by Sylvia Day
Loman grimaced but nodded. “All right. Get her out of here after that.”
Beau shook his head. “How the devil do you expect me to keep a woman away from her dying father? I shall have to tie her up to get her into the bloody carriage.”
“You’re her husband, ain’tcha?” Loman demanded, anger flaring in his rheumy eyes. “Didn’t you command thousands of soldiers? You bloody tell Josey when and where to go and she’ll do it. I raised ’er to ’ave ’er own mind, but she knows every house has only one master.” He sneered up at Beau. “Who’s that to be in your household, Your Grace?”
Beau opened his mouth to say something brutal and quelling to the obnoxious upstart when he noticed Loman’s eyes—which had been blazing only seconds earlier—had dulled with alarming speed.
Bloody hell. It would be just Beau’s luck if the old bastard went off while they were bickering.
“Well?” Loman persisted, dogged even though his face was lined with pain.
Beau glared down, not bothering to hide his intense dislike. “Fine. I shall do as you ask.”
Loman gave him a faint—but triumphant—smile. “Yer a good lad. Now open that top drawer.” He jerked his chin toward the nightstand and then winced from the effort. “Give ’er that letter when I’m gone. It will explain why you kept ’er from me.”
“Perhaps you might explain to me why I am taking her away, sir?”
Loman’s jaw worked angrily and Beau thought he was going to tell him to go to the devil. But instead he said, “I’ve not got long—maybe not even a few days—and right bloody now I’m in so much damned pain that I’ve soiled meself from it.” His eyes glowed with misery, rage, and shame. “Can you even imagine that kind of pain?”
Beau forbore to point out he’d been at Waterloo and a dozen other battles before that. Of course he knew about pain.
“As soon as you’re both gone today I’ll take as much of that”—he pointed to the green bottle that sat on a table beyond his reach—“as that quack will give me and I’ll go to sleep, and ’opefully never wake up. If my Josey knew any of that she’d want me to fight—to stay with ’er as long as possible. If she knew I was givin’ up, wild ’orses couldn’t keep her away. So, my lord duke, is that good enough reason for you?”
Beau yanked open the drawer, snatched up the letter, and shoved it into his coat pocket.
“Don’t give it to ’er on ’er wedding day, Yer Grace. Wait ’til tomorrow.”
“Anything else, sir?”
The pain in Loman’s eyes overshadowed any satisfaction he might have felt at ordering Beau about like a bloody servant. “I’ll extort no more promises from you, lad. Now, go on—” He made a weak shooing motion with his hand. “Send up my Josie.”
* * *
Jo paced a circuit around the horrifically gaudy room her father liked to call the Gold Salon—because he’d stuffed it with more gilt furniture than Versailles.
“Please, Your Grace,” Lady Constance said, flapping behind her like a lone duckling after its mother. “Won’t you—”
“It helps me to pace,” Jo snapped, and then immediately felt bad for snapping.
Lord. How quickly could she reasonably dispense with the other woman’s services? The countess wasn’t cruel or condescending, but she was an annoying fusser, and if there was one thing Jo abhorred, it was fussing.
“Perhaps if I rang for—”
The door opened and Jo whipped around; it was the duke.
Your husband, a gloating voice reminded her.
The thought left burning shame in its wake: What kind of selfish monster was gleeful about such a marriage when her father lay dying overhead?
Jo strode toward him, palms sweating and heart pounding. “Is he—?”
“No.” The full, beautiful lips she’d dreamed of kissing a thousand times compressed into a harsh pink line. His expression held none of the open dislike it had during their wedding ceremony but was a blend of pity, reserve, and—yes—disdain.
You’ve married a man who despises you.
Jo’s body went weak at the enormity of what she’d done and she swayed.
“Steady on.” His strong, warm hand gripped her elbow.
Even a small, impersonal gesture such as that sent a crippling wave of want through her body.
Jo snatched away her arm and the skin over Wroxton’s lovely, sculpted cheekbones darkened at her reaction: he believed she disliked his touch.
Good. Better that than his knowing the humiliating truth.
“I need to see him.” Jo forced the words between clenched jaws.
“And he wishes to see you,” Wroxton said coolly. “But he doesn’t need to see you this way.” He gestured to one of the many gilt mirrors that festooned the walls and Jo saw her plain, tear-stained face and mussed hair reflected. Right beside her was her beautiful, immaculate husband, who was regarding her with open censure.
But his expression gentled when he met her gaze. “Take a moment to dry your face and—”
“How dare you?” she hissed, glaring up at him, her body throbbing with rage toward this cold, unyielding god of a man who would never love—or even like—her and made no effort to hide it.
Jo shoved past him, not waiting for an answer. She vaguely registered Lady Constance’s voice calling for her to come back. By the time she reached the doors to her father’s room, her tears were streaming.
She stopped to look in the hall mirror and winced. Yes, there was the Duchess of Wroxton, a red-faced, tear-stained, splotchy little squab of a woman. No wonder her new husband had regarded her with such contempt. Even on her best days, Jo wasn’t much to look at. And today was far from her best.
He’d been right—at least about not arriving in her father’s room looking like a hysterical wreck.
