The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)

by Stephanie Feagan

  He held a far greater rage toward her father, however, and as soon as he and the constable arrived, he went down to the library to meet with them, leaving Rose and Mrs. Dashing to keep watch over Jane. He asked Dora to accompany him, to bear witness to what she knew, and she agreed, saying, “Too long has he been allowed to terrorize his family, and I pray he’ll pay for his wrongs.”

  Michael intended to do much more than pray. He was brief and succinct when he spoke to the constable, then turned to the vicar. “I can’t fathom what goes through a mind like yours, and thank God I cannot, for surely you are eaten alive by the worms of depravity and evil. I will see you hang, Mr. Pool.”

  Incredibly, the man looked insulted. “I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. Bella was a homely, plain girl who could never attract a husband. I merely stepped in to comfort her in her loneliness, as any good father should do.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes in disgust. “You’re a disgrace to fathers everywhere and a blight on humanity.” Turning, he left the constable to arrest Mr. Pool and strode to the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

  Jane drifted in and out of consciousness all the rest of the day and late into the night. He wouldn’t leave her side. Sometime after midnight, she roused up and appeared coherent, her face wan, her hand shaking as she reached for his. “I’ve not died,” she whispered. “I was certain I would, and it made me so angry.”

  He rose from his chair, bent to the bed and slid his arms about her to hold her gently. “I have prayed much, and promised many things to God. I shall have to leave you and become a monk and bring peace to the world in order to fulfill all of my promises.”

  She began to cry, softly, brokenly. “I thought I had conceived, but wanted to be sure before I told you, and now . . .” She clutched him tightly. “As sorrowful as I am at the loss, I have to thank God I’m alive to try again. Oh, Blix, poor Annabel. I’ve dreamed of her, over and over, in this very bed, crying and . . . and screaming, in so much pain, and all because of a madwoman. I was there, in the drawing room, when we had tea, when Annabel drank it, not knowing it would kill her. If only I’d seen what Miss Bella was about, if only . . . my heart is broken, truly, at the senselessness of it all.”

  He debated telling her what he’d learned, and decided it should wait. “Hush, love, you couldn’t have known, couldn’t have prevented it. Annabel is with God now, and she knows, she understands.”

  That appeared to soothe her and her desperate grasp about his neck eased. “Miss Bella, is she—”

  “Yes, love, she’s gone. You saved my life.”

  Her arms tightened about him again and she whispered, “God forgive me, but I can’t be sorry she’s dead. I have only to remember her wild eyes, that knife in her hand, and you, so close . . .” She began to cry again.

  “It’s over now, Jane, and all will be well. Rest and regain your strength. We’ll talk later, when you’re better.”

  “Yes, Michael. I wonder . . . might I rinse my mouth? The taste is truly horrid.”

  He set about bringing her the rinse, and the washbowl from her dressing room. When she was done he removed it and sat again on the chair at her bedside, to watch her sleep. She was more restful, her body relaxed and still, instead of tense and fretful, as she’d been since the afternoon. She was safe, she would live, and someday, with an excellent chance of surviving the experience, she would bring a child into the world. The realization brought tears of gratitude to his eyes. There, in the quiet of the chamber, with only the soft sound of her even breaths breaking the stillness, he allowed himself to cry, and sent silent prayers of thanksgiving to God for bringing Jane into his life. He allowed himself to cry for the lost lives of three innocent souls and the babes gone with them. And perhaps some of his tears were for his mother and his mad papa.

  After a time, he bent forward and rested his upper body upon the bed, holding her small hand within his as he faded to sleep.

  When he awoke, her fingers were in his hair, petting him softly. He raised his head and blinked at her. There was some color in her cheeks. “How do you feel?”

  She stared at him, her blue eyes filled with emotion. “I love you madly, you know. Always have, even when I ran away. I came home to marry you because I couldn’t bear to see you marry another. Not again. I wanted you for myself.”

  “Yes. I know. Your father had the right of it when he told me he suspected as much.”

