Only a Duke Will Do

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She couldn’t believe this. Everything she’d worked for, everything she’d thought she knew about her husband was crumbling in front of her. “You’re going to abandon Fielden.”

  “We both are,” he said tightly.

  A sharp pain lanced her chest. “But I already sent a letter by express to him to state that the London Ladies Society would be putting him up for office.”

  “Then I will inform him otherwise.”

  “He’s a member of your own party, for heaven’s sake,” she cried. “There is no reason—other than their idiocy—that you should abandon him.”

  A shudder wracked him. “Things change.”

  “No, you have changed.” Tears stinging her eyes, she hugged her arms about her waist. “You’re willing to sell your soul to those devils to become prime minister.”

  Anger flared in his face. “When will you learn that politics requires compromise? I cannot do a bloody thing for reform if I do not have a position of power.”

  She shook her head. “Do you really think they’re going to let you support reform once they put you in that position of power? You said you would unseat Sidmouth, but you won’t dare to do that to the man who makes you prime minister. At least with my father as your champion, you had a chance of choosing your own cabinet. But if you throw in your lot with his ministers—”

  “Damn it, this is the way it has to be for now.”

  “For now?” She strode up to seize his hands, desperate to reach him. “Sell your soul to them, and it’s sold for good. They won’t stop with this—Sidmouth isn’t the ‘compromising’ sort. They’ll drag you down into hell with them inch by inch until you forget every ideal you’re fighting for.”

  He snatched his hands free. “I can build my own supporters. In time—”

  “Sidmouth and Castlereagh aren’t going to give you time, don’t you see? They’re not even giving you time to make this decision. It’s either do as they demand now, or that’s it.”

  His eyes blazed at her. “I have not been in England long enough to carry the Commons without them, damn it!”

  “Perhaps not right now, but you still have your position in the Lords. Sidmouth can’t do anything about that. As for the Commons, you have the husbands of some of my ladies, not to mention Mrs. Fry’s brother-in-law. You’ll have Fielden, if he wins. You can gather your supporters without Sidmouth—”

  “In how many years?” he snapped. “By then, God only knows where the country will be.”

  She stared at his bleak face, forcing her anger back, swallowing the furious words that seared her throat. There was something more to this fierce ambition of Simon’s. In the past few weeks, she’d come to know her husband well. He wasn’t the sort of man to let men he despised force him into anything.

  Yet in this one matter he seemed to lose all sense of character and integrity. If she was to change that, she had to know why. She had to restrain her temper, be reasonable. “What made you decide to become prime minister anyway, Simon?”

  The question brought him up short. “What do you mean?”

  “You can work in the House of Lords to bring about change, and perhaps do almost as much good. Why did you seize upon the ambition of being prime minister? It’s a very unusual step for a man with your wealth and titles.”

  “Someone has to do it,” he said flippantly.

  She gritted her teeth against a hot retort. “That’s not an answer. Why must it be you?”

  He drew himself up. “So that it’s done right. So that the country can move past its fear of the Reign of Terror and into a better place.”

  “And only you can accomplish that?”

  “I was bred for it. Loathsome as my grandfather’s tactics were, he taught me astounding things about politics. It would be foolish and irresponsible to waste that knowledge in a vain pursuit of my own pleasure—”

  “Like your Uncle Tobias and your father, the duke, you mean.”

  He eyed her warily. “Yes.”

  “So you’re doing it to prove you’re a better man than them?” she asked, confused. “Because you don’t want to disappoint your grandfather, like his son and son-in-law did?”

  “Certainly not!” He cast her a scornful glance. “Why should I care if I disappoint a dead man?” He snorted. “I disappointed him long ago. Grandfather never thought I could become prime minister. After my…error with you seven years ago, he said I was ‘too much a slave’ to my ‘passions’ to ever ‘run a country successfully.’”

  She began to understand better now. And what she understood broke her heart. “So you set out to prove him wrong. First, you ran India without ever giving in to your passions. But that was only preparation for the real test—running England.” She caught her breath. “Except that I was still around when you returned, still inciting your ‘passions.’ And you can’t prove him wrong as long as I keep doing so, influencing you, meddling—”

  “No,” he ground out. “This has nothing to do with him.”

  “It has everything to do with him,” she said fiercely. “You need to prove to yourself that he was wrong about you, and to do that, you have to resist your passions. That’s the real reason you’re packing me off to Shropshire. Because you know you can’t resist your ‘passions’ as long as I’m near.”

  He just stared at her with hollow eyes.

  “But it’s not just your passions you’re trying to resist, is it?” she said, unshed tears clogging her throat. “You’re fighting the impulse to care—not just about me, but about prison reform and all the issues Sidmouth and Castlereagh ignore. Because caring means feeling something, and nothing terrifies you more than that.”

  “That’s enough,” he choked out.

