He tried to wound her with his words, his anger causing him to lash out. She knew that, but the words still stung. She realized now that they’d come too far for her not to feel hurt by what he might say, for while they’d been married less than a week, this morning had changed everything.
She looked away.
“Go freshen yourself. I refuse to have your parents meet you when you still reek of sex.”
She snapped her eyes upon him. “Then you’d best clean yourself, too.”
She thought he might say something crass, for his eyes narrowed in that particular way he had, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned on his heel and left. Elizabeth followed his departure, debating with herself whether to do as asked … no demanded. But a streak of defiance made her lift her head. Made her decide that no matter how nasty he sounded, she would not let him intimidate her.
He had killed his brother.
Well, there had never been any question about that. One way or another, Lucien had been responsible. The question was—and still was—had he meant to kill him? Lucien almost made it sound like he had. And yet she knew. She just knew he couldn’t have done it intentionally. ’Twas simply not possible.
So she stood there, mulling over all she’d learned and coming to the realization that what he’d just done was actually quite masterful. He’d made himself sound like a devil, and she’d been filled with the appropriate horror. Only, he wasn’t a killer. He only wanted her to think he was. And he did it because he obviously wanted her to leave him alone.
Intimidation again.
Well, she would not have it. She would not meekly go away. She would force the dratted man to confront his guilt. To tell her his side of the story. He owed her that.
She drew herself up, squared her shoulders, and tilted her chin. Her hands clenched in determination as she stared at the castle door he’d just walked through.
His grace would soon learn that she was not like him. She did not walk away from her problems.
Lucien’s hands shook as he poured himself a drink, uncaring that it was early afternoon, nor that his wife’s parents were in the room as he tipped the glass back and downed the whole thing in one gulp. Nor even that he refilled the glass again. God willing the alcohol would help him to forget the morning. There’d been a time after Henry’s death when spirits had worked remarkably well. He’d woken up six months later to find that society believed him a murderer. He smiled grimly. Well, he was.
Someone cleared a throat, the earl by the sound of it. Lucien slowly, reluctantly turned toward them.
Two haughty faces stared back, the both of them standing with their rears to a window, four dark blue armchairs and a low cherrywood table between them.
“I beg your pardon,” Lucien drawled. “I was quite parched.”
The earl’s nostrils flared. Quite remarkable really, for the man resembled a horse to the point that Lucien was surprised no one had offered to halter the fellow. He took another swallow. The liquid burned down the back of his throat, heat spreading through him. He welcomed that heat and the looseness that warmed his muscles.
“Please have a seat,” he invited, motioning with his glass, some of the liquid sloshing out.
“No thank you, duke,” the earl answered, his long chin tilting up.
Lucien lifted a brow at his arrogant attitude. Quite cheeky of the man, really, especially given that his family still inhaled the scent of feet for a living. Had he forgotten that Lucien descended from royal blood? That his cousin—distant, of course—was the Prince Regent? That he could lay claim to half a dozen royal relatives?
Apparently so.
Lucien rolled the glass between his thumb and forefinger, smiling tightly.
“Did you have a pleasant ride up from London?” Lucien asked, his throat tingling from the liquor.
They didn’t answer. “Where is my daughter?” the countess asked instead, her face like that of a bull terrier—perpetually in a scowl—her tone just slightly short of accusation.
“Chained up in our dungeon, of course,” he answered with a polite smile. “Where else?”
She drew herself up, her jowls all but quivering.
“I’m right here, Mama.”
Lucien almost dropped the glass. He turned to the door. God, but his hands shook just at the sight of her.
“Finally,” her mother all but accused. “Elizabeth, where have you been?”
“What a surprise to see you,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her mother’s harsh tone as she crossed the plush blue-and-white carpet toward her mother. She bent, placing an air kiss next to her cheek. “Has Lucien offered you some refreshments?”
Lucien watched her, his hand tightening around the glass. She looked composed. Defiant, even, as she shot him a glance. His nails dug into the glass. “Alas, no,” he said as evenly as he could. “I did offer them a seat, however. They declined.”
“I’ll just ring for some tea then.”
“Elizabeth, we do not want refreshment,” her mother said with a nervous glance at Lucien. “We need to talk to you.” She straightened. “Alone.”
Elizabeth darted a glance up at him, brows raised. “Indeed?” she asked, facing them again.
“Yes. Alone,” her father agreed.
Icy tendrils of foreboding coursed through Lucien. ’Twas more than Elizabeth’s treatment of him. It was the looks her parents kept sending him. Even when he’d offered for Elizabeth’s hand they’d never openly shown hostility. Now they did. Why?
“What you have to say to me can be said in front of Lucien,” Elizabeth said. She shot him another look, tilting her head stubbornly as she said, “He is, after all, my husband.” And her tone seemed to be a reminder of that fact.
Silence greeted her words. Lucien debated with himself if he should leave.
But then her father said, “Very well. If that is how you feel.” He straightened, shooting a look between them. “Elizabeth,” he said sharply, “we’ve come to tell you that Lucien is to be brought up on charges of murder.”
