“She was not tamed,” Drusilla burst out. “They are in love.”
“I thank God the same cannot be said of us.”
She winced as if he’d struck her, even though he stood full two paces away. He leaned against the heavy oak footboard of his bed. That bed where he had slept alone, dreaming of when he would share it with this woman before she’d danced her little game around him.
“I will leave London as soon as I can,” she went on. “You may say what you will. I will not contradict you.”
“Do you think such a course will fool anyone?”
A lone tear trickled down the side of her face. She’d scratched herself close to her eye, he noticed, though the bleeding had stopped. Blood streaked down from the mark, as if she’d wiped at it with no heed for the consequences. Just as she’d done when she sent that book to the publisher. Heedlessly, without thinking of the consequences. The cruel picture she’d drawn of him told Oliver what she truly thought of him. He would find a copy of that damned book and read it cover to cover.
Why not behave like her villain, the Prince of Tirolly? She had destroyed his faith in her, driven him to his knees in a few simple words.
“They will know,” she admitted. “They will understand the book was written about us. But not who wrote it.”
“You’re satisfied with that? You won’t trumpet the truth to the world? Claim your masterpiece?”
She shook her head. The tears flowed, but she made no attempt to dry them. Even now his instincts told him to hold her, to comfort her, but he could never allow himself to do that. Never again.
Tugging his handkerchief out of his pocket, he crossed the room and pressed the square of linen into her hand. She stared at it as if she did not know what to do with it.
“Tidy yourself,” he said gruffly. “Sit. And listen.”
She did as he bade her, mopping her face and holding the cloth to her eyes when she’d cleaned up the worst of the mess.
“Face me.” He would not say what he wanted to the back of her head.
She turned around, swiveling on the stool where he had spent so much time himself. His valet had settled his wig on his head that morning. He’d lost it somewhere, probably in the tussle with his brother, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She had not appeared to notice the lack. Lifting her head, she met his eyes.
The sorrow in her gaze nearly overset Oliver, but he fought back his tender feelings. She did not deserve them. “Your plan is very pretty, but it will not serve. Drusilla, what did you think you would achieve, writing that nonsense? Do you hate me so much you would expose my brother’s problems to the world? He lives apart because he cannot bear the idea of falling into a fit in the middle of society. Of losing control.”
The remnants of shock remained in her eyes, her pupils still wide. “Nobody knows anything about him. Do you not think people might understand better if they knew?”
Fury rocked him, not least because she had suggested what he had to his brother so many times. But Charles remained obdurate, and Oliver refused to justify his brother’s choices to this woman. “You are in no case to criticize what we choose to do.” Turning around, he slammed his clenched fist against the wall, but the pain brought him little relief. He still despaired. He spun back to face her. Surrounded by scented, delicate silks, he felt like destroying them all. For that reason, and for that alone, he refused to do it. Destruction never helped anyone, a bitter lesson that had taken him years to learn.
“Charles is delicate. The injury he received to his head continues to plague him. He forgets things. He remains in terrible pain. And he has fits. The carriage fell on his legs, shattering the bones, and he has lost the use of them.”
“Does he often fall…into fits?”
“They are unpredictable. Sometimes he can have one a week, sometimes he will go for a month or two. But I would not have him far from me. It is my fault he is as he is, and he is my burden to bear. Also yours, my dear.” He purred the last word, but felt no fondness when he said it. Only pure white anger. “Oh, yes. You do not get to walk away from this, whistling a merry tune.”
“I will not. I promise I will do everything I can to prevent the next two volumes coming out, if he has them. Already I—”
Two more volumes! What hell awaited them in those? What other calumnies would society drop on their heads? “You will do nothing of the kind!” he shouted. Somehow, he’d let his temper free, and it burned between them like a living flame. Closing his mouth with a snap, he watched her wipe fresh tears away, forcing his ire to subside. The sound of their heavy breathing hung over them. Eventually, Oliver felt safe to continue. He would not do her the honor of allowing her to see how much she had angered him.
“I must,” she protested, not cowed by him.
But he refused to admire her for that. Nothing was admirable about this woman. She had fooled him completely, lied to him, and deceived him. He should have stayed away from her after that damned ball. Not come back for more. What kind of pathetic creature did that make him?
“I cannot let the books come out. He might not have them, but he says he does, so I must assume he made copies.”
“I said you will not.” Pleased that he sounded so deadly, so steady, Oliver went on, “You will obey me, Drusilla. As you will for the rest of our lives. I chose my duchess, and I intend to keep to my decision, however foolish that might have been. My brother, God help him, appears to like you. Your duties will include spending at least an hour a day with him. You will tend him.” He took advantage of her stunned silence. Her jaw had dropped, and she stared at him as if he were mad.
“The gossips will speculate about Charles again. Until I can persuade him to appear in public, that will continue. You will tell everyone, including your family, that Charles is sane, as healthy as a man with his injuries can be, and happy. You will not go into any detail. The Emperors will help to spread those stories. If… When we marry, we will say the book was written by an anonymous person, probably a jealous rival of yours who wanted to become duchess. Do you understand, Drusilla?”
