Awakening the Duchess

by Eva Shepherd

  * * *

  The celebrations continued well into the small hours of the morning. It wasn’t until the stagehands arrived with the early editions of the morning papers that a hush descended.

  A suddenly anxious cast and crew crowded round the director as he opened the first newspaper on the top of the pile. The reviews could make or break a play. They could determine whether they played to a season of full houses or to rows of empty seats. Arabella held her breath as the director began reading.

  The first newspaper had a rave review, then the second, the third. With each review the volume of the happy voices grew until the director was having to shout to be heard above the high-spirited noise.

  The champagne started to flow again, even more freely. The hugging and cheek kissing resumed, and people began dancing and singing, unable to contain their excitement.

  ‘It seems I’m married to a woman who shines, a woman who captures the audiences’ hearts and is destined for greatness,’ Oliver said, repeating some of the flattering comments made by the reviewers about her.

  Arabella smiled at him. ‘Oh, Oliver. I couldn’t have asked for more. The play will be a success now. The theatre is saved. I doubt if it will ever need money from my father again.’

  ‘And I like to think I played a small part in your success.’ Oliver laughed. ‘So, if you’ve had enough of the celebrations, let’s get you home so I can put some more of that spark in you.’ Oliver sent her that mischievous smile she loved so much. ‘After all, you have been given strict instructions from your director to keep doing what you did last night and there’s another performance tomorrow.’

  Arabella nodded her head enthusiastically. She could think of no more perfect way to end this perfect evening than in Oliver’s bed, making love to that magnificent man. ‘While you order a cab, I’ll just freshen up in the powder room.’

  He nodded and turned to leave. She grabbed hold of his arm to halt his progress. ‘And make sure you order a cab with fresh horses. I want to get home as quickly as possible. I can already feel that spark starting to fade. You need to renew it urgently.’

  With a playful salute Oliver headed towards the door and Arabella retired to the powder room, determined to make herself as attractive as she could for the rest of the night’s entertainment.

  Arabella smiled at her reflection as the attendant helped her to fix her hair. Happiness had definitely improved her appearance, her eyes sparkled and her skin was glowing.

  She did a little twirl in front of the mirror and thanked the attendant for her help. She headed towards the door, but her exit was halted when Lady Bufford entered.

  Arabella’s smile faltered before returning as large as before. She would not let that toxic woman ruin her evening.

  ‘Good evening, Lady Bufford,’ she said in her sweetest voice.

  ‘Good evening, Your Grace. And congratulations on tonight’s performance. I didn’t manage to catch the play, but I hear you performed rather well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Arabella nodded and turned to leave.

  ‘A better performance than the one I hear you gave on your wedding night.’

  Arabella froze, her body suddenly turning cold, as her legs weakened beneath her.

  ‘I suppose that was why Oliver didn’t stay in your bed but came to mine instead.’

  Arabella turned slowly. She saw her reflection in the mirror, standing behind a preening Lady Bufford, her pink cheeks now white, her eyes dull and lifeless, her shoulders slumped.

  ‘I thought it a bit strange for a man to be with another woman on his wedding night,’ Lady Bufford continued in a sing-song voice. ‘But I suppose after he’d deflowered you, he wanted a bit of real satisfaction so he decided to join me in my bed.’

  ‘You are a cruel, nasty woman,’ Arabella said, her voice strained and shaking.

  Lady Bufford shrugged, smiled at Arabella and left the room.

  Arabella groped her way to the nearest chair and collapsed on to it, her shaking legs no longer able to hold her up. The attendant passed her a hand towel to wipe away the tears Arabella had been unaware were coursing down her cheeks.

  While she had been lying awake on her wedding night, wishing that Oliver would join her, he was in another woman’s bed. How could he have done that? On her wedding night? Yes, they had agreed to give each other freedom. But her wedding night? Could he not have slept alone for one night? Did he not know how much that would shame her? Did he not realise how humiliating that was? Did he not care? He might say he cared about her now, and she did not doubt that was true, but they were lovers now. On the night of their wedding they were not. On that night he didn’t care how much he hurt her, how much he humiliated her. How could he be so selfish?

  The door opened again, and Arabella attempted to rise. She would not let Lady Bufford see her in this condition, would not let her know how much her cruel words had pierced her heart.

  But it wasn’t Lady Bufford, it was Rosie, who instantly rushed to her side, knelt down beside her chair and took her hands in hers.

  ‘Bella, what is it? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?’

  Arabella shook her head. ‘Rosie, can I stay with you this evening? Can you take me away from here without Oliver seeing? I’ll explain everything when we get back to your town house. But I want to leave, now.’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll tell my husband to get us a cab and I’ll be back soon.’ Rosie rushed out and Arabella put her head in her hands and dissolved into tears of pain and humiliation.

  Once again, she had misjudged a man, had seen only what she wanted to see. She had thought Arnold Emerson loved her, that he wanted to marry her and cared nothing for her money. It was only her father’s cruel action of offering him money so he wouldn’t marry her that had proven what that man was really like. And the cruel words of Lady Bufford had proven once again that when it came to men, she was completely naive.

