very serious and very concerned, she finally nodded in agreement. “Do you want to tell me what has happened?”
“No.” Nicole took a deep breath, then managed a smile. “There, I feel much better. And as soon as I put this marriage completely behind me, I will be a new person. I will return to Dragmore. My life will be exactly as it used to be—and I will be as happy as I used to be.” Her smile was too bright.
Regina looked at her sadly. “And how are you ever going to put him behind you?”
Nicole did not dare answer the question honestly, much less consider it. “I imagine a man as powerful as he shall be able to obtain a divorce posthaste.”
“A divorce!”
Nicole nodded. “This marriage was a mistake from the start. I have sent him a letter, asking him for a divorce.”
He reread the letter. Not for the second time or the third or the fourth. He had read it so many times that he knew its contents by heart. Again, the words blurred. The tears were of both joy and sorrow. Dear God, he had a son.
Dear Sir,
I am the son of Isobel de Warenne Braxton-Lowell. I can only hope that, despite the passage of so many years, you do remember my mother and what once transpired between you. Recently she confided in me. I was as shocked as I am sure you shall be, for she not only revealed to me that she had known you so long ago, but that you are my natural father. I hope to find you alive and well and to make your acquaintance, at your convenience of course. Such a meeting can take place upon the soil of your homeland, or mine.
Until then, Sincerely,
Hadrian de Warenne Braxton-Lowell,
the ninth Duke of Clayborough
He folded the worn letter carefully for it was already beginning to tear, and tucked it in the inside breast pocket of his suit.
He had a son.
Although it was weeks now since Hadrian Stone had first received the miraculous news that he had a son, he could not recover from the discovery. He was still overwhelmed by the knowledge of his son’s existence. His son—who was hoping to meet him.
Hadrian Stone could barely wait for that day himself.
As always, his thoughts were preoccupied with that one topic, his son. Stone’s speculation ran rampant. The letter’s tone was so formal and so proper that he could not put a face to the words it contained, or emotions. Was his son being proper in addressing him as a stranger—which indeed he was—or was he being cautious? Was he enthused to meet him, or just curious, even dismayed? Perhaps he was even angry. His son was the ninth Duke of Clayborough. It was apparent that, until recently, he had thought the eighth duke to be his father. Would he not be angry? Perhaps he even felt threatened. Hadrian Stone only knew a few British lords, but he knew how they set a great store on their blue blood and titles, and it was quite obvious that his son’s title could now be easily challenged by brothers, cousins, uncles or any sort of distant male kin.
But for whatever reason, his son had requested a meeting, either in America or in London. Stone had not even bothered with a reply. He had jumped aboard the first ship setting sail for England the very day he had received the missive at his home in Boston.
He stared at the jumbled London skyline as it came into view, the iron-clad ship moving with little grace up the Thames under steam. It was a chill gray day and it was drizzling, but Hadrian Stone was used to inclement weather and he was barely aware of the cold or the dampness. He tugged at his tie, feeling uncomfortably restricted by it and the suit he was wearing. He had probably not worn a suit more than a dozen times in all of his sixty years.
The joy almost choked him. It came over him in a hot tide, abruptly and completely, as it did so often. He had a son. His son was the Duke of Clayborough. It was a dream that had come true.
He had no children. He had never married. Only once in his life had he ever wanted to marry, had he ever loved a woman enough to want to marry. But that was long ago, far in the past. His regrets were few, for he was not an introspective man, being a man of action, but he had always regretted not having children, and recently the yearning had become more intense.
And now he had a son. A son who had, like himself, just learned of his existence. Again, Stone wondered what he would be like. Was he too proud or too proper to reveal any of his feelings in a letter to the stranger who was his real father? Hadrian Stone was a very proud man also, but he knew when to eat his pride and he always had. On the other hand, he wasn’t the least bit interested in decorum. Stone did not have a formal bone in his body, but from the tone of the letter, he was starting to suspect that his son had more than one.
He could not inagine his son being proper, or worse, a straight-laced blue-blooded Brit. Yet there would be many more vast differences between them. Stone was a man who had built up a shipping empire from nothing but sheer determination, with nothing but an iron will and his own two strong calloused hands. Those who met him would never guess he was a successful business magnate. When he was at his offices he worked in his shirtsleeves like any common clerk, his manner open and familiar—although he was quick to temper should those working for him fail to do their best. Whenever he could, he abandoned his offices to captain one of his ships to a distant port. His love for the sea had begun when he was a small boy—at thirteen he had first sh
ipped out. He had never been a man to be chained for very long to a desk. He had always been a man of the outdoors, of the sea. The sea was his life, his love.
Stone tried to prepare himself for the inevitable. His son was not just aristocracy, but a duke. Stone did not have to know anything about him to know that he had probably never lifted a finger in his life in labor or for himself. It was very hard for Stone to come to terms with this. Not only had he reached the top but he had done so by coming from the bottom, by not being afraid of any form of hard labor. He must honestly face the distinct probability that his son had never raised an honest sweat in his life. Stone was resolved not to judge him for it, even if his son openly disdained the work ethic.
But would his son judge him?
He prayed that it was only polite formality he had discerned in his son’s letter—not cool indifference or haughty snobbery. But the question was there, one that had haunted him from the moment he had learned of his son’s title. Would his son be able to accept him, a simple hardworking man who saw himself as a sea captain?
His stomach lurched at the thought. He had been afraid of very little in his life, but he was afraid of his son’s rejection of him. He was afraid his son would look down his nose at him. He had met enough nobly born men, whether British or European, to know that they saw themselves as superior to the common man—that they were snobs.
As much as he anxiously awaited their meeting, he dreaded it, too.
And he was quick to blame the circumstances on Isobel. Had he known he had a son, he would have claimed him, and rightly so. The boy would not have grown up in the salons of the rich British upper classes, he would have grown up on the decks of seafaring ships. He would have learned the value of hard work, and to be proud of himself for himself, not because of some damned title.
But it wasn’t to be. Because of Isobel, who had denied him his son. Isobel, who had deceived him for all of these years.