So Jo yanked her handkerchief she’d tucked up the sleeve of her wedding dress and dried her cheeks. Her hair, which she wore in a short crop, had been flattened by her hat and she ran her fingers through it until it was its usual mass of springy brown curls.
Jo snorted at her reflection; now she resembled a curly-headed, tear-streaked boy.
So be it.
She fixed a smile on her face and wrenched open his door.
And her resolve dissolved like sugar in tea when she was confronted by his pale, shrunken form dwarfed by the huge bed.
“Oh, Papa!” Jo ran toward him, barely recalling herself and stopping from leaping up onto his bed and taking his fragile form into her arms.
Why was this happening? Why was he becoming so much worse, so fast? He was a shadow of her strapping father—worse even than this morning.
“Ah, Your Grace—why are you crying, Josie-girl? I’m not dead yet.” He gave a laugh that was supposed to reassure her but was so breathy and weak it left her terrified. “Don’t cry. It’s yer wedding day.” His mouth pulled into a shadow of his old smug, arrogant grin. “Yer a duchess, Jo—are you happy?”
Jo heard the worry in his voice and forced a smile. “Yes, Papa, it’s all I’ve ever dreamed of,” she lied. “But I’d be happier if you’d let me stay and—”
His loving, open expression vanished. “No. And I don’t want to argue about this again. I want you to go with Wroxton and be a duchess. If you can’t bring yourself to do so, I’ll leave and go—”
“No!” She squeezed his hands so hard he winced. “No, I’ll do as you say, Papa. Just promise me—”
“Aye, I’ll send word when it gets toward the end.”
Josey winced. “If, not when, Papa.”
He chuckled. “Aye, if. Now, yer duke is waitin’ for ye and I’m tired.”
“I’ll come see you in—”
“I’ll send word—don’t come before, Josie; I forbid it.” Jo hesitated, and he said, “Give me your word you’ll obey yer old pa.”
She ground her teeth and then gave a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. “Of course, Papa.”
“Good girl. I want ye to remember you’re as good as any of ’
em, Josey—don’t ever forget that. Yer Eddie Loman’s daughter.”
“I know, Papa.”
“You’ve gotten used to bein’ yer own mistress these past years and I’m at fault for allowing ye to help yer old pa instead of bein’ a proper young lady with more Seasons, balls, parties—”
“But—”
“Hush and let me say my piece.”
Jo bit her lower lip.
“Your new husband ain’t a man to be bossed like yer old pa. His sort was bred to rule and he’ll expect you to obey. Today you pledged before God and accepted him as yer lord and master.” He paused, opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again with a slight grimace. “Rein in that temper o’ yers, girlie. Be respectful, ’cause Wroxton won’t appreciate you going at him hammer and tongs. I want yer promise you’ll forget all the bad habits and words and things you picked up knockin’ about in my shops—that ain’t for a duchess.”
Jo couldn’t help smiling. “I know how to behave, Papa.”
“I know you know—but I’ve seen how you get if you think you’re bein’ slighted.”
Jo wanted to argue, but he was right. Hadn’t she already needled the duke today—even before they were married?
“I’ll behave like a duchess. I promise.”
He gave her a weary smile. “That’s good, love. Now give us a kiss.”
Jo took care not to jostle him, inhaling the familiar scent of the person who loved her more than anyone else ever would. “I love you, Papa.”
When she pulled away, her cheeks were again wet.
“Go dry your tears and put a smile on for your new ’usband. No man likes a Friday-face,” he said in a gruff, thick voice.
Jo’s lips trembled as she forced them to obey his command. “Yes, Papa.”
“Off with ye.” His lids drifted closed and his body seemed to sag into the bed.
Jo tiptoed toward the door and closed it without making a sound, slumping back against it. She wanted to run down the hall to her old room and crawl into her own bed. But this wasn’t where she lived now. All her things were gone. Even her personal servants—her maid and footmen—were now at her new home.
Once again, Jo used her handkerchief to dry her tears. And then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
It was time to join the man her father had called her new lord and master.
CHAPTER 3
It was dark by the time they departed the monstrous house on Russell Square. Although Beau had not wanted to, he’d insisted they stay and consume the gargantuan wedding feast Mr. Loman had arranged for them.
It was the most uncomfortable dinner in memory—celebrating an unwanted wedding while a man died an agonizing death above their heads.
Beau had been pathetically grateful for the presence of Lady Constance, whose incessant chatter had filled the gaudy, cavernous dining room. He and his new wife were both too consumed with their thoughts to make conversation.
Coward that he was, Beau had hoped the older woman would accompany them to Wroxton House and continue as a buffer in the coach. Hell, he’d consider bringing her to the nuptial bed itself if it would help settle his inexplicably hostile wife’s feathers.
But he was not to be so fortunate.
When he lowered himself onto the worn bench in the ancient Wroxton coach, it was only his duchess who sat opposite him.
Beau rapped on the roof with his cane and the battered old coach jolted forward.
With a little bit of luck they could ride the short distance home in silence and the pounding in his skull might ease. With a little bit of luck—
“I shan’t be available for whatever you have planned tomorrow as I will be going over to my father’s house in the morning. I will be spending the coming days there.”