  * * *

  Oliver pushed his way through the partying crowd, looking for Arabella. She was nowhere in sight. He had expected her to be ready and waiting by the door, wanting to get back to their town house and to their bed as anxiously as he did. Could she still be in the powder room? If she was still fixing her hair and making herself attractive for him, she was wasting her time. He would soon be dishevelling her carefully styled hair and she could not possibly make herself any more beautiful to his eyes than she already was.

  He spotted Arabella’s lady’s maid, dancing with one of the actors, and cut in between them.

  ‘Nellie. Can you please go into the rest room and tell Arabella her carriage awaits?’

  Nellie nodded and Oliver diverted himself by watching the cheerful crowd while he waited for his wife. They were still in high spirits and he doubted they would be retiring soon. While the party was certainly fun, he was looking forward to having much more fun when he got home.

  Nellie returned; her face surprisingly sombre. ‘She’s not in there and the attendant said she left with the Duke and Duchess of Knightsbrook.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, there’s some mistake, Nellie. Arabella asked me to order a cab to take us back to our town house. Perhaps she’s waiting somewhere else.’ He looked around the room.

  ‘No, you’re the one who’s made the mistake. The attendant told me all about it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  He looked down at the scowling Nellie. ‘What? Who told you what? What are you talking about?’

  The lady’s maid’s nostrils flared in disgust and she looked him up and down. ‘She’s gone. That’s all you need to know.’ With that, she turned her back on him and joined the partygoers.

  He looked at Nellie, then around the gathering, as if somewhere in this crowded room he would find the answer to his confusion. What on earth was going on? He scanned the room again, hoping to see Arabella smiling at the trick she had played on him. But she wa
s still nowhere to be seen. And neither were the Duke and Duchess of Knightsbrook. Perhaps Arabella had left with them. But why would she do that without telling him? And what was all that nonsense about the powder-room attendant? This was all very peculiar. But there was only one way to find out what had gone wrong. He would have to ask his wife.

  He pushed his way back through the crowd, jumped into the waiting hansom cab and gave the driver the address of the Duke of Knightsbrook’s town house.

  The sooner he put this ridiculous confusion to rights the better.

  * * *

  When he arrived, the house was in darkness, except for one upstairs light. Despite the unsociable hour Oliver pounded on the door, which was almost immediately opened by the footman, followed by the Duke still in his evening clothes.

  ‘I believe Arabella is here. I need to speak to her. Now.’

  The Duke’s stern expression suggested he had no interest in seeing Oliver and even less inclination to let him into his house. ‘My wife is upstairs comforting your wife. Neither of them wishes to see you so I suggest you leave, immediately.’

  Oliver shook his head. This was getting more and more confusing. ‘What’s going on? Why would Arabella need to be comforted? And why did she leave the party so suddenly?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ the Duke said through clenched teeth. ‘If it was left to me, I’d give you a good thrashing for causing that lovely young woman such distress, but out of respect for my wife’s wishes all I’ll do is bar your entrance.’ With that the Duke shut the door in Oliver’s face. He stared at the closed door, inches from his nose, momentarily stunned.

  This really was ridiculous. And getting more ridiculous with every passing minute. Something had obviously happened while he had been ordering a cab, but whatever it was he couldn’t do anything about it until his wife spoke to him and explained her actions.

  But what was he supposed to do? She didn’t want to see him and unless he broke down the door there was no way he was going to get access to this town house.

  He looked up and down the outside of the three-storey house. There was no easy way of scaling the outside and getting up to the only room which still had a light. The room where Arabella was presumably being comforted by her friend over the distress caused by some crime he had no knowledge of committing. And even if he could find a way up to the second storey, hanging tentatively outside a closed window would hardly be the easiest way to have a serious conversation with his wife about what had upset her.

  This was something that was going to have to be left until the morning. With reluctance, he turned from the door, climbed back into the cab and made his way home through the quiet early-morning streets.

  * * *

  Oliver rose early after a sleepless night and took pen to paper. If he couldn’t see Arabella in person, then he would write to her. They could solve whatever the problem was through correspondence. He scribbled a quick letter asking her why she had left and if it was due to anything he had done, or not done, said, or not said. Then he asked her to give him an opportunity to explain himself. Surely that was only fair.

  Instead of getting his footman to deliver the letter he carried it round in person. When the footman opened the door he took the letter, but was obviously under strict instructions not to let Oliver in as he immediately closed the door in his face.

  With no other choice Oliver returned home and waited for a reply to arrive. Several hours passed. No letter arrived. He took another piece of paper from his writing desk and dipped his pen into the ink well.

  This time he took his time composing the letter. He apologised for whatever transgression he was being accused of and begged Arabella to return. It was hard to believe. He had never apologised for his behaviour before and had certainly never begged a woman for anything. But he had no reservations about doing it now. Whatever had upset Arabella he wanted to put it right. If he had said or done something to upset her, then he was profoundly sorry and he had no hesitation in apologising.

