He doubted Louisa had told his sister about their battle, or Draker would be beating down the door to throttle him for hurting her feelings. His minx of a wife had doubtless couched her requests for information about his preferences by claiming that she wanted to be a good wife.
He should have guessed what she was up to when his brandy began to taste noticeably less potent, and the fire in his room was allowed to go out frequently. But last night, when the servant told him it was his wife’s idea to have his cigars tossed out so she could buy him better ones, Simon had finally realized what was going on.
She was using her “domestic warfare” tactics on him. And they were actually working. He had never been so uncomfortable in his own home in his whole life. Bloody conniving female.
Women are like horses, his grandfather’s voice sounded in his head. Give them their heads and they will trample you. They must be broken to the bridle if they’re to give you a proper ride.
“Yes, and you did such a good job of that, old man,” Simon snapped. “That’s why Grandmother cringed whenever you entered a room.”
“Your Grace?” the footman said.
“Er…nothing. Just thinking through a speech.” God, now he was talking to himself. That was what Louisa had done to him.
Simon pushed the soup aside. “Take this away, will you?”
The footman did it without comment, but when he brought the next course—a joint of beef ruined by a thick overlay of creamy sauce—Simon lost his temper.
Enough of this nonsense. He was not going to let her get away with this. She’d had plenty of time to get over her anger at his colluding with her father. It was going to end right now.
Shoving away from the table, he left the dining room and headed for the stairs. He was halfway up when he saw Louisa’s maid slip out of her room with her discarded clothes. Good. Louisa had just dressed for bed, so he would catch her alone with her door unlocked. That was another thing that must stop, damn it—her locking her doors against him.
He jerked the door open, several husbandly admonitions leaping to his lips, but they died unsaid when he spotted her.
She sat by the hearth but she didn’t see him, for her head was down and she was brushing her hair in long, slow strokes. He sucked in a breath at the picture she made, her inky tresses flowing to the floor and the firelight shining through her sheer nightdress to silhouette every soft, seductive curve. As if in a trance, he entered the room and headed for her, wanting nothing more than to haul her into his arms and kiss the stubbornness right out of her.
Then a sound arrested him. Weeping. She wept as she brushed, the sobs wracking her slender frame. Hearing them was like a knife blade to the gut.
He froze, half of him angry at himself for letting her tears affect him, and the other half wanting desperately to comfort her, to embrace her and assure her that everything would be all right.
That was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? To bring him to his knees. To soften him until he allowed her to do as she pleased—consorting with radicals, ruining any hope of his being prime minister.
He would not let her do it, damn it!
He stood there another moment, uncertain. But in the end, his pride got the better of him and he left for his study, desperate to drive the sounds of her pitiful sobs from his head.
But being in his study only reminded him of her look of betrayal once she had realized that he had conspired with her father. He had hurt her badly. Not just once, but twice. Could he really blame her for wanting to strike back at him?
After an hour of such tormenting thoughts he went to bed, only to be plagued by them there, too. But sleeping was worse, for he saw her in his dreams, wearing her sheer nightdress on their wedding night, a hopeful smile trembling on her lips. Until her father walked in and the smile turned to shock.
When he awoke at dawn, hard as stone and restless, she was still asleep. And as on the past two mornings, though he dawdled, he ended up having to leave for Westminster Palace without ever hearing her stir in the adjoining room.
A few more days, he told himself. Give her time.
But how many more of these days could he stand, the hours bleeding into each other, one long monotonous torture?
Even being at Westminster did not help. With no important issues on the agenda just now, the lords had little interest in Parliamentary business and the speeches were dull as a rusty penknife. Halfway through the morning, he was contemplating going home when a voice hissed at him from close by, “What the devil are you doing here?”
He turned to see Lord Trusbut staring at him in alarm. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“You said you would go with the ladies to Newgate. I counted on it when I sent my wife off with yours.”
Simon stared at the man. Surely Trusbut was mistaken. Louisa would not have defied him so openly. Not after what he’d threatened. “They…er…went this morning?”
“Yes, just as they’d planned,” Trusbut whispered. “Your wife told us the day before your wedding that today’s trip to Newgate wouldn’t be affected by your marrying, so I brought Lillian to your house just an hour ago.”
Two men nearby frowned at them, so Simon motioned to Trusbut to go with him into the hall. Once there, he snapped, “Are you sure they went to the prison?” He’d given express orders to the coachman that she was not to take any coach anywhere without Simon’s permission.
Trusbut eyed him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course. Your wife asked if I meant to join them, and I told her I was going to my club. When I asked to see you, she explained that you were coming from here to join them at Newgate. That’s why she requested that I carry her and Lillian to Lady Draker’s house—so you wouldn’t have to leave two equipages near the prison. I was happy to oblige—it was on my way to the club. But then I remembered I wanted to speak to Peel, so I came to find him. And found you here instead.”
“Yes,” Simon said grimly. Here in Parliament. While his wife trotted off to do exactly as she pleased. Domestic warfare was one thing, but out-and-out defiance was unacceptable.
