The Hazards of Hunting a Duke

by Julia London

  But his predicament of not being able to fully commit himself to her body and soul—What was it he feared?—continued to drive a wedge between them.

  He tried to mend some of his mistakes. He tried to see Edmond more often, to insinuate himself into the boy’s life, but it was quite clear that the boy loved the man he believed to be his father. Jared was, he realized, six years too late with his efforts.

  He hadn’t even known of Edmond’s existence until the boy was three years old. As a young man of twenty, he’d fallen in love with Martha, Edmond’s mother. She might have been a servant, but Jared had loved her. He had, hadn’t he? Honestly, he didn’t know anymore—but he suspected that if he’d truly loved her, he would have searched for her when she left him.

  He never knew why she’d left him—but he’d been naïve enough to believe that she hadn’t loved him and had feared for her employment and reputation, just as Miss Hillier suggested. It wasn’t until three years after she’d left that he found out the true reason for her departure—he had put a child in her, and Miss Hillier had discovered it.

  Of course Miss Hillier had told the duke, and the duke had sent Martha away, threatening to take the child she carried if she ever revealed her lover’s identity. When Jared had discovered the ugly truth, he’d forced Miss Hillier to tell him where the duke had sent Martha and, ignoring his father’s threats, he’d set out to see her.

  But it was too late. The boy—his boy—thought Mr. Foote was his father. Mr. Foote, a kind and generous man, had married Martha and given her and her bastard child his name. And Martha, Jared’s beloved Martha, professed to love Mr. Foote. She had begged him to go away, to leave them be, to give her his word he would not tell Edmond who he was.

  Jared had left quite shaken, uncertain about what to do.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that he must confront his father. But the duke was characteristically furious with him for going to Martha and Edmond and unearthing what he called a “blight” on the duchy. He had threatened Jared with destroying the boy by telling him that Mr. Foote was not his father. Jared had understood how painful that would be to the little mop-haired boy he’d seen, and had been swayed by his father’s threats.

  But now, he couldn’t help believe that if he’d truly loved Martha in the beginning, things might have turned out differently.

  He didn’t hear from Martha again until last year, when she wrote to him as she wasted away from consumption, begging him to give her husband and Edmond a home. Of course he’d done it—it was the very least he could do. But when his father had heard of it—the gossip among the servants was ceaseless—he had come to Broderick Abbey to see for himself, while Jared had been away in London. Unbeknownst to Jared, the duke had threatened Mr. Foote, promising to see him impressed into the Royal Navy and his son sent to God knew where if the boy was ever seen about Broderick or the abbey, for there was a resemblance between him and the marquis.

  Mr. Foote had taken the duke’s threats to heart.

  When Jared had learned of his father’s vicious threats, they had argued most bitterly, but as usual, to no end. Since then, Jared had been quite uncertain about what to do. He wanted to know his son, but he would not take the boy from the only father he’d ever known—that seemed to him the height of cruelty. And when his father threatened to have Mr. Foote impressed, Jared was even more uncertain. He believed his father capable of such action and poor Mr. Foote lived in fear of it.

  So he had let the matter simmer, indecisive as to the best course of action. He wanted to take part in his child’s life, but he could not see how to do it without causing pain to them all.

  Yet he had, in these last few months, begun to question his own moral character. And it was his uncertainty as to his true moral character that kept him distant from Ava.

  As a result, her appearances at the supper table grew less frequent. Worse, she seemed to feel quite uncomfortable in his presence when the two of them were alone. Yet he would hear her laughing in her rooms, would see her and Sally together in the gardens on some mornings, and he’d long to be with her.

  But Ava held him at arm’s length—except in her bed. There she hid nothing from him, unabashedly released herself to him—and then seemed to regret it with increasing intensity the next morning.

  “He’s there again,” Sally remarked one morning as they walked in the garden. “He’s there, just now, watching you,” she said, peering up at Middleton, standing at the window in his study, looking down.

