The front hall of Hornsby Grange was narrow, but beautiful, the paneled walls edged in gilt, the soaring ceiling adorned with a fresco of frolicking wood nymphs. His host led him up the stairs and into the drawing room and as soon as they all were seated and the butler closed the doors, Sherbourne focused on Michael. “She’s run off, Blixford. Her maid delayed telling me until only a few moments ago. Julian has gone in search of her.”
He was shocked. “How long has she been gone?”
“Since last evening,” James said gravely. “She’s at least twelve hours ahead of Julian. Cursed full moon, or she’d not have been able to travel in the night.”
“Is she in a traveling coach?” She could be caught up with if in a coach.
“She took her mare and told her maid she would write soon with instructions for her belongings to be sent to her.” Sherbourne sighed heavily and stared down at his hands. “It appears she will ruin herself, hell or high water. I would offer an apology, Blixford, but you’ll forgive me if I’m unable to voice it.” He looked up and met Michael’s eyes. “I blame you for this disaster.”
Her brothers also stared at him, and he felt an undercurrent of rage so strong, it was a living, breathing thing within the room. He didn’t blame them. Had a man compromised Lucy, he’d have killed him without blinking. On the other hand, Lucy would not be so cowardly as to run away. She would own up to the situation and do the right thing.
Lady Jane was not Lucy. She was spoiled by her doting papa, too used to getting her way. “Is there any suspicion of foul play?”
“None. Her maid said she waved her goodbye, after her mistress told her she would be gone for quite some time.”
Jack said conversationally, “She’s taken quite a dislike to you, Blixford.”
“Rather along the lines of hate, I’d say,” James added with a nod.
How could they be so unconcerned? “Do you have any idea where she may have gone, evidently without benefit of even a maid? She’s in danger, and I have to wonder how the three of you can remain so calm in the face of it.”
James shrugged. “Jane is resourceful. She will be fine, I assure you.”
He knew then, they were well aware of her whereabouts. “I assume one of you will have the good grace to tell me where she has gone.”
They exchanged a glance before James said evenly, “Scotland. Our mother’s family is in Scotland and Jane indicates she will live there until we are all married, or she dies.”
“You say Julian has gone in search of her. Will he bring her home?”
Sherbourne got to his feet and went to the window to stare out at the gardens stretching beyond the back of the house. “She won’t come, Blixford. Julian follows only to see that she is settled in Scotland and funds are available to her that she won’t be dependent upon anyone. You are, it would appear, off the hook, and I ask you to leave my home with all due haste. It’s becoming increasingly difficult not to kill you.”
“Where in Scotland might I find her?”
James crossed one leg over the other and regarded him levelly. “Would you go and fetch her home, then?”
“I can’t in all good conscience not do so.”
“Yes,” Jack said, “you can, and will. Leave her be, and there’s an end to it. If she would go to this extreme to avoid marriage to you, we won’t insist, or allow you to demand it of her.”
Michael was well and truly astounded. He stood and looked from one to the other of them, including Sherbourne’s back. “She will be ruined! Her life will be nothing but a shuffle from house to house, with nowhere to call her home. She won’t be received. She will have no friend, no family of her own. Nothing. You would allow this?”
James slowly rose to his feet, his usually smiling face dark with anger. “Jane is well aware of how it will be, and assured me she’d prefer to live the rest of her life in reclusion than be your wife. For God’s sake, Blixford, she despises you, and I’m given to understand you do not hold her in high regard. We will not force her to marry you. I wish you good day, sir.”
And so, dismissed and despised, Michael turned on his heel and left Hornsby Grange.
In the days and weeks that followed, he fell into a deep depression, not unlike his frame of mind after Annabel’s death. But there was still his duty to produce an heir, and if he accomplished nothing else in his life, he would do that, at least.