Chapter Nineteen
The words rocked through Lucien, the words he’d lived in fear of since his brother’s death.
“No,” his wife said.
“Yes,” her father said, his face filled with loathing as he shot him a glance. “I heard it from the Lord Chancellor himself. They had to clear it through him as your husband is a peer, not that he acts like one.”
He expected her to whirl on him, to look up at him with horror and accusation. Instead she kept her gaze on her parents.
“Impossible,” she said.
“I wish it was,” her father snapped, “but I tell you ’tis true.” His glance fell upon Lucien again. “I am sorry, Ravenwood, to break the news in such a fashion, but there you have it.”
Bloody bastard wasn’t sorry in the least.
The earl held his gaze, his expression turning almost challenging. “In light of this, Your Grace, I’m sure you will do the right thing and grant Elizabeth a separation. She will, of course, keep the title of duchess.”
“Separate,” Elizabeth shot. “Father. No.”
“Elizabeth,” her mother said, “listen to your father. You need to get away from this man. ’Tis your only course of action. Why, already we have suffered the repercussions of our association with him. Yesterday Lady Haversham told us that she would no longer receive us as we were now affiliated with a murderer.”
He watched as Elizabeth’s face hardened. “I am sorry for that, Mother, but my husband can hardly be blamed for people’s misapprehensions of him. You should have told the lady good riddance and cut her in return.”
Her mother gasped. “Elizabeth, do not be ridiculous. Lady Haversham is a pillar of society, almost as influential as Lady Jersey. I cannot cut her.”
“So you would have me leave my husband instead?”
They didn’t answer. Lucien waited to see what Elizabeth’s reaction would be. He had it an instant later.
“Well, I thank you for comi
ng all this way. But I’m sure you understand that leaving him is quite out of the question.”
And Lucien simply stared.
“Don’t be a fool,” her father snapped. “I insist upon it. No one will think ill of you for doing such, Elizabeth. He is a murderer, ’tis only a matter of time before it is proven.”
“No, he is not,” Elizabeth answered. “And how dare you. How dare you come here and say such a thing? And to Lucien’s face, no less?”
Lucien felt his heart swell in an odd way as she stepped toward her parents, tiny hands clenched. She looked as ferocious as a cornered barn cat. “He is my husband and, God willing, the father of my unborn child if the seed that he has planted takes root.”
“Elizabeth,” her mother gasped. “You are too common.”
“Have I embarrassed you, Mother?” she raged, turning on the countess. “Well, you have embarrassed me, too,” she added, swiveling on her heel to cross to the door, jerking upon the polished brass handle with enough force that her hand slid off it. The wood door hit the wall. “You will both leave.”
The earl and countess looked incapable of speech. Lucien knew how they felt. He stared at his wife, emotions he couldn’t name filling him, as she glared, nay, all but growled, at her parents.
“Don’t do this, Elizabeth,” her mother urged. “You will need us in the coming months. Why, it could take years for Lucien’s case to be heard. What will you do in the meantime? You will be an outcast. No one will associate with you.”
“That is a chance I will have to take.”
“Elizabeth—” Lucien warned, about to agree with them, but her father interrupted him.
“You’re a fool,” her father repeated with a growl. “I will not stand by and watch you do this. If you refuse to leave with us, then we will have no choice but to cut our connection with you.”
He saw her stand tall, saw her tilt her chin in that stubborn way of hers, watched steely resolve turn her spine into iron. And then she said the words that must have cost her more than he could imagine. “Then I bid you good-bye, Father.” She looked at her mother. “And you, too, Mama. Do have a pleasant journey back to London.”
No one said a word, least of all Lucien. Lucien, who found himself fighting to keep from pulling his wife into his arms. Lucien, who, for the first time in years, felt not quite so alone.
“If that is how you feel,” her mother said. “Come, George.” She lifted her nose in the air, gliding by her daughter without even a farewell. It was the coldest, most heartless good-bye Lucien had ever witnessed. Her father did the same.
“Elizabeth—” Lucien tried again.
“Lucien,” she said, “quiet.”
Quiet? She followed her parents out, turning to him and ordering, “Stay.”
She returned a few moments later, her parents, apparently, gone. “Answer me this,” she said, throwing his earlier words back in his face. “Did you intend to kill Henry the day of the duel?”
And just like that his heart began to race. He debated how to answer, but in light of her championing him, he felt he owed her a straight answer. “If you had asked me that an hour before the duel, I would have said yes.”
Her eyes went wide.
And perhaps this was the way to make her leave, for her parents were right. If he was to be brought up on the charge, it would be best if she left. Now. Before she was tainted by the stain of his guilt.
“There is more to the story than you know, Elizabeth. But, no, I did not mean to kill Henry if that is your question.”
She seemed to sag a bit before she recovered, saying, “Then what happened?”
And yet oddly enough, he found himself not wanting to tell her the truth. But he must, it was the only chance he had of making her see the wisdom of leaving. “The ball from my pistol didn’t go astray,” he said. “It was aimed in Henry’s direction, however.”
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him as if repeating his words in her mind. “But … how?”