  Ava would not look up. “No doubt he is about to sit and pen a letter to his beloved,” she said sarcastically.

  “In truth, I’ve not seen one letter dispatched to her,” Sally said.

  “And how would you know, dear? You don’t read, remember?”

  “I don’t read,” Sally said with a sniff, “but I know what her name looks like—I’ve seen it quite enough times.”

  “Perhaps he posts his letters privately through a footman, or through the estate agent who comes here.”

  “And perhaps he doesn’t,” Sally said with a cluck of her tongue. “You are determined to see the devil in him, aren’t you?”

  “I’m determined to survive. And as soon as we return to London, I am to my old home, my stepfather be damned. I refuse to live in Middleton’s house.”

  Sally shrugged and looked up at the sun, closing her eyes. “You might be slicing off your nose to spite your pretty face, mu’um.”

  Ava snorted at that.

  “Suit yourself,” Sally said with a sardonic smile. “Suit yourself.”

  Frankly, Ava wished Sally would suit herself and go inside and leave her be.

  She wished the whole world would go away and leave her be. Everyone but the selfish and perfidious marquis whom she could not stop loving—and he was the only one who did leave her be.

  But that night, when he informed her they would be leaving for London the day after the morrow, she understood the world would not go away. If anything, in London the world would close in on her as all eyes turned to the newlyweds who had left a country party early because of the appearance of his mistress.

  It was the sort of sordid mess that used to make her and Phoebe and Greer clamor for the Times every morning with the hope of reading something quite titillating.

  Twenty-nine

  T hey arrived in London just before sunset. As the carriage rolled down Oxford Street, Ava fit her hands in her gloves, straightened her bonnet, and said, “If you please, my lord, I should like to be taken to my stepfather’s home.”

  “I’ll have a carriage take you on the morrow,” he said with a bit of a yawn.

  Ava folded her hands in her lap, her mind made up, prepared to do battle, and stated firmly, “I should like to go now, my lord.”

  “Ava,” he said wearily. “It is too late to go calling.”

  “I don’t intend to call,” she said softly. “I intend to reside there.”

  Her declaration caught him by surprise. His hand froze in the straightening of his neckcloth. “What do you mean, ‘reside’ there?”

  “Exactly as I say. I intend to reside at my stepfather’s house.”

  Slowly, Middleton lowered his hand, his expression perplexed. “Might I ask why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “The only thing that is obvious to me is that you are my wife, and therefore you belong in my house, not your stepfather’s.”

  She gave him a withering look. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you are conflicted, sir. I merely intend to make it easier for you.”

  “Deserting your marriage doesn’t make anything easier for me,” he snapped.

  “You have such gall to say that I am deserting my marriage when you never fully entered into it. Will you now hold me against my will?”

  His eyes narrowed coldly, but he reached up, pulled open the trapdoor that allowed him to speak to the driver, and gave him the direction of Ava’s stepfather’s house.

  And he continued to stare
at her until the coach pulled in front of the Downey town house. As a footman jumped down from the coach and ran up the steps to announce Ava’s arrival—it was part of the protocol surrounding her new status as a marchioness—Middleton’s frown darkened. “You are making a rather grand mistake, wife. Have you no care for the scandal this will cause?”

  “It can be no worse than the scandal in marrying you,” she said briskly. “The mistake I made was in assuming that marriage was somehow prescribed by a set of rules. In believing that if I followed those rules, I would have all that I need.”

  “And don’t you have what you need? Do you want for anything? Your sister and cousin—do they want for anything?”

  “You know very well what I mean. I do not have what I need to be happy. I can’t possibly be happy in your house. I am rattling an empty cage.”

  His face darkened and he suddenly leaned forward. “Ava…there is something I need to tell you.”

  The door swung open; Ava heard Phoebe’s squeal of delight and reached for the door opening. Thank God! She didn’t want to hear how conflicted he was, how he hadn’t come to love her, but he hoped to in time. “Good-bye, my lord.”