Five weeks to the day that he was supposed to marry Jane, he took Lady Letitia Rawlings to wife. He recalled what Jane had said, that Letitia would cut off her hand and feed it to the hounds if it meant becoming a duchess. He’d been married less than three days when he discovered the truth to it. His bride demanded many things and refused him her bed if he was not forthcoming. He advised her of the error of her assumption that he would jump to her will, and told her she would give him an heir, or return to her father’s home. She complied, but hated him ever after. Whatever meager friendship they had when they began was quickly gone, replaced by cold silence.
Late in the night, mercifully alone in his bed after performing his conjugal rights and praying to God she would quickly conceive, he thought of Jane, remembered her determined face, just before she walked out of the library.
And cursed himself for a fool.
Chapter 3
Four Years Later
Michael arrived at the Manderly ball at precisely eleven in the evening. In keeping with his wealth and position, he was dressed in the finest clothing and accoutrements. In keeping with his mission of visiting death upon innocent females, every garment upon his person was black, save the froth of lace at his throat.
Not that his undertaking dictated his choice of apparel. Far from it. Of late, he always dressed in black.
He was announced. Lady Manderly sailed toward him, a vision of true horror in a puce satin gown, her graying hair styled in odd corkscrew curls that bounced about her forehead. “Your Grace, how lovely to receive you!”
He accepted her chubby gloved hand and sketched a slight bow before releasing it. “Good evening, ma’am.”
She tapped his shoulder with her fan, a useless, flimsy gewgaw possessed of numerous dangling lines of ribbon, each adorned with a glass bead. The damned thing’s noise was annoying in the extreme. “I’ll warrant you’re here to take a gander at the Season’s marriageable misses.” Her pale-blue eyes were lit with satisfaction. “I’m honored you’ve chosen my humble ball to begin your search.”
Humble, indeed. It was a crush. As for him taking a gander at the Season’s offerings, it was ludicrous, perhaps a cruel joke on Lady Manderly’s part, for she knew quite well, he might gander all he wished, but none save the most desperate and unsuitable would have him. Fixing her with a cold stare, he neither agreed nor disagreed. Instead, he got right to the point. “I would beg to know if Lady Jane Lennox is in attendance.”
Lady Manderly’s cheeks instantly colored and her thick lips pursed with disapproval. “Your Grace, with all due respect, I cannot countenance your reason for asking, unless it’s simply your wish to avoid her, which would be understandable, of course. The forward, impertinent baggage was not invited. She isn’t received by anyone. If you actually have some wish to see her, especially after—”
“I’ve made an enquiry. You decline to answer. We won’t belabor the reasons.” He’d expected her to beat him about the head with indignation, but was compelled to ask, nonetheless. He wanted everyone in the expansive ballroom to be buzzing. He needed Lady Jane to be the sole person of interest, if she were not already. As soon as he turned away, Lady Manderly would do her duty and spread his enquiry far and wide. Within five minutes, every man and woman in attendance, even the older generation who played cards in the salon, would know he was there, asking after Lady Jane. Particularly, so would Lady Jane.
She was ruined.
She was a beautiful termagant, bursting with passion and vibrant life, ruled by her emotions, the worst possible woman to become his duchess.
She was his only hope.<
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Turning, he walked away from his hostess and moved to the topmost step leading into the ballroom, his gaze sweeping the throng until he found her father. At fifty, the Earl of Sherbourne was still a fine figure of a man, on the tall side, his dark hair silvering at the temples, his face given additional character by the appearance of laugh lines edging his mouth and crow’s-feet near his eyes. Sherbourne and his brood were a lively, jolly lot, prone to raucous laughter, mischievous pranks and riding neck-or-nothing. They were all dark haired, blue eyed, big boned. They were all males. Excepting Lady Jane. She’d never known her mother, that woman having expired scarcely six months after giving birth to her seventh child and only daughter. It was said Jane emerged from the womb alternately laughing and shouting and had not stopped in two and twenty years. Unlike her good-natured brothers, Lady Jane was sometimes possessed of a nasty tendency to rage.
Michael was well acquainted with that rage.
