The Fall of a Saint

by Christine Merrill

  ‘A pity,’ he agreed through clenched teeth. He could not shake the feeling, when he looked into his wife’s triumphant eyes, that he was serving sentence for the crime. She must understand that this union was for the best. She was a duchess and not a gaoler. She had lost her position but gained a life of ease and a rank so august that no one would dare question her past.

  Their lives would not be ordinary, especially not while they contained this many parrots. But they would be as far beyond reproach as any in England. That was all he had ever wanted for himself, and he had assumed by the way she lamented her lost reputation that it was what she wanted, as well.

  He had meant to do little more than glance in her direction, to acknowledge her comment and prove that he was not bothered by it. But he had held the gaze too long, turning it into a battle of wills. For a moment, her confidence faltered and she looked as lost as he sometimes felt when under the scrutiny of this supposedly civilised society. Then she rallied and raised her guard again, looking as aloof as any lady of the ton.

  Good for her. It had been rude of him to stare. Few men in London would have had the nerve to return such a look from a duke. But the little governess he had married weathered it well. None here would have guessed that, scant weeks earlier, she might have been a servant in their homes. She had best maintain that hauteur and let people think her proud. The more distant her treatment of society, the more desperate it would become to befriend her. If she was granted the gift of old age, she would be like those horribly intimidating dowagers that ran Almack’s, casting fear into the hearts of all, lest some mistake on their part result in a fall from grace.

  For now she was young and her antics, no matter how outrageous they might seem to him, would be copied as the latest fashion. It was beginning already. This morning, Hyde Park was empty, Bond Street was quiet and ladies who would be barely out of bed had dressed and forced unfortunate husbands, sons and brothers to dress and celebrate the marriage of St Aldric.

  ‘It is good to see that you have found sufficient guests to share the day,’ he remarked, trying not to think of the birds just above him that seemed to be following their conversation as though they understood each word. ‘Are these people friends of yours?’

  ‘No, darling,’ she said with another false smile. ‘I have no family. No acquaintances in town. No one to stand by me in my time of need.’ She sighed theatrically.

  It was another reminder of how low she had been when he had come to her. Despite the lack of money, family and position, Michael was beginning to suspect that he had never met a less helpless woman in his life.

  She waved a hand to the assembly. ‘These are your friends. I got the names from your housekeeper.’

  He was tempted to sack Mrs Card for her help in this charade. She must have gathered every guest list in the house and combined them. Although he could recite their names from memory, he barely knew half the people attending. Which meant that along with the birds, he was paying to feed total strangers.

  But the woman who sat beside him at a wedding breakfast fit for royalty was picking at her food as though it was so much garbage heaped on her plate.

  ‘Do you not like it?’ he asked, trying to mask his annoyance.

  ‘You know I cannot eat,’ she said, taking a small sip of wine.

  And you know why.

  She would not say it aloud, but she meant to dangle the truth in front of him like this, as though, at any moment, she might choose to announce to the whole of London how they had really met.

  Was it just the circumstances of their meeting that had caused this vicious streak in her nature? Or had she been like this before, sour and disagreeable? His experiences with governesses in his own youth made him suspect the latter, for those he’d had had been a mirthless bunch. If so, she was not the sort of woman he’d have wanted to share his life and bear his child. If she hated the father, she would have no reason to love the son.

  It was all the more reason to win her over, if it took him a lifetime. He would do better than his parents had, in all ways. Madeline might have all the parrots she wished and gowns to match each feather. But he would abandon no son, as their father had done to Sam. Nor would he allow his home to degenerate into what his parents’ had been, a battleground full of traps for the unwary.

  If he failed? He glanced at his wife, chin stubbornly set as though she feared the food on her plate might leap forward on its own and attempt to nourish her against her will.

  If she would not be swayed, then he had the resources to protect their child from her disdain. But the women put in charge of the nursery would be warm, affectionate and nurturing.

  He spared a thought for Evelyn, sitting beside his brother at the other end of the table. Had things been different, she’d have been his, and a fine mother she would have made. She adored everything about children, even after seeing the birthing of them. He had been too particular last Season, while waiting for Eve to come to a decision. He should have offered for the first doting virgin he saw and got a ring on her finger. It would have saved him no end of trouble.

  Of course, if he’d married Eve, he’d have made her terribly unhappy, for she had never loved anyone but Sam. She was beaming at her husband as though thinking of her own wedding, still sitting under her own honeymoon.

  He wondered if receiving such devotion could raise a similar response in his own heart. He had expected to be an amiable companion to any woman he married. But with so little previous experience, romantic love was quite likely beyond his ken. Without someone to show him the way, how would he find it? He looked speculatively at the woman beside him and tried to imagine her as his loving wife.

  She looked back at him with annoyance.