  “For God’s sake, if you will just listen—”

  “I believe we’ve said all there is to say,” she said, and took the footman’s hand and climbed down.

  Phoebe instantly accosted her, throwing her arms around her, pressing her face to Ava’s bonnet, jumping up and down. “You’re home, you’re home!” she cried happily, then reared back, grabbed Ava by the shoulders, and peered closely at her. “You don’t look the least bit different. Lucy said you would look quite different somehow.”

  Ava forced a smile. “I haven’t changed in the slightest,” she insisted. “I’m still the same Ava.”

  Sally snorted at that as she lugged a couple of bags past Phoebe and Ava.

  Ava wrapped her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “Come, then, I want to read Greer’s latest letter,” she said, and tried to force Phoebe to walk inside.

  “But what of Middleton?” Phoebe asked with a laugh, pulling back. “I should like to meet my brother-in-law now that he’s been forced to live with—”

  “Lady Middleton!” Lord Downey called sternly from the door, his hands on his thick waist. “I would have a word with you if you please!”

  “He’s going to Middleton House,” Ava said, and ignored Phoebe’s cry of alarm as she went to greet her long-absent stepfather.

  She never saw the carriage roll away, but she heard it, and in Lucille’s arms, she closed her eyes tightly shut to keep the tears from falling.

  Middleton House was, Jared thought, quite empty and cold. There was not a redeeming thing about it as far as he could see—each room seemed stark and lacking any warmth. Just like him. Just as he was missing Ava, so was every room. She’d removed herself from him, and just like that, pieces of himself were removed from him, a little more every day until he worried there’d be nothing left of him at all.

  He’d known for a while—days, maybe—that he loved her, truly loved her, and that he couldn’t be without her. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t listen to him. He’d waited too long, had allowed the hurt to boil over and seep into her bones.

  Once he’d spoken to his father—who was in Scotland hunting at present—he would tell Ava everything. How he’d not been able to sleep because he missed her so, how he didn’t care if she ever bore him a child as long as she stayed close to him. How he’d wanted to tell her what was in his heart, but given the circumstance of their marriage and some unfinished business, he’d not believed he could. How he would do anything—anything—if she’d only come back to him.

  He’d already sent a note to his father requesting an audience when he returned at the end of the fortnight. He’d already bought the expensive diamond bracelet he would give Ava when he went to fetch her from her stepfather’s house and bring her home. He’d done everything he must to commit himself fully to Ava and their marriage and their life together. He was ready. He was ready to love her, completely, unconditionally, solely.

  Phoebe had questioned her endlessly as to why she had not returned to her husband’s house while Lucy flitted around preparing for the soirée that Lord Downey, having determined he owed no dowry to Middleton for having taken Ava from his hands, insisted on hosting to welcome the happy couple back to London. That, and to begin the husband search for Phoebe.

  “I can’t possibly understand why you are not in his house,” Phoebe said. “There is bound to be talk.”

  “I don’t care,” Ava said flippantly as she read the morning Times.

  Phoebe thumped her on the shoulder.

  “Ouch,” she exclaimed, glaring at her sister.

  “What happened?” Phoebe demanded.

  “Best you sit for it, mu’um,” Sally sighed as she flipped through the pages of a fashion plate, sprawled along the divan.

  “As for you, Sally, I think there is a bit of dusting in the library that requires your immediate attention,” Phoebe said with a strength Ava had never really noticed in her sister before now.

  “Dusting!” Sally exclaimed. “That’s for the chambermaid to do!”

  “Precisely. And as you may recall, we do not have chambermaids, so any maid may be required to do it.” Phoebe pushed Sally’s feet off the divan. “And I would like a private word with my sister, if you please.”

  “All right, all right,” Sally said grumpily, and went out.

  Phoebe shut the door behind her and locked it just to be safe.

  Ava tossed the newspaper aside and dug a gown Phoebe was working on from its hiding place in a cupboard. She held up a beautiful gold brocade glittering with tiny sequins—perfect for Parliament’s reduced autumn season and all the festivities that went along with it.

