Marc seemed so happy with his bride that hope rekindled in her that she could win a place in his heart. His smile, once so rare, came frequently now when he was with her. He had begun to confide in her in a way that indicated she was winning his trust, and she prayed that his feelings for her would eventually deepen into love. Indeed, he had danced such close attendance upon her since they had been in London that she wondered when he found time to visit his beautiful Jennie.
Tia’s own emotions toward her husband had undergone a transformation since their marriage. Although she had been determined not to, she had fallen in love with him.
But, despite his ardor in their bedroom, no mention of love ever crossed his lips, and she still worried that his gallantry might be motivated by her unwitting challenge to make her want him.
So uncertain was she of his feelings toward her that she would not confess her own for him. They would remain her secret until she was assured that her love was returned.
Chapter 11
The mutual surprise of Tia and the malicious harpies who had dismissed the new Duchess of Castleton as a disappointment, she was a success among the ton and with the young, madcap Duchess of Oldenburg, Czar Alexander’s sister. She frequently invited Tin and Freddie to visit her suite at the Pulteney. There Tia’s brother would play with the Duchess’s small son while the two women talked.
In late April, when London turned out to greet the new King Louis XVIII on his way to France to collect his throne, the duchess asked Tia and Freddie to join her and the British princesses at her hotel. From her windows, they watched the procession that escorted the king, who until then had been living quietly as the Comte de Lisle in Buchinghamshire, through the streets.
Freddie was so bedazzled by the horse trumpeters in their resplendent gold lace costumes that he confided to Tia he wanted to be one when he grew up. But when a company of Royal Horse Guards in their colorful uniforms rode by, his allegiance promptly switched to them.
The streets were still so choked with people when Tia left the Pulteney that she arrived home much later than she expected and had to rush to dress for the ball at the Duke of Stratford’s that she and her husband were to attend that night.
When she came downstairs, Marc was waiting impatiently for her in the entry hall. Her heart gave a little leap as she saw him there, looking so handsome in his Corbeau-colored evening coat with covered buttons over a white waistcoat and black florentine silk breeches.
Tia was wearing a silk gown of the identical shade as the magnificent Castleton rubies—a matching necklace, bracelet, and earrings—that adorned her.
Marc, instead of berating her for her tardiness, smiled warmly. It seemed to light up his hard face like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “How lovely you look tonight.”
He had been bestowing both his smile and his compliments upon Tia with increasing frequency, which further fueled her hopes for their future together.
In their carriage driving to the ball, Tia said, “Freddie tells me you have at last agreed to show him Hounslow Heath tomorrow.” Her little brother had been plaguing Marc since their arrival in London to take him there.
“Yes, it is the only way I shall have any peace.” He smiled wryly. “I hope it does not encourage him to pursue a career as a knight of the road. What did you think of the procession today for Louis XVIII”
“I confess I was more impressed by it than by the king,” Tia said. “I could scarcely believe it when I was told that fat old man next to Prinny was Louis.”
“You would have been even more disappointed had you seen him tottering into the Grillion Hotel where he is staying. He is so gout—ridden he can scarcely walk.”
“Catherine says that her brother, the czar, will be coming to London, too, in a few weeks.”
“Catherine, is it,” her husband remarked dryly. “What bosom bows you and the Duchess of Oldenburg have become.”
“She is very kind to me, always inviting me to attend her, and it would be rude to refuse her. But I own I am not entirely comfortable with her. She says some very odd things. For instance, she told me she did not mind when she was widowed because she looks so good in black.”
“She has also angered Prinny by aligning herself with the Whig opposition,” Marc said.
“In truth,” Tia confessed, “I prefer the company of our hostess tonight, the Duchess of Stratford. I find her as entertaining as she is beautiful. Her husband clearly adores her,” she added a little wistfully, wishing that the same were true in her own marriage.
“He married her for her money,” Marc said coldly. “Diana is a great heiress.”
“But I have seen the way he looks at her,” Tia protested.
Her husband shrugged. “He’s besotted with her now, but their marriage did not prosper at first. There were some ugly rumors.”
The carriage tilted as it took a corner too fast, and Tia bumped against Marc. He put his arm protectively around her and, taking advantage of their closeness, bent to kiss her, thus effectively silencing her questions about ugly rumors.
When Tia emerged from their carriage in front of Stratford House, she burst out laughing at the sight of Purple Pruitt’s little white horse in front of their equipage. The poor thing had been decked out for ball-going with a half dozen garlands of purple satin roses. Giggling, she asked, “Did you ever see anything more ridiculous?”
“Yes, the poor beast’s owner,” Marc retorted.
The candles in the three great crystal chandeliers that illuminated the ballroom at Stratford House cast a soft, romantic glow over the guests.
Tia was besieged with requests for dances, but to her delight her husband claimed most of them.
After two hours of steady dancing, the next number again belonged to Marc. The orchestra, hidden behind a wall of potted azaleas, began playing that controversial dance, the waltz.
Her husband swept her into his arms, holding her close to him. She breathed deeply, loving his clean, distinctive scent, so unlike the cloyingly heavy perfume that her previous dancing partner had drenched himself in.
