The Wicked Duke

by Madeline Hunter

  Lance said nothing.

  Payne’s gaze turned flinty. He looked Lance right in the eyes. “My daughter and granddaughter visited me two years ago. They had a holiday in Cheltenham, but came to Merrywood to visit the gardens. He saw them. Met them. Invited them back. How flattered I was at first—” He inhaled deeply. “They came one day when he had duties for me, so they enjoyed the gardens while they waited. He got the girl alone. When I realized his interest in her, I sent them away at once, but—not soon enough, I learned later. I cursed myself for putting her in harm’s way. I was a fool to think that my long service would mean something to such a scoundrel. So I plotted how to kill him.”

  “Yet you did not.”

  “I did not have it in me. Even in my anger, I did not. Nor would it have changed anything for her. Yet I regretted I did not have the fortitude.”

  “You did not have it in you, but perhaps someone else did.”

  Payne rose and went to the fire. He spent a good deal of time adding fuel, and moving it around with the poker. When he turned back to the chairs, he appeared resolute.

  “If you learn who did it, do you intend to see him hang, Your Grace?”

  “I doubt there is even any evidence. I want to know so that I can move beyond the last year, that is all.”

  “Then wait here. I will be back.” Payne left the sitting room. He returned shortly with a small folded brown paper in his hand. He eased himself back into the chair, wincing as his bones took the new position.

  “A gift was delivered that evening,” he said. “A bottle of wine. Very rare wine, from France. An old friend had sent it, someone he had known in his youth. They had fallen out, and this man was trying to make amends. When he took ill, it struck me that perhaps that wine had been . . . tainted.”

  “Poisoned, you mean.”

  “Either. There is no way to know for sure.”

  Maybe not, but they both did know.

  “What happened to that bottle? Did the physician not take it to test in some way?”

  Payne flushed. “I got rid of it. I assure you it is well gone, Your Grace. Because if it had been tainted, I did not want that person to swing for it when he had given me the only justice I would know.”

  “Do you remember who sent it?”

  “I do. I have prayed for the man every night, I have. Prayers of thanks, if you will forgive me. I hope it was poisoned. I hope someone had the courage that I did not have, you see.”

  Lance did see, too well. “Are you going to give me his name?”

  “It had an odd second label on it. A label with a handwritten note. Very private that note was. I soaked it off. It is the worse for that, but still legible.” He handed over the crinkled, folded paper. “You may want to think hard before looking inside. He was not a good man, but he was your brother. Blood runs thick, as they say. Perhaps it is best to believe what the coroner said.”

  Lance tucked the paper into his coat. “I will think long and hard, I promise you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  John Potter, lean and wiry and thirty years of age, stood to speak for himself. The magistrates settled back to hear his story.

  “She is a shrew,” he said. “No man should have to live with such a woman. If you had to, you would a sold yourself into slavery to escape her.”

  One magistrate leaned forward. “Mr. Potter, did you or did you not try to sell your wife in the market last week, rather than yourself? That is the only question you need to answer.”

  “I was just explaining that I had good cause. I was defending myself. If she drinks a bit she starts yelling and cursing and—and—and taking the Lord’s name in vain.” He brightened, as a new thought illuminated him. “She was sure to get my soul damned. A man has a right to save his soul, doesn’t he?”

  “Not by trying to sell his wife for five shillings. We do not do that here in England.”

  “I heard of it. It is done. I heard of a blacksmith up on Yorkshire who done it. Everyone knows it can be done,” Potter protested.

  “That blacksmith should have been brought before magistrates, too, then. So, you did try to sell her, correct?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  It went on like that for several more minutes. Fortunately for Mr. Potter, he had not succeeded in selling his wife. Perhaps out of sympathy for what he faced when he went home, the magistrates fined him only one shilling and sent him away.

  Marianne hurried outside and scribbled with her pencil on the paper she had brought. This was just the kind of humorous proceeding that the Times’s purchasers liked to read about. Elijah Tewkberry had enough to finish his letter now. She would take care of that as soon as she returned home. The beginning of the letter waited on her writing table in the sitting room there.

  She stopped at the grocer to buy a few provisions, before aiming to the edge of the village. Friends waved and greeted her as she passed. No one asked about her reasons for taking residence here again. All of those questions had already come her way, many times over.

  The story she had given, that she visited to close up the house, would serve for now. When Aylesbury found his way out of their marriage, she would simply admit the truth to everyone, that the duke had obtained an annulment. She did not think any of the folk here would find it at all odd, especially if sometimes men sold their wives in the marketplace. What they did find odd was that the duke had married her in the first place.

  Didn’t everyone?

  Aylesbury. She tried not to think about him. She had taken up her correspondence again to occupy her days and her mind, so she might not mourn too much. It helped a little. At night, however, she grieved badly. Her heart just kept breaking.