Beau sighed. So much for luck.
And then something occurred to him.
He squinted across the dimness of the carriage at her mulish face. “Am I mistaken, or do you sound different, my dear?”
She chewed her lower lip, her expression one of resentment and embarrassment.
Beau didn’t wait for her answer—although he suspected it would be amusing.
Instead, he said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The house is rather at sixes and sevens, having been without a mistress for so long. I want it to be made ready for when we return in April,” he lied. “I daresay you shall have your hands full with that.” Beau bit back a groan; Lord, he sounded like a bloody idiot. He ignored her disbelieving expression and soldiered on. “We shall have an important dinner party toward the end of the week, so there really isn’t going to be time for much else before we go.”
“Go? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Go where?”
Beau briefly considered giving her the wretched letter that Loman had claimed would explain everything. But of course that was yet another promise the old bastard had extorted from him.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We will go to Wroxton Court—a sort of wedding holiday—where we can spend some time together and become acquainted.” And where you can begin a lifetime of hating me for taking you away from your dying father.
“You want to leave London now?”
Beau winced. “I am right here. You needn’t shriek like a costermonger.”
“A costermonger.” She repeated the words in a soft, almost dangerous, tone that made him suspect the word costermonger had not been the wisest choice.
She crossed her arms and glared holes through him, her mouth a supercilious twist. “I would like to know what you mean.”
It had been a very, very long time since anyone had regarded him with such contempt. In fact, Beau wasn’t certain that he’d ever been the recipient of such a look.
He discovered that he did not like it.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I thought my meaning was perfectly clear. But let me reiterate in simpler language: we are leaving for the country in less than a week.”
She shook her head, not bothering to hide her—in Beau’s opinion—justified confusion. “But isn’t your family coming? Why invite all of them here if they are only going to have to turn around and leave?”
It was an excellent question and one Beau could not answer sensibly thanks to her stubborn ass of a father.
“That is not your concern,” he said, quite truthfully, if not exactly tactfully. “I have decided there is no reason to stay in town.”
“My father is reason enough to stay,” she said between clenched teeth, her eyes narrow and her lips tightly compressed.
Her father is dying, Beau reminded himself; the least he could do was show a little compassion.
“I am sorry,” he said, meaning it and fiercely wishing Loman were here to bear the brunt of the idiotic promise he’d extorted. “I understand you wish to attend your father in his ill health. However, he has asked that I get you out of London as quickly as possible.”
She gasped. “I don’t believe you.”
Beau’s eyebrows descended. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but did you just accuse me of lying?”
His duchess opened her mouth—no doubt to say something scathing—but then closed it again. Her jaw worked from side to side a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding in the least apologetic. “I know you wouldn’t lie because it would be against your gentleman’s code.”
Beau was still pondering what had obviously been a dig when she said, “Please forgive me.” Her face was twisted in gut-churning agony.
“Of course,” Beau said reflexively, his response a product of breeding.
“But you must see that I cannot do this.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see that at all,” he lied, seething with fury—not at her, but at the architect of this asinine situation. But he had given his bloody word, hadn’t he?
“Not only has your father requested it, but I am your husband and the man you just promised a few scant hours ago—before God and all of Christendom—to honor and obey. If I say we a
re going to the country, your only response is to ask me when we leave.”
He could see by her rapidly rising and falling chest and flaring nostrils that the methods he’d always employed to command his men might not be the wisest with his wife. She was skittish—like a high-strung filly—and justifiably so: her father was dying.
Compassion, Wroxton.
So he tried again. “I know this is—”
She jerked forward in her seat, the sudden action making him recoil. “You know what I think?” She obviously didn’t care, because she didn’t wait for an answer. “I think you can’t wait to tuck me away in the country, can you? Bury me far from the judging eyes of your friends—your mistresses. I daresay you’ll take me to your wretched pile of stone and leave me there while you come back here and immerse yourself in debauchery and pleasure.” Her eyes flared with something resembling hatred. “And you’ll do it all using my money. That’s what I think.”
Beau was stunned into speechlessness. What kind of female brought up the vulgar topic of money and then hurled it like a cannonball at her husband of barely a few hours? Was this a foreshadowing of what his life would be like? Engaging in shouting matches with this—this—ill-bred, ill-mannered, and ill-natured shrew? Was this what—
Compassion.
Beau gritted his teeth against the flood of anger trying to escape. “You are free to believe as you choose,” he said acidly.
“Well, thank you for that,” she sneered. “For a moment I thought—”
Beau jerked forward, his abrupt action mirroring hers. “You are free to believe as you choose,” he repeated softly, “but that does not mean I wish to hear it. In fact, you may feel free to keep observations about my intentions—debauched, pleasurable, or otherwise—to yourself.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she lashed back. “A sweet, obedient little wife who does your bidding without demur?” She laughed and the sound dripped bitterness. “If that’s what you thought you were getting, you are sorely mistaken.” Sparks flew from her eyes and Beau realized she looked almost attractive when her face was animated rather than grief stricken.
Anger, he knew from personal experience, was a far easier emotion to deal with than grief.