  “Do you like it?” Phoebe asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Like it? It’s beautiful, Phoebe.”

  “I thought it was perhaps overly adorned.”

  “No, it’s beautiful.”

  “Put it on,” Phoebe said as she picked up her sewing basket.

  Ava squealed with delight, turned her back to Phoebe so that her sister could unbutton the gown she wore, then slipped out of it and pulled the gold one on.

  “Now,” Phoebe said, as she fussed with the shoulders of the gown. “I will have your answer—a truthful one. Why have you abandoned your husband?”

  “You know why,” Ava said as she admired herself.

  “No, really, I don’t, and I am quite perplexed by it.”

  Ava leaned down, picked up the Times, opened it to the society page, and read aloud: “The hunter becomes the hunted: A certain bit of hunting that began at the country estate of a popular viscount two weeks past has continued in town. Now it would seem the hunter has been caught in a zoo by the hunted, a lord of the highest order. The widowed hunter never had a chance of escaping, according to reliable sources.”

  Ava tossed the newspaper aside. “There you are, Phoebe. He has a mistress.”

  Phoebe snorted. “As do most of the married men in this town. Why should that have you so overwrought? You expected no more or no less when you married him.”

  “Why? I will tell you why, Phoebe. Because I simply cannot bear it.”

  “Why on earth not? Everyone does.”

  Ava jerked around, knocking Phoebe’s hands from her shoulders. “I’m not everyone, Phoebe,” she snapped. “I can’t abide it.”

  Phoebe replaced her hands firmly on Ava’s shoulders and forced her around to the mirror above the hearth. “You love him,” she said, and yanked the dress so tight that Ava wheezed. “Don’t you? For all your talk of convenience and fortune, you love him,” she said, and yanked the gown even tighter.

  A tear slipped from Ava’s eye, slid down her cheek, off her jaw, and landed on the flesh of her breast. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good,” Phoebe said with a smile, and put a little slack in her dress. “Do you remember what Mother used to say? Tha
t a marriage is made for convenience and fortune, and rarely is it inspired? Well, Ava, darling, your marriage is inspired. You are a fool if you don’t grab it and hold tight.”

  “And if I hold on to it, he will wound me endlessly. Were it a true marriage of convenience, I’d not be slighted in the least. That is what Mother meant for us to learn.”

  “Rubbish,” Phoebe said as she attempted to button the gown. “I rather think even Mother would have been quite happy to think that perhaps, just once, love might conquer convenience.” She pulled the dress again and sighed. “The country air must do you well. I can scarcely button you,” she said with a bit of a grunt as she struggled to fasten the dress.

  When Phoebe had managed to button Ava, she looked at her sister’s somber reflection in the mirror, slipped her hands around her, and hugged her tightly. “If you love him, Ava, then you must go to him.”

  “No,” Ava said, tears in her eyes. “He doesn’t love me.”

  Phoebe sighed wearily. “You’ve always been uncommonly stubborn, haven’t you? If he doesn’t love you now, he will in time. How can he not?” She squeezed her sister affectionately and let her go. “Wait there while I fetch a bit of chalk,” she said, and walked across the room to dig through her sewing basket.

  With her back to Ava, Phoebe couldn’t see Ava examine herself in the mirror and the tight fit of a gown that would have, a mere month ago, fit her perfectly. Or see Ava put her hand to her belly and squeeze her eyes shut.

  Phoebe didn’t see the second tear that slipped from Ava’s eye when she realized, with not a little helplessness, that her suspicions must be true—she was carrying his child.

  On the night of the grand Downey soirée, Lord Downey would not leave Ava be. “Where is the marquis?” he asked excitedly. “I’ve an exciting proposition for him that he cannot possibly refuse!”

  “I don’t know,” Ava said wearily, feeling a little ill. She’d sent word to him about this wretched event and had received his reply that he would come. And he did come—in the company of Harrison and Stanhope, both of whom looked as if they’d had too much whiskey. He stood to one side.