  He had written her two letters. One came three days after she arrived here. Come back. That was all it said. She had responded more fully, telling him he would realize she was right, and that she was sorry if her action had wounded his pride.

  The other came a few days later. Almost as terse, he wrote he was going up to London. Come with me. She had not responded to that letter yet.

  She pictured him in London, enjoying that life he was born to lead. She wondered what story he had concocted about her absence. Not for his family. He probably told them the truth. He would have to tell Ives at least, so Ives could begin finding the best way out. She wondered if all of them secretly were glad she had taken this decision. She suspected his brothers might be, since they knew most of the story behind the marriage.

  She tried hard to put all of those thoughts out of her head. That was her eternal struggle, but she managed now by composing the rest of her letter in her head as she walked to her home on the outskirts of the village.

  She entered the cottage deep in thought on the matter. Her cloak was off and her bonnet untied before she realized something was wrong. Altered. A shiver danced up her spine. She was not alone in the house.

  The sitting room was empty. She heard some sounds, however. Subtle movements. She grabbed a poker propped near the fireplace. As if drawn by a magnet, she walked softly toward the kitchen in the rear of the building. Grasping the poker like a sword, she entered.

  A glorious, wonderful rush of emotion swept her. She would pay for this, oh she would pay, but she could not resist surrendering to the happiness.

  Aylesbury sat at the kitchen worktable. He had helped himself to some cheese and bread. He glanced over, then back to the cheese that he cut. “I don’t know why you bothered with a weapon when you are so good with your fists, Marianne.” He gestured to another chair. “Join me. I can cut cheese for two as well as one.”

  She set down the poker. “You are lucky I did not swing it as soon as I saw my intruder.”

  “You are lucky I did not throw you on the divan and take you as soon as you walked in the door.”

  She accepted some cheese and munched. He looked very dashing, although he had sta
rted that beard again. Stubble shaded his face. She thought it made him look like a pirate or highwayman.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “I came to bring you home.”

  “This is my home now.”

  “Actually, it is my home. It was given to you by Radley, at your request, as part of the wedding settlement, but as your husband I have the use of it while we are married.”

  “Which, if you have any sense, and if Ives is half as good as you say, will not be for long.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. His gaze pierced her. “I should have followed my inclinations and just thrown you on that divan and settled this the easiest way.”

  “You do not even need me for that. You managed well enough before you had a wife.”

  “I may not need you for that, but I want you for that. Now, we will stay here tonight, and hire a carriage to start back in the morning.”

  Her heart yearned to agree. Seeing him had her close to tears. “Why?”

  “Because you are my wife.”

  She shook her head. “Due to the worst reasons.”

  “You were as much used as I was by your uncle’s scheme.”

  “I was made a duchess. You were made the victim.” She had to smile at his stern expression. “Why?”

  He unfolded his arms. He rested them on the table. Discomfort poured off him. “It will be awkward to attend the coronation without you. You need to start preparing for that too. I have heard that the best dressmakers are already being given commissions. If you do not act fast, you will be left with the dregs.”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  He rose and strode to the window, looked out, then turned abruptly. “You owe me an heir, that is why. A husband has rights and a wife has duties and—”

  “Did Ives tell you to say that? If so, better if you had sought advice from Gareth.”

  “Hell, isn’t that the truth,” he muttered.

  He returned to his chair.

  “Why?” she asked, as earnestly as she knew how.

  He groaned with exasperation. “You and your infernal whys.”

  “I want to know if there is a good answer besides your passing pride.”

  “Of course there is. I don’t ride for hours without a good reason.”

  “Actually, sometimes you do. However, I would be honored if you would share the good reason with me, because I cannot think of one that you could have.”

  He appeared a man undergoing an inner struggle. A torture. He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Here is the thing. I miss you. Badly. And do not ask why again. I will tell you. Just . . . give me a moment.”

  She waited, savoring the hand in hers, memorizing its strength and warmth. God help her, how she loved him.

  “I miss your company,” he said. “And your smile. Definitely your smile . . .” He pondered some more.

  “You are very green at doing this, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, yes. Oh, and I miss your naked body against mine. Under mine. Above mine. Begging for mine.”

  He said that easily enough. No struggle on that why. Perhaps that was the only reason he was here, although surely he knew where to find better.

  She did not, however.

  Would it be enough to make a marriage livable? A marriage begun in such deception, and for reasons that could soon breed resentment? She did not think so. Yet he was here now, wanting her, and she did not have the fortitude to deny her heart.

  She stood with his hand still on hers. “Come with me.”

  He followed her up the stairs. The cottage had no luxury. No dressing rooms or expensive drapes. A prosperous farmer might live in such a house, with his wife and children and maybe one servant to cook and clean.

  She brought him to her bedchamber with its white coverlet and pillows. They undressed each other between kisses. First sweet and tentative, those kisses reached back to the recent past of their wedding night, when he tried to take care with her innocence so he did not shock her.