  There was no point delivering the letter himself. He could all but guarantee he would not be allowed entrance, so he sent it with his footman. Then he waited. And waited. The first post arrived. There was no letter. It was the same with the second post. But finally, with the third post, there it was. The letter he was waiting for.

  He grabbed it off the footman’s silver tray, immediately ripped it open and scanned the contents.

  It wasn’t from Arabella. It was from his mother, informing him that a woman had arrived at Somerfeld Manor, claiming that her child had been fathered by the previous Duke.

  This was a disaster. Another disaster.

  The two women who meant the most to him in the world demanded his attention at the same time. He could not allow his mother to deal with this situation on her own, but he had to set things straight with Arabella and he had to stay in London if he was to do that.

  He read the letter again. A shock like this would have a devastating effect on his mother. He could not leave her to cope alone. He had to return to his Surrey estate.

  In haste, he penned another letter to Arabella, told her how reluctant he was to leave London until they had sorted out their problems, but that his mother needed his immediate help. Then he asked his valet to pack his bags. He would have to get the next train back to Surrey.

  But the last thing he did before he left was to remind all the servants that if any mail arrived for him, it had to be forwarded on to his estate—immediately.

  * * *

  The stack of unopened letters was mounting up. Arabella just couldn’t bring herself to read them. She didn’t want to hear any of his excuses, any of his explanations. She had married a man with an insatiable sexual appetite. She had always known that; she just hadn’t allowed herself to fully accept what that implied.

  And it wouldn’t have mattered quite so much if she hadn’t been so foolish as to go and fall in love with him. But the reality was she had. And this time it was even worse than when she had fallen in love with Arnold Emerson. That time she had not known what the man was really like. She had not realised that he loved money more than her. But with Oliver she knew exactly what sort of man he was, a man who was incapable of fidelity, and she had fallen in love with him anyway.

  Unlike Arnold, he had not lied to her. He had let her know from the moment they met exactly what he was like. But her heart had chosen to ignore the facts. Ignore them until Lady Bufford had forced her to face cold, hard reality.

  As angry and as upset as she was, she had no right to condemn Oliver for being the man he was. She could only condemn herself for falling in love with him.

  And that had never been part of the arrangement.

  If their marriage had remained one in name only, perhaps she could have forgiven him going to Lady Bufford’s bed on their wedding night. Perhaps.

  Although the thought that any man could humiliate his wife in such a way was more than she could countenance. It was only one night, for goodness sake. Could he not sleep alone for one night to avoid humiliating his new wife? It would seem not.

  She picked up the pile of letters and looked at the embossed envelopes bearing Oliver’s family crest, two rampant stags holding a shield.

  She threw them back on the desk, causing the pile to scatter. A rampant stag—how appropriate. She shook her head and gave a humourless laugh. That stag was so rampant he couldn’t go one night without finding a woman to satisfy his need to rut.

  No, she would not read his letters. If she was to protect her heart, she would have nothing to do with him, ever again.

  Forcing herself to ignore Oliver’s scattered letters she picked up the other pile, the letters she had actually opened, the ones from well-wishers who had seen the play. That was what she should be focusing on. She should be celebrating her success, not dwelling on her humiliation.

  Among the letters were invitations fr
om leading theatres inviting her to audition and several offers of parts in forthcoming productions. And, most prized of all, were letters of congratulations from Oscar Wilde and Arthur Sullivan of the famous duo Gilbert and Sullivan.

  Yes, that was what she should be focusing on, not those other letters. She cast a disparaging glance at the disordered pile. His latest letters bore the post office stamps from Surrey.

  Good. If he was now living in the country, he would not be turning up at the Limelight Theatre. She would not have to see him again. And she never wanted to see him again. Ever.

  She continued to stare at the pile. If she was to never see Oliver again, then there was only one solution. She was going to have to formally end their marriage. There was no other way. While they remained married, they were still tied to each other. He would still be part of her life, whether she saw him or not. There was only one solution available. They would have to end this marriage. They would have to divorce.

  She sat down in the nearest chair and took in the ramification of this decision.

  It was not impossible. People did divorce, after all. It didn’t happen very often, and when it did it certainly caused a scandal and was the subject of gossip for many years. People were still talking about the divorce of Lady Mordaunt and Sir Charles Mordaunt and that had happened twenty years ago. But then, that divorce had involved the Prince of Wales, and his letters to Harriet Mordaunt had been published in the New York Times in all their titillating detail. Arabella’s divorce would not involve such notable people, but it would still be hard to divorce Oliver discreetly.

  But what choice did she have? She could not stay married to Oliver. And their marriage had served its intended purpose. It had saved him from getting his just desserts from Lord Bufford and saved the Limelight Theatre from financial ruin.

  The success of the play meant the theatre was safe. Even if her father withdrew all his funding or sold off the Limelight it would still survive. No one would lose their jobs.