Mutely, she nodded. She looked as Charles did after a fit, bewildered and exhausted. But he wasn’t about to strip her and put her to bed.
Unaccountably, his body responded to that fleeting thought. Excitement zinged along his veins, rousing him. How could he have that reaction to her, after what she had done? Why did he still want her?
Grimly, he plowed on, letting her know what he had decided. “We marry, Drusilla. You become my duchess. You act like a proper duchess, and you laugh at that foolish book. You care for my brother, and you tell your family exactly what I tell you to say. You will obey me, and I will watch you until I am satisfied that you will not make another mistake, not for the rest of your life.”
“Yes.” She wrung her hands, clasping and working them, before she shuddered. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” he echoed.
“You could have thrown me to the wolves.”
He strode closer and took her by the shoulders, staring down into her eyes. “Our new life starts tomorrow, Drusilla. I have the special license, and we will marry without delay. Go home and prepare. I will see you with a man of the cloth at eleven sharp.”
Chapter 11
Dru sat numbly before her dressing table, watching her maid turn her into the perfect bride. Somehow Oliver had persuaded everyone that he wanted her so badly he wasn’t prepared to wait. Her mother had expressed dismay at first but then turned her formidable powers of organization to bringing the wedding forward.
She had done it. “Who would refuse to come to wish the bride and groom good health?” she had demanded at dinner that evening. “I have already sent out the amendments, telling the guests they should come tomorrow. The cooks are busy, and the servants are adding the leaves to the table as we speak.”
They were eating their dinner in the i
nformal atmosphere of the breakfast parlor. After escorting her home, Oliver had returned to his house to make his own preparations. He had shown every sign of the eager lover who wanted to snatch his bride away before somebody else could. Mention of the Prince of Tirolly had him waving the matter away carelessly.
“Let’s give them something else to gossip about,” he’d said, hitting exactly the right note to persuade the marchioness to his side.
“I will pin a rose to the side of your head, my lady,” Forde said, bringing her back to the present. Her wedding day.
Dru nodded listlessly. What did it matter, when she’d shattered all her dreams? She had nobody but herself to blame. All this was her fault. Meeting the secret brother, the person she’d made myth for her own stupid amusement had led to the destruction of everything she had ever longed for. She had never wanted high status, wealth, any of those things. Just love, and she’d been on her way to getting it before she’d wrecked her prospects and her future.
Now she would have everything most women in society would kill for. She should be happy, even if she had lost her betrothed’s regard. However, having experienced a small, tantalizing taste of what she could have and then thrown it away, she doubted she would ever be happy again.
When Forde had done, Dru went downstairs, where the carriage awaited to take her to church. She was marrying in a small, fashionable chapel, one of the gracious buildings erected after the Fire. She didn’t have to go to church, but Lady Bixby had requested it.
She went through the ceremony like a sleepwalker. This wasn’t really happening, it couldn’t be. Two weeks early, to a man who hated her. This was a trial, a case she would lose and then be condemned to lifelong punishment.
At that point Dru had to stop herself. As she gave her responses, she lifted her gaze and met her nearly husband’s cool stare. He affected her deeply, still, and nothing would change that. She might not ever persuade him she would never behave in that way again. Fury still lurked in the depths of Oliver’s eyes. Clearly he remained angry with her.
The final “I do” from her echoed like the voice of doom around the chapel. The trouble was, she didn’t know him. Not really. He dazzled her, enchanted her, but she had no way of knowing how long his temper lasted, what he would do to her. They had been on their best behavior while they were courting. Now, she had to learn all about the man she had married.
If she had known him before, as her brother Marcus had known his Viola, they would have something more solid to build on. The Shaws were known as a family who acted on impulse, let their passions ride over reason. Perhaps Dru would be the unlucky one, the person who took on too much and lost.
Fell in love with a man determined not to fall for her.
Thoughts and speculation skittered through her head, and she lost track, didn’t follow the rest of the service. When her father made the “tsk” sound she knew meant he was growing bored, the vicar ended the sermon. They were done. They had already signed the register, and she had remembered her new title. Having spent her life with aristocrats, she didn’t have to think about her new style.
If ever she needed a mask, it was now.
Three full hours later, Dru entered the house she was to call home on her husband’s arm. He took her straight upstairs to his brother’s apartments. If she had thought, she would have requested the visit, but she had barely spoken a word all day. Only social niceties.
“Well,” Oliver said cheerfully as he opened the door. “Here is my new bride.”
Charles had dressed for a wedding. His coat of blue brocade glimmered in the late afternoon sun, and the gold-embroidered waistcoat was positively blinding. Did he have cut diamonds for buttons? No, probably brilliants, but they flashed like fire when he turned to regard them.
The chair he sat in had wheels. Before, when she’d visited, he’d been in an ordinary chair, but this one was higher than normal and sturdier. Like a throne, since it had wide armrests. Rather intimidating.
His smile blinded her, too. She dropped a curtsy.
“Now that is unfair, when I cannot get up and bow,” he said softly. “Please don’t do it again. I would rather we met as friends. No ceremony. Besides, you are a duchess. You outrank me.”