  That did not last long. With each physical contact, her arousal grew. By the time the last of their garments fell to the floor, it stormed in her. Their embraces and caresses turned fevered and impatient. They fell onto the bed, entwined and grasping for more.

  He tried to make it lovely and slow. He was not a soft man, however, and all his restraint could not make him one. Nor did she want that. She pulled him to her and held him close. “Now,” she whispered. “Now.”

  Arms extended, shoulders high, he entered her slowly. So slowly that her breath caught because the feel of him awed her. For a long time, as he withdrew and entered, her love luxuriated in the most poignant pleasure.

  His need strained against its bonds, then broke free. She did not mind. She wanted this part as well, this man revealing his desire and commanding hers too.

  They joined in their releases. His exploded violently. Hers did not. Rather than a wave, it broke in strong ripples that went on and on, carrying pleasure and love through every part of her.

  * * *

  The late sunlight streamed in the window. It washed over Marianne’s body.

  She rested in his arms, spent and breathing hard. He pulled her closer and inhaled the scent of her.

  This was right. How it should be. Surely she had to see that.

  His nose pressed her head, with his mouth close to her ear. “You must come home with me. Merrywood, London, here—wherever you prefer. But with me.”

  Her fingertips stroked his arm absently. She did not respond.

  “You keep asking why, pretty flower. This is why.” He moved his hand until it covered and held her breast. “And this is why.” He kissed her shoulder. “But the biggest reason is because you are mine, and I am yours, and because of what we know and share right now, in the peace afterward.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes filmed. “It would have been easier, I think, all of it, including the years ahead, if I had not come to love you, Aylesbury. Can you understand that? There is a special pain in a marriage like ours if one person loves.”

  He kissed away a tear on her temple. “Call me Lance, please. There is no duke, and no title, when you declare your love, Marianne.”

  She managed a crooked smile. “Lance, then.”

  “I do understand, I think. However, there can be perfect happiness if both of them love.” He kissed her, and discovered it would not be hard to say now. Not at all. “You illuminate my life, pretty flower. You have stolen my heart. You must come back, so we can love each other all our lives.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Yes, I must.” She embraced his neck and pulled him close. “Yes.” She gave a surprised, joyful laugh. “Yes.”

  He held her in that perfection for a long time. Finally, as twilight claimed the day, he thought of one final thing he needed to say. “Marianne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Tewkberry must stop writing his letters. The one now on your writing table should be his last.”

  EPILOGUE

  Marianne worried about her party more than she needed to. By the designated day she had worn out her welcome in the kitchen, and the housekeeper responded to her calls with strained forbearance.

  She could not help herself. This might only be a small party for family, but it served as her debut as hostess. Nor would it be a commonplace party. Rather it served as a celebration, welcome, and farewell all at one time. To make it even more important, Nora had agreed to come, and Lance had insisted that Vincent, who was visiting town for a few days, be invited too.

  The last month had passed quickly and quietly, an idyll of love and intimacy. They had been just Lance and Marianne, together. That would end soon. Duties called. Starting soon, they would have to be duke and duchess on the world stage.

  She waited for her guests in the drawing room, weari
ng the newest of her duchess dresses, one designed for such a dinner party, and sewn of an unusual color silk close to that of new copper. A necklace worked in gold with a single large topaz pendant set off the color. It had been a gift from Lance, a surprise last night buried deep in the bedclothes.

  Nora and Mama arrived first. Nora had improved much the last few weeks. Marianne had doubted she would ever witness her cousin joining a dinner party. Yet here she was, looking ethereal in the palest green dress and her fair hair swept up and curled. She looked older this way, and no longer a frightened child.

  Mama grabbed Marianne’s hand and pulled her to a divan. “I must tell you before the others arrive.”

  “She has a beau,” Nora said.

  “Nora! It was for me to reveal it, not you.”

  Nora ignored her. “A man has been calling. A Mr. Stafford. He is the brother of someone important. I suppose that makes him important too.”

  “He is the cousin of a viscount, not just someone important,” Mama said. “He has been very attentive, daughter. I think perhaps—well, we will see.”

  “We will indeed.” Marianne was glad to see her marriage benefit her mother. Between that and Uncle Radley’s glee at being received on a regular basis by Lady Barnell, the connection to Aylesbury was bearing the fruit hoped for by any smart family.

  “That is a lovely dress, Mama. Is it new?”

  “Thank you. Yes, it is.”

  “It looks very expensive.”

  “It is.”

  “I trust that you continue to help Uncle Horace spend Papa’s inheritance, and send the bills to him.”

  “Of course. We all have our duties, and right now milking Sir Horace for all he is worth is mine.”

  “If she marries him, I will be stuck alone with Papa,” Nora said, forcing the conversation back to Mama’s beau. “I will just go live in the garden then. I will make him build me a little house out there. Then we might never have to see each other.”

  “If that happens, you will come live with me,” Marianne said. “I have already spoken to Aylesbury about it.”