Marc whirled her gracefully around the floor. How she delighted in the feel of his strong arms around her. God help her, she loved everything about him. She hoped that her telltale face did not betray this, but she feared it did. He gazed down at her, a smile upon his lips, and a seductive glow in his eyes that seemed to warm the very corners of her soul.
For a long moment, they stared into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the other couples that crowded the ballroom. It was a magic moment suspended in time.
His sensual mouth dipped close to hers. For an instant, she thought he meant to kiss her in front of everyone, but instead he whispered in a voice so soft and caressing that she found it irresistible, “Do you love me, my duchess?”
The question caught her by surprise and for a moment she could only look at him with her heart in her eyes. Belatedly, an alarm sounded in her brain and she tried to evade his inquiry, but it was too late.
His eyes gleamed with undisguised triumph. “Do not prevaricate,” he told her as the music ended. “Your face tells me the answer.”
They had been dancing very near the rows of chairs placed along the wall for those who did not wish—or were not asked—to dance. Tia belatedly realized that the eyes of every person seated there had been watching her and Marc with lively interest.
As Marc led her from the dance floor, Lady Mobry hurried up. “Tia, I wish to steal your husband from you for a few minutes,” she said in a agitated voice.
“What is it?” Tia had never heard her aunt sound so upset before. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” Lady Mobry said in a voice that permitted no dissent. “I wish to be private with him.”
Marc, looking as surprised as his wife, saw her to a chair, then dutifully followed her aunt to a quiet corner.
The music resumed, and three gentleman asked Tia to stand up with them, but she declined, pleading weariness. Much puzzled, she watched her
frowning aunt apparently give her husband a lengthy trimming. As Lady Mobry talked, his face grew increasingly grim and forbidding.
The orchestra had played two more dances before they finished their talk. Tia waited impatiently for her husband to return to her side and tell her what had transpired between him and the marchioness.
But he did not come back to her. Instead he sought out their hostess, the duchess, and danced with her. After that, he chose the lovely Duchess of Carlyle to stand up with him. She was followed in his arms by a succession of other beautiful women. Not once did he even look in the direction of his wife.
Shocked by Marc’s sudden abandonment of her, Tia reluctantly began accepting dance requests from other gentlemen. She forced herself to smile and make light conversation, but she found it difficult to keep her mind upon what her partners were saying. All she could think of was her husband’s suddenly altered behavior.
She was haunted by a terrible fear: that he had merely been amusing himself with her. The triumph in his eyes when she had unwittingly revealed her love for him had been unmistakable. Had he, now that he had proven he could make her want him, lost interest in her? Tia could conceive of no other explanation for his sudden baffling change toward her.
Several times in the hours that followed she and one of her partners danced very close to Marc, but he seemed not to notice her. Nor did he once seek her out. It was as though once she had betrayed her love for him, she had become invisible.
Her heart was seared by the possibility that all the attention and apparent affection he had been lavishing on her had been a sham, designed merely to make her yearn for him.
Her hostess rushed up to her. “I have been searching for you. One of your servants has arrived with an urgent message. He is downstairs.”
Much alarmed, Tia ran down the broad staircase where a square-faced young man in Castleton’s elegantly distinctive crimson and gold livery stood near the front entrance. He looked somber, and he was holding her heavy, ermine-trimmed evening cloak in his arms.
Familiar as the livery had become to Tia, she could not recall having seen before the man who wore it. But then her husband had such an excessive number of servants, she was not certain that she had seen them all. Even of those she had, she found it difficult to remember so many strange faces.
“Your Grace,” he told her sadly, “I bear unhappy tidings.”
Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. “Freddie?”
He nodded somberly. “Nurse Gowan sent me to tell you that your little brother has fallen violently ill. His fever is very high, and he appears to be growing sicker by the moment. I regret to alarm you, but she bid me tell you that time may be of the essence. You must come at once.” He held up her cloak for her.
It flitted through Tia’s mind that the footman was exceedingly well spoken for a servant, but the terror his message stirred in her banished all considerations save Freddie.
“Yes, of course I will,” she exclaimed, letting him drape her cloak about her.
She started toward the door, but checked herself as she remembered Marc, dancing in the ballroom upstairs.
“What is wrong?” asked her hostess, who had come down the stairs to join her.
When Tia told her, Diana’s face puckered in concern. “How dreadful! You must go home at once.”
“My husband,” Tia said frantically. “I wonder how long it will take to find him?” And when she did, she thought bitterly, would he be willing to leave yet?
“You go ahead,” Diana told her. “It appears that you have not a moment to lose. I will find your husband and tell him what has happened. He may borrow one of our carriages to follow you.”
Tia ran down the broad steps of Stratford House. It took her only a moment to locate Castleton’s polished ebony carriage in the long line of waiting equipages. She had merely to look for Purple Pruitts ridiculously festooned horse in front of it. Winton, the duke’s coachman, was gossiping with the driver of a pilentum landau parked behind the duke’s coach, but Tia saw no sign of the groom that rode with him. No doubt he was off getting himself a pint.