“I fired at him. Directly at him, or near enough that there was a good chance it would hit him.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That is not possible. Even John confirmed your brother was hit as he stood by.”
“A lie.”
And God help him, he saw some of her compassion flee. It shocked him how much that disappointed him. Devil take it, he hoped he hadn’t started to care for her. That he must never do. “No lie.”
“But everyone knows you were fighting Lord Chalmers—”
“I was fighting my brother.”
She stepped back as if he’d threatened to hit her. “Your brother?”
He faced her squarely. “We were fighting over Melanie, countess of Selborn.”
“Selborn,” she gasped, for all of society knew of the woman’s banishment to the Continent. She’d been branded a murderess, much as he would be branded a murderer.
“I fancied myself in love with her back then. But Henry didn’t approve. Said she was a trollop. Said he could prove it.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her expression that of someone clearly unwilling or, perhaps, frightened to believe the words they heard.
“I called him out.”
“No.”
“But I did, Elizabeth,” he said, the steel he’d erected around his heart fracturing as he fought to contain emotions he’d managed to keep hidden for so long.
“We fought at Putney Heath. But by the time we were back-to-back, Chalmers and Greshe, the seconds, had made me see the ridiculousness of our dispute. I intended to delope, as did Henry, I thought.” He paused for a moment as it all came back. “And then I heard a shot. I couldn’t believe it. Henry had turned and fired early. At me. I resolved to fire, too. But at the last second I pulled up. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shoot my own brother in cold blood. But something happened. My pistol went off. My brother fell.” Bile rose in his throat as he recalled the sight of his brother falling, a shocked expression on his face. ’Twas a memory he’d worked so hard to forget, and yet one he would never be able to banish.
“He died within minutes. Bled to death. Clutched my hand the whole time. He tried to speak, but the ball had pierced his lungs, for he was only able to pronounce one word, and only then to describe how he felt.” He swallowed, forcing himself to go on. “ ‘Empty.’ I shall never forget the word as long as I live.”
He waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he looked away. Having known this would be her reaction, it surprised him how much he hated seeing the look of shock and revulsion on her face.
“Afterward, the countess came up with the idea of concealing the duel. It was she who suggested we give out the story that I was fighting with Chalmers, the man who had been acting as my second. ’Twas he that swore my brother’s pistol must have misfired, for Henry hadn’t been facing me,” he repeated, his hands clenching. “His pistol must have misfired while we were counting paces, and when it had, he must have known what I would do, spun around to stop me. Perhaps cry out a warning.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll never know.”
“Oh, Lucien.”
He took a deep breath, fighting to keep his voice even. “As it turned out, my brother had been right. Melanie was a scheming bitch for by then she’d decided to blackmail me.”
“She needed your help to cover up the murder she’d committed,” Elizabeth guessed.
“Very good, my dear. Yes. She’d never loved me. The duel had all been part of her plan. By killing my brother, I played right into her hands. She had me over a barrel, and she knew it.” Anger came over him again, anger at the way she’d so expertly outmaneuvered him. He’d defended the slut’s honor, and she’d turned around and made him pay for it, with Henry’s life.
“So I pretended to help her,” he said. “And in doing so I became the person society thought me. Cold. Heartless. Capable of anything.”
He looked down at Elizabeth. “I didn’t care what I’d become. I would have done anything to m
ake her pay. Anything. And I did.”
To his utter amazement, she placed her hand upon his arm. “You did what you needed to do.”
He couldn’t believe she would defend him. “No, Elizabeth. I did what I wanted to do. I enjoyed being the blackguard. Several times in the past year I’ve wished to go back to that life, but to do so would make me as bad as the countess, and now that she has paid, I have tried this past year to behave as I ought. Until I met you.
“It will all come out in the trial, Elizabeth. My affiliation with Melanie. The duel. All of it. I will be convicted of murder. And you will be tainted by my crimes … unless you leave.”
“I’ll not leave. You need me.”
“I need no one.”
His words hurt, as she supposed they were meant to do. “You will need me to be on the outside if they decide to imprison you.”
“Decide?” he snapped, his patience obviously at an end. “Of course they will imprison me. I am to go to trial, according to your father. I shall be imprisoned in Newgate, tried before my peers. If I’m lucky, my conviction will be stayed, and I shall be transported to Botany Bay. If they decide to make an example of me, I shall be hanged.”
“You won’t be hanged. We’ll fight it.”
“We will do no such thing.”
And again, his words hurt. “Then what am I to do? Stand by and watch them hang you?”
“If you are wise, yes.”
“Oh, that is a marvelous idea,” she went on a touch hysterically. “Perhaps I should sell sweetmeats at your trial. Mayhap offer the Morning Chronicle an insider’s look at what it’s like to be the wife of the duke of Ravenwood. They could title it ‘Life with a Diabolical Duke.’ ”
He didn’t say anything, just stared down at her with steely resolve.
She lost her patience then. “You do realize you are sunk if you go through this alone? You need someone to speak for you, someone unbiased—”
“A wife unbiased?” he cut her off with a cynical laugh. “Oh that is rich.”
She stiffened.
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