  “If you feel something,” she went on relentlessly, “you risk being hurt, the way your grandfather’s cruelty hurt you, the way your parents’ neglect hurt you, the way Betsy’s seeming betrayal hurt you—”

  “Shut up, damn you!” he cried, seizing her by the shoulders. “You’re wrong! It’s not about that! It’s only politics—”

  “Nothing is ever only politics,” she hissed. “Don’t you see? You think you’re proving him wrong, but all you’re doing is becoming him! You’re becoming the very man you detest. You’re trying to turn your heart to stone so you’ll have the strength to do what they ask.” She lifted her hands to cup his cheeks. “And it’s killing you, my love. Compromise by compromise by compromise.”

  For a moment, she thought she might have reached him. His eyes looked haunted, lost, and his fingers dug into her shoulders painfully.

  Then with a heart-wrenching shudder, he thrust her away from him. “You do not understand how politics works, and you never will.”

  His voice had become so icily remote that it was no longer the voice of her beloved Simon. It was the voice of the great Prime Minister Monteith. And she had no doubt that somewhere in hell, that man was cackling in triumph.

  “I am sorry it pains you, Louisa,” he clipped out, “but this is the way it has to be. And we will be leaving for Shropshire in the morning.”

  She caught her breath, then steadied herself. She knew what she had to do now. Even if he hated it. “Go to Shropshire if you wish. But I will not.”

  Fury carved his features into coldest marble. “You are not going to destroy my chance at prime minister!”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. For one thing, defying my husband would harm my own reform efforts. For another, I love you, and that means I won’t ruin your hopes for the future, even if I think you’re wrong.” When the mere word “love” made him flinch, her heart sank further. “So I’ll stay here in London and be the dutiful wife, if that’s what you require.”

  Some of the tension left him.

  But she wasn’t done. “That does not, however, mean that I’ll abandon my organization without a word. It’s only right that I prepare them for my resignation, that I meet with them and Mr. Fielden in person to explain, that I arrange for other members to take my place on t
he committees. Surely you won’t deny me that chance.”

  “Louisa—” he began, his face clouding.

  “I won’t do it publicly, don’t worry. And I won’t do it here.” She couldn’t prevent the curtness that crept into her tone. “I wouldn’t want it to get back to your ‘friends’ that you’re allowing my ladies to come and go in your house.” She glanced back to where dawn already lightened the window of his study. “So I’m going to Regina’s.”

  That took him off guard. “For how long?”

  “However long it takes.” Until she could figure out how to live with this Simon. The one who couldn’t seem to put his past behind him.

  “There is no need for you to go to my sister’s,” he said hoarsely. “I am sure you will take care of your withdrawal from politics with discretion. As long as you are being reasonable, I would rather have you here.”

  “You planned to send me to Shropshire for several weeks anyway, so I don’t see what difference it makes if I spend time at—” She broke off as the answer dawned on her. “Oh yes, I see. In Shropshire, you could have hidden from me the sort of man you’ve become. And if I stay here in our house, you think you can use our ‘passions’ to blind me to it.”

  When anger flared in his face, she added softly, “But I love you too much to hide from the truth. If I am to spend the rest of my life watching you relinquish your principles to prove something to your devil of a grandfather, I need time apart from you to prepare myself.”

  “To nurse your anger, you mean,” he bit out.

  “Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better,” she whispered. “But the only person I am angry with right now is the Earl of Monteith. Because if not for him, I know without a doubt that my husband could become the greatest statesman England has ever known. Whether or not he ever became prime minister.”

  Swallowing her tears, she headed for the door.

  “Louisa,” he said behind her. “You said you love me.”

  “I do,” she whispered.

  “Then stay. Please.”

  Simon had never begged her for anything outside the bedchamber. He had demanded, commanded, coerced. And she was tempted, oh so tempted, to give in.

  But though he might be able to accept compromise after compromise with comparative ease, she could not. “I can’t right now. I’m sorry. I have matters to take care of that I just can’t when I’m with you.”

  He snorted. “Who’s hiding from the truth now? The only reason you’re scurrying off to Regina’s is because I admitted that I am incapable of loving you back. And that angers you.”

  “Angers me? No. Because you’re not incapable of love, Simon. You’re afraid of it. And that doesn’t anger me—it just makes me sad.”

  He didn’t leave his study while she packed a small bag beneath Raji’s watchful eye, then released the monkey from their bedchamber. He didn’t step into the hall when she called for a carriage, and he didn’t call out a good-bye when she walked out the door, with Raji fighting the footmen in a vain attempt to go with her.

  But just as the carriage drove away in the early dawn light, she looked back to see him standing in the window of his study, watching her, stoic, distant. And that broke her heart most of all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dear Charlotte,

  Govern you? I would not attempt it. I happen to like having my head attached to my body. But is it true that your friend the Duchess of Foxmoor may be resigning from the London Ladies Society?

  Your curious cousin,

  Michael

  After his wife’s departure, Simon paced his study restlessly. Raji shadowed his every move with a sullen scowl, behaving as if he’d lost his closest friend.

  The way Simon felt.

  Simon glowered at his pet. “Don’t give me that look, damn you. She abandoned us, old chap. It is not my fault that she trotted off to Regina’s. She’s just sulking because she’s lost her cursed hold over me.”