He supposed there must necessarily be some duality to her passionate nature. She laughed with good humor, and stormed in her anger. She would undoubtedly be equally ardent in bed. That much was clear from her reaction in Lucy’s library, four years ago. He ground his teeth. What despicable fate had landed upon him this turn of events? What bitter irony that the only suitable woman in all England who would have him –and she would have him –who wouldn’t be afraid of him, was the one woman he would never wish to marry. The woman who jilted him and ran off to Scotland to avoid him.
Mentally, he shook himself. How many events in his life had he managed to overcome through sheer force of will? He would likewise deal with marriage to Lady Jane and the possible consequences. If she died in childbed, there would be the cruel guilt of his demon seed killing yet another flower of England, but he wouldn’t grieve. He would bury her and move on. He cursed his duty. Damned his father for losing his mind and thus failing to remarry and beget more heirs. Railed at the travesty that was his life.
There was the possibility she wouldn’t die. He’d heard it said, only the good die young. If that were true, Lady Jane was destined to hit the century mark. And then there were her hips. Coming from a long line of big boned, healthy stock, Lady Jane was a picture of robust vigor and stamina. The midwife attending Letitia had said in ominous tones on the day of delivery, “Her Grace will have a hard labor. Her hips are too narrow.” Letitia’s hips hadn’t given an inch and the baby he’d planted in her belly killed her. If any woman could bear a son of his and live to see him grow to manhood, surely it must be Lady Jane Lennox. She would not die. But if she did . . .
Moving toward Sherbourne, Michael’s gaze traveled from the earl and focused on his daughter, standing just to his left. Head held high, blue eyes twinkling, she was eye to eye with Sir Samuel Mowbry, an expressionless chap evidently possessed of great wit. Lady Jane appeared ready to laugh right out loud.
She was magnificent.
Her dark hair was piled atop her head in an artful arrangement of curls, from which several tendrils fell across her neck, resting intriguingly close to her bosom, barely contained within the bodice of a stunning gown of midnight blue, shot through with streaks of glittering silver. Unsurprising to him, he experienced a frisson of sensual awareness as he moved closer to the small group occupying the center of the east wall of the ballroom. He realized she’d matured in four years. What had once been fresh, innocent beauty was now the flawless face and figure of a woman full grown. In spite of two wives and a string of mistresses in four years, he had not forgotten Jane, occasionally wondering where she was, how she fared, whether she regretted her impulsive flight. Did she feel even the slightest amount of guilt over humiliating him?
He’d been murderously angry. When Sherbourne told him she’d gone to Scotland, he seriously considered riding after her and demanding she stand up and do her duty, by God.
But he hadn’t. Pride, or stubbornness, or perhaps a deep realization that she still would not come to heel made him stay home.
Scarcely more than a month later, he married Lady Letitia. A year after that, she was dead. But he wasn’t done. A year after Letitia died in childbed, he married Miss Grace Dowling. Poor Grace hadn’t made it to labor. She miscarried at five months, hemorrhaged, and died. Each of his wives had died horribly, in great pain, their only comfort as they left this world the gentle kindness of Bella, the vicar’s daughter, who had befriended Annabel in the very beginning and was a steadfast friend to Letitia and Grace.
He was cursed with demon seed, it was said. Behind his back, polite society called him the Duke of Death. He’d once been the best catch in all England. Now, he couldn’t find a bride amongst suitable young ladies. Matchmaking mamas gave him a wide berth, less enthusiastic to see their daughters become a duchess. After all, how could one enjoy one’s status as such if one were dead?
Then Jane returned from Scotland. He didn’t know, not until he stopped into his club and was soundly roasted. “Your bride’s back in town, Blix. Word has it she’s been rusticating in Scotland, lo these four years. Never married. And here you are, widowed again. Shall we call upon the bishop and put in for another special license?”
Michael took it in stride. Had the shoe been on the other foot, he’d undoubtedly have given in to at least one pointed jab. He looked a fool, and hated it, but he would not, could not show a crack in his demeanor. He’d raised his quizzing glass and said evenly, “Deuced bad tempered, the Scots. I daresay a laird wouldn’t be interested in marrying one of equal disposition, and thus it’s not surprising the lady didn’t find a highland husband.”