He was not fool enough to admit to Trusbut that he couldn’t even control his own wife. “Sorry, old man,” he said tersely, “I forgot entirely about the trip to Newgate. And since I left before the duchess was awake, she had no chance to remind me.” He headed for the door. “I am going there now.” And taking my wife in hand, damn it.
“I’ll go with you,” Trusbut said. “I see that Peel isn’t here anyway.”
Moments later they were in Simon’s carriage, silently trundling toward Newgate. Thank God Trusbut wasn’t a chatty sort, because Simon doubted he could carry on a civil conversation just now.
When they reached the prison, a guard led them through several dank, gloomy halls. They moved at a snail’s pace to allow for Lord Trusbut’s game leg, so by the time they reached the women’s ward, Simon’s anger was at fever pitch.
But it faded at the sight that greeted them as the guard ushered them inside. Over two hundred women sat on the stone floor in small and orderly groups, diligently painting wooden carvings. Mrs. Fry, Mrs. Harris, and Regina moved among them to help. Though the women wore meager clothing, it was clean and neat and, for the most part, proper.
A burst of laughter from the corner made the laboring women glance up, then smile indulgently toward where a group of children milled about, clapping at some entertainment that he and Trusbut were too far away to see. Which was, of course, being provided by Simon’s wife, along with Lady Trusbut.
Simon motioned to Trusbut and they made their slow way around the crowd. As they approached their wives, Simon could hear a bird trilling over the buzz of female conversation. Then he spotted Lady Trusbut’s canary perched on a chair, and beside it, Raji dancing with his usual glee.
Simon caught his breath. He ought to be angry that Louisa had brought his pet here without his knowing, but how could he when the children watched enraptured, their little faces animated with delight?
Lady Trusbut was the first to notice him. When she saw her husband, she broke into a smile so broad it wiped years from her aging face. Simon did not have to look at Trusbut to know that the smile was returned, the way a wife’s smile should be. By a caring husband.
He winced.
Louisa had not spotted them yet, but she was smiling, too, as she watched the children enjoy the antics of Raji and Lady Trusbut’s canary. Indeed, her face wore a look of such pure pleasure that a lump caught in his throat to see it.
And suddenly her defiance of him did not matter so much. The only thing that mattered was figuring out how to keep that look on her face.
So when she glanced over at them and her smile faltered, he cursed himself for ever conspiring with her father. If he had simply courted her like a proper gentleman before marrying her, would they now be estranged? Was it too late to make it right?
He hoped not. Because at this moment, he would crawl through broken glass if it would make her smile again.
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Cousin,
After seeing how Foxmoor looked at Louisa today at the prison, I have hope that their marriage may one day prove a love match, if they can refrain from discussing politics. Louisa tells me that her husband is not at all pleased by our choice of Charles Godwin as a candidate.
Your opinionated cousin,
Charlotte
Louisa jerked her gaze away in a panic. Good heavens, Simon was here. How had he found out?
Lord Trusbut, of course. She should have known she’d be caught. What had she been thinking? Her husband would never forgive her for this. He would whisk her off to Italy and that would be the end of her hopes for the London Ladies.
But what else could she do when Lady Trusbut showed up with her canary, eager to go off to Newgate? Tell her that Simon forbade it? She couldn’t destroy the woman’s budding interest in the London Ladies before it even had a chance to flower.
She sighed. What would he do now? Drag her out? Lecture her before her friends? Order Raji to dance on her head?
“Raji,” Simon said, then added a command in Hindi.
The monkey made a pretty bow to the children, then began marching like a soldier, his hand in a salute.
As the children burst into laughter, her gaze shot to Simon. He was watching her, but he didn’t look angry. He looked like an urchin gazing through a toy shop window at what he couldn’t have.
It was a most unsettling glance, haunting her, chipping away at her anger. That had been crumbling for days, every time she heard him pace his bedchamber or saw him pore over papers in his study, with his cravat askew and his face weary.
Not that any of that compared to what he’d done to her, of course. And yet—
She had to admit that Simon’s present betrayal differed vastly from seven years ago. For one thing, he’d actually married her. Considering that he’d already compromised her and destroyed her reputation, there’d been no need for him to carry it so far just to remove her from politics.
And he had said he’d married her because he wanted her. That must be true, or he wouldn’t have lost his temper when she’d denied him her bed. He would have just trotted off to find a mistress.
She swallowed. How did she know he hadn’t?
Oh, she should never have said what she did. Despite what he’d done, the thought of him sharing some other woman’s bed tortured her.
And that was only the least of what he could have done if he’d wanted. Another husband might have locked her up or beaten her—such things did happen, even in the finest homes. He could even have demanded his marital rights by force. Her puny warning to kill him wouldn’t have worried a real tyrant.
But Simon wasn’t a real tyrant. Somewhere in that devious, scheming soul of his was a reasonable man—she just knew it. A man she could care for. The problem was, how was she to get to that man? Simply give in? Forgive him for his unforgivable behavior?
She had to do something. He was her husband whether she liked it or not. Did she really want the sort of distant marriage her own parents had endured?
She stole another glance at him, her heart thundering to see the yearning in his face as he stared at her.