  He drew in a breath, deciding now was the time, but before he could speak another word, she whispered, “It all seems so small now, Michael, so ridiculous in the face of death and the end of it all. I realize you don’t feel the need for forgiveness, but I feel the need to give it, and there, you have it. I don’t dislike you at all, no matter that you’re an autocrat. It appears you’ll ever do wrongheaded things with the very best intentions, and I’d be an ungrateful wretch to hold it against you.” She smiled weakly. “It also occurs to me, you never had a father, not really, and perhaps what you did was an unconscious attempt to establish a kinship with Sherbourne. You clearly think much of him, and why not? He’s a marvelous man, a tremendous father. How selfish I would be not to share.”

  Great God, his eyes filled with tears again. He dropped his head back to the bed and did not speak for a very long while. When finally he had his emotions under control, he looked at her, lying there, pale and wan, smiling at him with her heart in her gaze. “Ah, Jane,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded rough and raw to his ears, “it’s so like you to steal my thunder. Have you any notion how long I’ve plotted and planned the best way to tell you how very sorry I am for hurting you, and how deeply I love you? Now, here you are just from death’s door, forgiving me before I’ve asked, offering a gift of such magnitude, nothing I can offer could compare. You’re a termagant, a hoyden, and simply wonderful. I love you so, you’ve no idea.”

  Her fingers were still in his hair. “I’ve some idea, but perhaps, if you work very hard, you can convince me just how much.”

  He moved up to stretch out upon the bed and gather her close, holding her carefully, gently to his breast. “I will, Jane. After all, hard work—”

  “—is its own reward,” she finished for him. After a while, she said, “In retrospect, that’s a singularly ridiculous statement. One doesn’t work hard but for a certain outcome to the work. Why ever would anyone work hard, simply to work, with no end of toil, no result for the effort? If I didn’t anticipate the fruits of labor, I would become like the lazy cat, fed too much smoked trout for its own good, and lie about doing nothing all day and all night.”

  “Nothing, Jane?”

  “Well,” she said after a moment, “I suppose I’d do something, but that can hardly be called work.” She paused. “Although in some respects, it is work to you, is it not? You’ve got the short end of it, now I think on it. Why, you’re made to be most athletic in the endeavor, while I’m merely required to enjoy myself. Hmm, I believe in future, I may need to exert myself a bit more, and take some of the strain off of you. It seems only fair and—”

  “Oh, no, Jane. You may shoot your pistols and ride neck-or-nothing and extol the wonders of crossbreeding sheep, but a man has to draw the line somewhere, and this is mine. You must allow me my masculine pride.”

  “Do you mean to say you don’t mind having to exert most of the effort?”

  He held her a bit tighter and smiled with such happiness, with such love for her, he thought he’d fair die of it. “It’s part and parcel of what gives me such pleasure with you. Your satisfaction, and those delightful cries you make, are the fruits of my labor, and it is sweet fruit, indeed.” He stroked her lovely dark hair and sighed. “I’ll ring for breakfast now, and insist you eat every bite, that you’ll be back in good health as soon as possible.”

  “So you can get back to work?”

  “Hmm. That too, but I was speaking of returning to London. Yesterday, I received a letter from Wrotham. MacDougal has accepted his invitation and is expect
ed to arrive a week from tomorrow.”

  ***

  Sherbourne was late to bed, remaining in the library with Wrotham several hours after Miss North and her parents departed and Lucy had retired. It had been a while since he’d had a long conversation with Wrotham, and he felt he owed it to his old friend. Thus far, Wrotham had declined invitations to dinner, undoubtedly avoiding him because of his discomfiture over the scandal surrounding Jane, but perhaps also because he wished to escape Lucy’s matchmaking. She’d declared him in need of a wife and appointed herself the task of finding him one, posthaste. Wrotham was alarmed, but Sherbourne told him he may as well play along. His wife would have her way, hell or high water.