At sight of his mistress, Winton, a portly man of two-and-fifty, broke off in mid-sentence and hastened to open the door for her.
“Get me home as quickly as you can manage,” she ordered as she flung herself into the vehicle.
He looked back toward Stratford House uneasily. “But the duke—” he began.
“For the love of God, do not delay another instant!”
And he didn’t. His mistress’s face was alarming enough to send him scrambling up on his box with a speed he had not equaled at any time these past twenty years. The carriage jerked forward at a rapid pace.
But not fast enough for Tia, who fidgeted nervously on the seat. She was haunted by visions of her brother lying at death’s door or, even more terrifying, having already passed through it.
She looked out the window. The coach was traveling down a dark, narrow street. Suddenly, ahead of them, Tia heard the sound of another vehicle, its iron wheels clattering on the cobblestones. Looking out the window, she caught a glimpse of a farm wagon hurtling out of a cross street across their path, then inexplicably stopping.
Her coachman’s loud curses mingled with the neighing of the frightened horses. For a moment, Tia thought that they would hit the wagon, but the duke’s carriage swerved and stopped so abruptly that she was pitched forward against the opposite seat. The luxurious thickness of the velvet cushions saved her from injury, but she was much shaken.
As she recovered her balance and her seat, she heard a man’s voice, harsh and guttural. “Me barkin’ irons don’t never miss, John Coachman, so hoist yer rammers to the sky and stay on yer perch or they’ll be puttin’ ye to bed with a spade.”
Peeking through the drawn curtains, ha saw a big, burly man, his lower face concealed by a handkerchief. Each of his hands held an ugly, long- barreled horse pistol.
Tia was certain that he meant to rob her. Never one to panic in danger, she hastily unclasped the ruby necklace from around her neck and dropped it down behind the coach’s cushion.
As she unfastened the matching ruby bracelet, their assailant told the coachman, “Do as Oi says, and no harm will come to ye. ‘Tis your mistress Oi wants.”
Tia had scarcely time to hide her bracelet before the coach door was jerked open and she was staring down the barrels of the bandit’s enormous guns.
“You mean to rob me,” she said coldly, wishing that she had had time to remove and conceal her ruby earrings.
The man leered at her, his closely set eyes cruelly sinister in the light from the carriage lamp. “‘Tis not yer jewels Oi be after, though Oi’ll take ‘em too.”
Startled, she asked, “What do you want?”
“Yer life.”
He leveled one of the pistols at her heart.
Tia knew that she was about to die.
Chapter 12
Winton, desperate to save his mistress, hurled himself from the box of the carriage down upon the footpad, knocking him to the ground. The pistols skidded from his hand across the cobbles. One lodged against a front wheel of the carriage, and the second slid under the farm wagon that still blocked the street in front of the carriage.
Tia hastily gathered up the skirts of her silk ball gown and jumped from the coach. She snatched up the weapon by the wheel, and then scurried to the wagon, which was loaded with straw, to recover the second pistol. Possession of them could mean the difference between her living and dying.
Seizing it, she ran back toward the carriage.
Winton and the footpad grappled with each other, rolling about on the cobblestones, each trying to gain the advantage over the other. It was not an even contest, however, for the masked man had greater strength and fewer years on him than his opponent. The footpad broke free and delivered a smashing facer. Winton’s head snapped back, cracking against the cobbles, and he lost consciousness.
Cursing, the assailant scrambled to his
feet. He looked wildly about for his weapons and found them where he least expected—in Tia’s hands, their barrels pointed at his heart.
“Drop them barkin’ irons,” he ordered, starting toward her. She was a good twenty feet from him.
“Take another step and I will shoot you,” Tia warned. Thanks to her brother Antony’s instruction, she was an excellent shot. But firing at a living man was a very different thing from shooting at a target, and she was not entirely certain that she could bring herself to do it.
The man laughed at her threat. Clearly he was convinced that she would not be able to carry it out, and he kept coming.
“Halt,” she ordered again.
He only laughed louder. He was almost close enough to grab her. She remembered what he had said about wanting her life more than her jewels. If she did not act instantly, she would be a dead woman.
Gritting her teeth, she fired.
The ball hit him at the juncture of the neck and right shoulder. He reeled back from the impact, and she instinctively stepped forward to steady him, Blood spurted from the wound, like water from a fountain, onto her cloak. There was so much blood that she wondered whether the ball might have nicked an artery
His eyes, glazed with shock, stared at her in stupefaction.
“Ain’t ye the Duchess of Castleton?” he gasped.
“I am.”
“But duchesses don’t go around shootin’ coves,” he protested reproachfully.
The shot had awakened some of the street’s inhabitants, and sleepy faces topped with nightcaps began appearing at windows to see what the noise was about.
The bandit, knowing that to remain could only mean incarceration, turned and fled, running unsteadily past the wagon blocking the street.
“Stop!” Tia cried.
But he did not. Although she hated to let him escape, she could not bring herself to shoot him in the back.
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