When their gazes locked, Simon said hoarsely, “Raji, stop.” After the monkey complied, he added something in Hindi and Raji scurried over to her. She glanced down to find the dear creature holding his tiny hand out. Not sure what to do, she took it, then caught her breath when he kissed it.
As the children squealed with delight, her gaze returned to Simon. His eyes held such brooding desire that her pulse began to thump madly.
“Your Grace!” called a voice from behind Simon and Lord Trusbut, and Simon turned toward it.
A guard with an eye patch approached them, and Simon broke into a smile. “Captain Quinn!”
When he offered his hand, Captain Quinn pumped it hard. “I heard you were here, sir. Thought I’d come and thank you. Mr. Brown told me you were the person who recommended me for this position, despite my bad eye.”
Simon smiled. “Why shouldn’t I? Your one good eye is probably twice as sharp as any other man’s two.”
“I gather it’s sharper than those of the fellow I replaced,” Captain Quinn said grimly. “Turns out the wretch made a practice of looking the other way while the prisoners regularly assaulted the women. Took money from the male convicts for it, of course. Must have been what got him sacked.”
“That wasn’t the only thing that got Mr. Treacle sacked, I assure you,” Simon said tersely.
Louisa caught her breath. Brutus the Bully had been sacked? It must have been at Simon’s instigation or how would he have known to suggest a replacement?
What’s more, Captain Quinn clearly had a conscience. So while she’d been preparing for their wedding, Simon had been improving matters at the prison.
A slow warmth built in her belly. He must have done it for her. Heaven knew he’d have no other reason.
“How do you know the duke, Captain Quinn?” Lord Trusbut asked.
“His Grace and I were at the Battle of Kirkee together, sir. Never seen a man fight so hard or long without a lick of soldierly training. His Grace can wield a sword with deadly accuracy. But it wasn’t his sword that won the day—it was his rousing speech. Turned that battle ’round, it did.”
Simon looked more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him. “Nonsense,” he said tightly, “it was you lads who turned it ’round with your hard fighting.”
“The sepoys would have fled if you hadn’t bucked them up and then joined them in the fight. The only other Governor-General to fight beside them was Wellington, and he was a soldier by training.” Captain Quinn broadened his gaze to include them all. “The duke was a hero, slashing and parrying like some mad—”
“Forgive me, you have not yet met my friends, have you, sir?” Simon interrupted, his voice decidedly strained.
As he introduced the Trusbuts, Louisa watched him speculatively. Why did talk of India always make him uncomfortable? The papers had lauded his performance at Kirkee. Was he simply too modest to acknowledge it?
Simon turned to Louisa. “And this, Captain Quinn, is my wife.”
“Your Grace,” Captain Quinn murmured as he bowed.
She had to resist the urge to laugh. She’d been Miss North for so long that being the Duchess of Foxmoor would take some getting used to. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of my husband’s, sir,” she said as she held out her hand.
Captain Quinn’s face lit up at this show of congeniality. “The pleasure is all mine, madam.” Seizing her hand, he pumped it as furiously as he’d done Simon’s. “I always said His Grace must have some extraordinary female awaiting him in England, given the way he kept to himself in India.”
As a blush stained her cheeks, Simon said in a husky voice, “Indeed, Captain, for what man could look at any other woman, with a lady like my wife filling his thoughts?”
Yesterday, the compliment would have grated. But today…
Today, she hoped desperately that he meant it.
When Captain Quinn returned to his duties, Louisa half expected her husband to give some excuse for whisking her off. Instead, he asked how he and Lord Trusbut could help.
With her heart in her throat, Louisa told him he could entertain the younger children, since Lady Trusbut was eager to show her husband around the ward and explain what the ladies were trying to accomplish.
Louisa settled the older ones down for a lesson in reading, while Simon whittled the little ones simple monkeys and birds with Raji settled atop his shoulder. From time to time, she glanced over to see him earnestly listening to some three-year-old’s chatter.
He made such a strange picture there in the prison, dressed in a fine bottle-green coat and buff trousers, with his immaculately tied cravat and his starched collar points wilting in the damp.
Her husband, the duke, helping in Newgate. It was hard to fathom.
They departed two hours later. Regina agreed to carry the Trusbuts back to Westminster to retrieve their equipage. That left Louisa and Simon to climb into his carriage alone, since Raji was ensconced on the perch with the coachman.
An awkward silence ensued once they pulled away. Now was his chance to lecture her, yet he sat across from her, staring out the window, deep in thought. Should she ask what he meant to do with her?
Not unless she wanted to remind him that she’d done what he’d forbidden. So she tried small talk instead. “Captain Quinn seems nice. A decided improvement over Mr. Treacle.”
“Yes.”
She twisted her hands together in her lap. “I suppose you were the one who had Brutus the Bully sacked.”
“I did strongly encourage Mr. Brown in that direction.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His gaze swung to her, solemn, intense. “You’re welcome.”
“Captain Quinn will be a decided improvement.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “You said that already.”
She licked her own lips nervously. “He seems quite admiring of you. You’ll have to tell me what happened at Kirkee—it sounds like an exciting tale.”
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