When she glanced at Oliver, she saw a flush on his cheeks. What had Charles said? Or perhaps the rigors of the day were affecting him, too. The constant smiling and conversations and pretending that she was very happy had taken their inevitable toll. Dru was exhausted. “I’ll do whatever you wish, of course.”
“Drusilla has been kind enough to offer to spend some time with you every day,” Oliver said.
She needed to get to know this man. Perhaps Charles would be more forthcoming about the accident and their childhood. Oliver had told her very little, only the details of the accident itself. That meant she knew more than most other people, but that wasn’t saying much.
“I’m looking forward to our time together,” she murmured.
“Burnett will tell you my routine.” Charles wrinkled his nose. “I believe he knows it better than I. However, we will contrive, will we not, Drusilla? Does your family not call you Dru? I believe I heard my brother refer to you like that.”
“Yes. Please call me Dru if you wish to. We have such outlandish names, but we have done our best to make them more acceptable. My brother Marcus Aurelius says he has quite forgotten the second part of his name.”
“I see. And your siblings are?”
His gentle questioning was as precisely efficient as any leader of society. Difficult to believe he had effectively been incarcerated for the whole of his adult life, even if it was by his own choice.
“Marcus Aurelius, Darius, Valentinian, Claudia, and Livia,” she told him.
He raised a brow. “Some interesting choices there. The Roman Livia was not a particularly admirable character.”
“My mother liked the name.” Dru didn’t like any criticism of her family. And although she had joined another group, she would always consider herself a Shaw. “When we read about her, we found she was strong, as powerful as her husband, and she did what was necessary to survive.”
“Did you take your cue from her?”
Dru didn’t see the connection, but Oliver’s “Charles!” told her that he had. Oh, of course, Livia had poisoned and murdered to get what she wanted. How did that play into her situation now? How would publishing that book have furthered her cause? It had not, and it did not. Perhaps Charles thought she was married against her will. A wave of exhaustion swept over her. She had not slept properly and then had had to smile for hour after hour and tell people how happy she was.
She hurt, inside and out. She’d worn a new pair of stays, stiff and uncomfortable, and Forde had drawn them very tight. Every breath was an effort. Her hair felt pulled up, and of course she’d had to powder. She felt as if she had a hard, tight pad glued to the top of her head. Her beautiful blue gown draped and dragged. And the evening had only just begun. She had no idea what Oliver had planned for the rest of the day. The night— She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it. Thinking of what might have been only sent her into despair.
With the rigorous training she had received and the example her mother constantly set, Dru kept her head up and a polite smile on her face. Nobody looking at her would imagine the depths of agony she suffered, and if she had anything to do with it, nobody ever would.
“I take my cue from God and my parents,” she answered now. “I try to do my best in all things.”
“As you did when you wrote your book? Really, my dear, your reputation will echo down the centuries.” Did she detect an edge of bitterness in Charles’s voice? “As, unfortunately, will ours. You have made us immortal.”
“I thought you said society would forget it.”
Charles met her gaze. His was shuttered and hard, as hers must be. She worked to keep them that way.
<
br /> “We must pray it does so. Perhaps we may make an effort to create a new scandal. Maybe Miss Chudleigh will oblige.” Elizabeth Chudleigh, one of the late Queen’s ladies in waiting, had scandalized society more than once. When she had appeared all but naked at a masquerade, she had set society about its ears.
“Perhaps she will. Or someone else will. I understand that the book is not a literary masterpiece.”
Beside her, Oliver stirred. “I must read this, I suppose.”
“Oh, you must take mine.” Charles picked up the volume, once more using his bunched up nearly useless left hand to support it. Carefully, he held it out.
Oliver had no choice but to take it. “Thank you. I will obtain my own copy, unless Mama has already done so. I have a clever wife, I am told.”
“No!” The bitterness in his voice hurt Dru more than any sly remark anyone had made today. “I am the stupidest woman alive. I carried it on far too long. I should have put it aside years ago.” Tears stained her voice as her throat tightened, but she refused to let them fall.
“You will tell me, if you please, of all the adventures your family fall into. I am unlikely to meet them, but I have read much about them.” Charles gave another of his sweet smiles, his flash of temper seemingly gone. “I long to hear about them from someone who knows all the secrets. For instance, is it true your brother-in-law discovered your sister in a whorehouse?”
“That is so much a distortion of the truth—” Dru began, but she could not continue. The Emperors were custodians of a fact that would shake the world, were it known. They had blocked every attempt to reveal it, and that was why Claudia had been in that whorehouse. But Dru could reveal some of it. “She had no idea what the house was, but she had inherited it in our great-aunt’s will. She went to view it. That is all.”
“Some people say your brother-in-law was an agent of the king. Maybe more.”
If sitting in a room alone all day led to this avidity to discover every secret society had to offer, Dru wanted none of it. Charles bewildered Dru. The sudden changes in his mood confused her, but she would learn to cope. She had no choice, since Oliver had decreed she should spend more time with him. She did not believe in obeying her husband without question, but for now, she would bow her head and behave. She owed him that at the very least.
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