  To be fair to Lucy’s ability of choosing wisely, he thought Wrotham was taken with Miss North, herself something of a female version of a stick. A very large-breasted stick, but a stick, nonetheless. He suspected she would bend quite nicely, given the opportunity, and he rather enjoyed the notion of Wrotham applying the pressure. Besides, wasn’t it said one could start a fire by rubbing two sticks together?

  After several brandies and a deep philosophical discussion of the merits of matrimony, Wrotham declared himself ready for his bed. As he took his leave, he said, “I hope I’m up to Blixford’s task and can pretend a friendship with that rotter, MacDougal. He’s to arrive at my home on the morrow.” His shirt points had wilted during the evening and he was almost animated in his determination to call the blackguard to heel. “I have only to think of dear Jane, and my hope that she and Blixford may take their rightful places in the world, and I most certainly can do whatever is needed.”

  Feeling grateful for his friendship, Sherbourne wished him good night and made his way upstairs to his chamber, shared now with Lucy. He dismissed his valet as soon as he had removed his coat and boots, anxious to be alone with his thoughts. And his sleeping wife.

  In his shirtsleeves and stockings, he poured himself another brandy and went to the fire, thinking to sit and watch her sleep for a while. Instead, he found a slender book upon the chair. Bound with red ribbons looped through holes cut into the thick paper cover, a fine, elegant script penned across the front read simply, Volume Seven.

  He opened the book, began to read, and within moments, he was forced to stop and adjust himself because he grew hard within his tight-fitting breeches. He read on, and looked at her drawings, and could only wonder at her imagination. By the time he reached the end of the story –and it was, truly, a love story –he was so aroused, he couldn’t let it be, yet didn’t wish to simply take himself in hand and be done with it. He wanted Lucy beneath him.

  He woke her up and took her within the minute, her half asleep and he absolutely, incredibly explosive with need. That she climaxed was a miracle, for he’d given her almost no time.

  In the aftermath, he whispered in the dim glow of the room, lit only by the dying fire, “I’m in awe, my love. I had no notion you have such an artistic talent, and your ability to pen a lovely story is tremendous, but truly, what bowls me over is your imagination. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that book was written and drawn by a courtesan, with years upon years of experience. What a strange little thing you are, and what an amazing mind.”

  “You liked it, then?”

  “Lucy, I’ve just assaulted you in your sleep, I became so aroused. I much more than liked it –I loved it. Will you allow me to read the first six volumes?”

  “Do you really wish to, or are you only being kind?”

  “I really wish to.”

  “Very well. Suppose you read one, each night, rather than all at once? I find after a time, one becomes a bit numb and the story loses its power.”

  “I will read them as you give them to me, and be delighted.”

  They settled into the bed and began to drift into slumber, until he asked, in the darkness, “When did you write Volume Seven?”

  “Three years ago. Why?”

  He grinned and pulled her closer. “I noted the count’s face bears a remarkable resemblance to someone I see in the glass every morning. I wonder why?”

  She didn’t answer for a while. He thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep, but suddenly, she said, “I wanted perfection. The count was invented for my enjoyment, and I had the ability to make him any way I chose. I’d guess your face was fixed firmly in my mind as one of perfection, and so it wound up belonging to the count as well. Does this bother you, Sherbourne?”

  He chuckled. “Not in the least. I’m not too old to respond to flattery, and really, Lucy, that’s about as good as it gets. I do have to wonder, however, where you ever saw a cock that large? Surely Bonderant was not so well endowed?”

  “No, he was not. I’ve never seen any other than his and yours, so the answer, of course, is nowhere have I seen such. I made it up. As I said, the count was my idea of perfection, though it took me a very long time to get his legs right. They were always out of proportion.”

  “I don’t wonder. To support such masculinity, a man would need legs of iron.” He considered his next question and despised himself for asking, but was compelled. “Lucy, is it ever a disappointment to you that—”

  “Oh, good heavens, Sherbourne! I knew I shouldn’t let you read my books, because this was sure to be a problem.” She pushed him to his back and moved to lie on top of him, her toes tickling his shins. “I know there is no man of that size, just as I know it’s impossible for two human beings, regardless of how fit, or carnal, to engage in that much lovemaking, or employ such novel approaches and positions. It’s a fantasy, husband, and you’ll admit, your own fantasies bear little resemblance to reality. Were you to draw yours out, I’d guess your countess would have breasts so large, they’d smother her lover, and if you were truly honest, the count’s cock would be as big as my count’s, perhaps bigger.”