They laughed, as he’d intended. He took a seat and had a brandy before taking his leave. He went home and started to plan. She’d returned to England despite not one of her brothers yet married, and long before she was dead. He surmised her reason was to find a husband –namely, him, for who else would have her? It had taken four years, but she had finally seen reason. He was so certain of it, he made careful enquiries to determine how best to meet her for the first time. He hit upon Lady Manderly’s ball when he heard rumors that Jane would be there, despite not being received, or, in fact, invited. Something told him she would attend for the sole reason of seeing him. It was neutral ground.
She would marry him. He would not believe otherwise.
But she wouldn’t do it on his terms. Only hers.
Michael would allow her the illusion.
Her father spotted him as he approached, and frowned. “Blixford.”
“Sherbourne.”
Michael returned the earl’s grudging handshake.
The earl nodded toward the cluster of men around him. “I don’t reckon introductions are necessary?”
Michael shook more hands and greeted each of them. He noted there were no ladies within the group. No lady would come within twenty feet of Lady Jane, lest her ruination cast any of its dismal shadow across their pristine womanhood.
At long last, he’d performed the necessary courtesies and could now ask Lady Jane to dance. She’d left off listening to Mowbry’s droll observations when Michael came up, and turned her attention to him, her gaze considering him curiously.
Sherbourne was called away to the card room by Lady Manderly, who exclaimed Lord Twykham had fallen asleep and another hand was needed to finish his game.
Michael saw it as the ruse it was. Everyone wanted her father out of the way, to see if perhaps Lady Jane would do something untoward in his absence.
She swept into a curtsy, one befitting a duke, and when she rose, extended her gloved hand. He grasped her fingers and bent low before releasing her and meeting her eyes. They were quite an extraordinary shade of blue. On the dark side. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Jane.”
She was above average height, requiring her to bend her neck but a small amount to look him in the eye. “One must wonder, Your Grace, why you are come to a ball. It’s well known you despise balls. And one must further wonder why you’ve particularly singled me out. Word of your enquiry reached me even be
fore you appeared.” Her voice was low, with a smoky edge. Seductive. “Your repute as a serious man precludes the notion of your seeking me out merely as a curiosity. I daresay your inquisitiveness is confined to matters of import, primarily those which directly concern you, and the remainder of life’s odd curiosities pass you by without notice. There are those who find cause to see me in much the same vein as they might scurry to Mr. Medford’s Curiosity Fair to ogle the two-headed lady, or the albino crocodile. You, sir, would not be interested.”
Michael raised one brow. “How very astute you are, Lady Jane.” And impertinent. But then, he’d expected that. A waltz was beginning. Michael bent his arm. “Would you care to dance?”
Without hesitation, she accepted his arm. “I’d be delighted.”
The roar of the ballroom became deafening. A ruined woman, dancing with the Duke of Death, the same duke who had ruined her, and from whom she’d run away. Did gossip get any better? At the edge of the dance floor, she withdrew her hand from his arm and faced him. She curtsied. He bowed. Then reached for her. Her height matched with his in just the right fashion. He placed his hand upon the curve of her spine and she rested her hand upon his shoulder without much of a reach. Her gloved fingers lay within his palm and they began to move among the other dancers. It didn’t take long to realize, she was very accomplished. It also didn’t take long for most of the other couples to move away from them, a great number of them leaving the dance floor altogether. It took less time to remember how she’d felt in his arms, crushed against him, her heart beating wildly.
“You are a pariah, ma’am.” He swung her into a twirl and she never missed a step.
“Do you take a particular fancy to pariahs, Your Grace?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“There is little left to life that surprises me, but I find myself intrigued by your singling me out. I’m quite appreciative, surely, because I do love to dance, and despite their willingness to speak to me, my family’s friends can’t be quite so brave as to squire me about the floor.”
The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series) Page 5