  Exactly. He had won their ongoing battle. He had actually persuaded Louisa to resign from the London Ladies Society.

  So why didn’t this feel like a victory? Why wasn’t he toasting his success? He had finally put his career in the proper perspective. Why wasn’t he ecstatic to finally, finally have gained control over his passions? Because of some foolish nonsense his wife had said about passions and feelings?

  He muttered a curse under his breath. She did not understand. She was a woman—they thought everything was about “caring” and “feelings.” But some things transcended that. Politics, for one.

  “‘Nothing is ever only politics,’” he muttered. “What rot!”

  What did she know about it? She had never been forced to compromise, never had a reason.

  Except when he had given her one. Except when he had made demands.

  He gritted his teeth. He doubted very seriously that any other statesman had to deal with such impudence from a wife. He was probably the only one who would even tolerate it. He was probably the only one who even bothered to listen to his wife’s opinions.

  She had forced him into this position. It was not his fault if she refused to recognize political necessities. That was why women were not statesmen—because they did not understand the nasty nature of politics. As Grandfather Monteith always said, Women—

  Simon groaned. He was not becoming his grandfather. God forbid!

  Yes, he had learned a great deal from the man and did occasionally recall his advice, but that did not mean Simon was turning into him. Absolutely not. He would never be his grandfather, never.

  She was making him insane. He had to escape this place, and escape her ridiculous accusations.

  But where was he to go? The session didn’t begin until later, and he was not sure he could stand looking at Sidmouth and Castlereagh today anyway. What he needed was something physical to drive her voice from his brain. A good hard ride. Yes, to clear his head before the rest of London society awakened.

  He hurried upstairs to change into riding breeches, but as soon as he entered his bedchamber, he cursed. The bed made him think instantly of her, and her lilac scent lingered in the room.

  Raji jumped atop her dressing table, then chattered angrily at him.

  “Get off there, you besotted fool!” Grabbing Raji, he tossed him onto the bed, where his pet promptly began to swing from the hangings and shriek.

  “Do you think I like her being gone any more than you do?” Simon snarled.

  His mind was flooded by images of her making love to him in his study, like some fearless Valkyrie determined to wipe out the past. He had never reached so fierce a climax. Or hated himself so much for it.

  Because after foolishly thinking that one more time together would sate his need for her, he’d discovered that it merely increased his guilt.

  Deuce take it, he had nothing to feel guilty about! He had done what he had to. It was better this way. She needed to see what was required of a statesman’s wife, no matter how painful acknowledging the truth was for her.

  No matter how much she loved him.

  With a groan, he dropped into the chair beside her dressing table and buried his face in his hands. I love you. Those had been her cruelest words. He had never guessed how sweet they would sound on her lips until she spoke them. Until she dangled before him the one thing he craved, the one thing he had yearned all his life to have.

  The one thing he had no right to, since he could never say the words back.

  But romantic fool that she was, she didn’t think him incapable. She thought him afraid. A coward. It made her “sad.”

  Sad, damn her! She pitied him! How dare she pity him?

  His temper exploding, he swiped his hand across the dressing table, sending perfume bottles and rouge pots and brushes flying. Raji abruptly stopped swinging to hang whimpering from the bedstead.

  Simon’s head felt like it would explode, so of course his grandfather’s voice came to torment him and egg him on. That’s it—show your wife who’s in charge
. Be a man. She’s just a woman like any other.

  Except that she wasn’t.

  “I have to get out of here,” Simon said as the stench of perfume threatened to choke him and the voice of his grandfather plagued him.

  Jerking to his feet, he hastily changed his clothes, then plucked Raji from the bedstead. “Come, scamp. We’re going for a ride.” Someplace where nothing reminded him of Grandfather Monteith. Or her.

  He spent the rest of the day trying to accomplish that. He rode in Brompton Vale, blessedly empty at that early hour. It should not have made him think of her, since he had never been near there with her.

  Yet the sheltering oaks and yew hedges reminded him of the woods where he’d first kissed her after his return from India. And when Raji took a sudden leap into the boughs, he couldn’t help remembering how he’d tricked her into kissing him the second time…and letting him caress and suck her sweet, scented flesh—

  Brompton Vale was not a good choice for forgetting her.

  Unfortunately, it took him a good two hours to coax Raji down so he could head for his second choice: his solicitor, who had found Grandmother Monteith’s letters. Simon had intended to have them sent over, but he might as well fetch them himself. Nothing at the solicitor’s office could possibly remind him of Louisa.

  Unfortunately, seeing his grandmother’s spidery script on the outside of the box stirred other painful memories. Of his grandfather bullying his wife, calling her a silly fool and ordering her about. The way Simon had tried to bully Louisa.

  He gritted his teeth. That was not true; he had not bullied her. He had made perfectly reasonable demands. It was she who was unreasonable, she who could not see why he must act as he did.

  The solicitor’s office was clearly another bad choice for forgetting her.

  His third choice proved better. After dropping Raji and the letters off at Foxmoor House, he headed for White’s. Not only was it devoid of memories of Louisa, but it provided the perfect solution to his pain—he could drink himself into oblivion.