  “Hmm, yes, I begin to see your point. You know, it’s interesting your female protagonist is a countess, and here you are, also a countess.” His hands ran along her back and ended at her sweet bottom, cupping a cheek within each hand. He began to stir again. “All this talk of sex and cocks and breasts and your very luscious body rubbing against mine is keeping me awake. Whatever shall I do about it, Countess?”

  Lowering her voice to a small soft whisper, she told him rather graphically what he should do, and that was all it took for him to rise to the request.

  Half an hour later, they were back to falling asleep when she murmured against his chest, “Sherbourne, I’m late.”

  He nearly squeezed her to death, he was so elated. “Have I told you how very much I love you?”

  “Not nearly enough.” She sighed contentedly. “You are happy, then?”

  “Ecstatic. Ah, Lucy, you’re beautiful and splendid. I do love you so.”

  “And I love you. Goodnight, Sherbourne.”

  “You really must begin calling me by my Christian name.”

  “It’s difficult, being as you have the same name as my son.”

  “I understand. Perhaps, then you can call me Sherry, when we are alone.”

  She laughed. “Capital notion! Yes, I like that . . . Sherry. It will keep a favorite memory alive, as well. Goodnight then, Sherry. I love you.”

  He fell into slumber at last, sated, happy and content. Wonder of wonders, he was to be a father again. Life was so very good, was it not?

  ***

  Early summer had arrived, Parliament was in its last sessions, and the Season was coming to an end. The rounds of parties were beginning to thin, with some people already gone from town, but the majority remained. No one wished to miss the Bloomsbury ball. It was rumored that Brian MacDougal, sixth Earl of Haversham and Wrotham’s houseguest the past week, would be in attendance. He’d been spotted at a few occasions, and proved to be an amiable chap. There were some matchmaking mamas, those whose daughters had tried and failed to secure an offer during the Season, who eyed him with interest. It was difficult to determine anything of his fortune, but there were those who didn’t consider it
important, who wished to see their daughter become a countess, even if it meant a move to the wilds of Scotland.

  But of course his being a jolly chap and a possible match for the remaining unmarried misses on the marriage mart wasn’t the reason so many were anxious to attend the Bloomsbury ball and make his acquaintance. The Earl of Haversham was at the heart of the year’s juiciest scandal, an exclamation point at the end of a seemingly endless list of scandals, all surrounding Lady Jane Lennox, now the Duchess of Blixford.

  The night of the ball, Jane was oddly calm. When Michael commented upon it, she said simply, “Either the truth will out, or it will not. Whatever comes, I’m ready to face. I’ve knocked on death’s door, along with my husband, and nothing after that seems so terribly important. Truthfully, I’m more hopeful we’re successful for your sake than for mine. I could be happy with only you and our family and our servants for company until I am very old.”

  “Strangely, I feel much the same.” He shook his head. “It always seemed so critical to keep the title sterling and pristine, and I find now that how others see it is irrelevant. How you and I live as the Duke and Duchess of Blixford is all that matters, and I believe we honor the position.”

  He looked delicious in his formal attire and she wondered at how much she loved him. “Yes, I believe we do. If we didn’t have the future of our children to consider, I might suggest we stay in tonight and leave MacDougal to God. But we can’t bring children into the world beneath a cloud of scandal, so I suppose we must go through with this.”

  Offering his arm as they reached the top of the stairs in her father’s house, he smiled down at her. “You grow more lovely every day, Jane. It’s good to see the bloom back in your cheeks. If you grow overly tired, you’ll let me know at once?”

  “Yes, I will, but I’m feeling quite well and foresee we’ll enjoy a waltz or two.”

  “Perhaps this time we’ll have company on the dance floor.”