  It proved what he had often expected. If one wanted undying devotion, it would be wiser to get a dog than a wife. Madeline wished to be anywhere but near him and, at the moment, he wished to oblige her. ‘It is a pity you are not well enough to travel,’ he suggested, sipping his wine. ‘A honeymoon journey at this time would be unwise. But now that the war is ended, a trip to the Continent would be lovely. Italy, Spain, France...’

  For a moment, her glittering eyes softened. ‘I have never been from England,’ she said wistfully.

  Did she have a weakness for travel? That was easily remedied and solved several problems at once. ‘What a shame. I took the Grand Tour, of course. Or as much of it as was possible with Napoleon on the loose. I am sure it would be quite safe now, should you wish to visit the Continent.’

  For a second, she looked positively eager. Then her eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing him like a gimlet. ‘Oh, but, your Grace, I cannot possibly think of leaving you so soon. And there will be the baby to care for, as well.’

  ‘He shall have wet nurses,’ he reminded her. ‘And governesses.’

  ‘Oh, but I could not want to leave the training of her to strangers.’ She emphasised the female pronoun ever so slightly, to remind him of the possibility that he might fail. ‘I will be quite capable of educating our child. Amo, amas, amaretto...’

  ‘Amat,’ he corrected, unable to stop himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She gave him an innocent look.

  ‘Amo, amas, amat. I love, you love, he loves. Amaretto is Italian. It is a bitter almond liquor.’ Was she seriously as ignorant as she pretended?

  ‘It does not matter, I am sure,’ she said, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘Love and bitterness are not so very far apart.’

  It was a game, then. Another attempt to test his patience. ‘While I have no doubt that you were proficient enough for your previous job, I thought you would not be interested in the education of our child,’ he said, shooting her a triumphant smile over the rim of his wine glass. ‘You mentioned you wished to leave me soon after the birth, did you not?’

  Apparently, there was something in what he’d said that up
set her. For a moment, all pretence disappeared and her composure cracked. She looked confused and frightened. Worse yet, she looked ready to cry.

  He held his breath and prayed the mood would pass. People around him were supposed to be happy and at ease. He made sure of it. He knew even less about womanly tears than he did of love. Perhaps Madeline sensed it and was resorting to tactics far more upsetting than tropical birds and bungled Latin.

  Then the moment passed and she made a little pitying click with her tongue. ‘You agreed that I could do just as I pleased. If it pleases me to leave you, I shall. But not because you are bribing me with trips abroad. Suppose I wish to stay?’ She gave a feminine shrug. ‘Perhaps you could send me away against my will. I know what you are capable of. I am sure your friends would be interested in hearing it.’

  At last he was on familiar ground. He smiled back at her. ‘Why, my dear, one might think that you married me for no other reason than to await a chance to tell that story.’ Let her deny it, or admit.

  ‘It will be a nice change for you. When we met, you seemed most eager to ruin your own reputation. I simply mean to be the helpmate you deserve.’

  It was a pity that her plan would not work. Men of his rank would be better, were it possible to shame them into good behaviour. He took a sip of wine. ‘Then let me avail you of the sad truth, Madeline. You are as ignorant of the ton as you pretend to be of Latin. The reason for our marriage does not matter to them. Not really. They will gossip for a time. But they would not dare cast me off for my piggish behaviour. Men and matrons will applaud me for marrying you and not leaving you to your unfortunate fate. And women of a certain, liberal-minded sort will find me dangerously appealing. Do your worst. Tell your story, here, now, before the cake is cut and your audience departs. And then we will get on with our lives.’

  He took another sip of wine, enjoying her shocked silence and waited for the farce to end.

  * * *

  When the door closed on the last of the guests, Maddie could not help the feeling of relief. It was foolish and spiteful of her to attempt to goad a reaction from St Aldric in full view of the ton. Other than the few tart remarks he’d made to her, he’d taken it all with amazing sangfroid, as though it were perfectly natural to have his house and his life turned upside down by a stranger.

  She had almost got to him when she had bungled the Latin. He had been marched through conjugations and declinations by a governess at least as strict as she was and had been unable to keep from correcting her. But it went too far against her grain to perpetuate such deliberate ignorance.

  Perhaps that was what had upset her so. The knowledge that the only child she was likely to have would be raised by others. It was the best thing for the baby, of course. St Aldric could provide more than legitimacy to the little one. But to know that there would finally be someone who she could honestly claim as family and love as her own, only to walk away....

  It was too soon to think about any of this. Much could happen between now and the birth. Her head was not clear enough to imagine the future. The servants had begun to clear away the mess. As the orchids disappeared towards the kitchen, she could take her first free breath. The cloying perfume had very nearly sickened her at the table and she had managed only a few bites of ham and the thinnest slice of wedding cake. And her head still rang from the sound of the birds.

  That had not worked either. He had ignored the chirping and whistling. But judging by the murmurs of the guests, the ton would declare this the event of the Season. By tomorrow, matrons all over London would be stalking the docks in search of imported birds.

  She was the only one who had suffered by this day. As she always did on visits to the town house, she felt small, insignificant and very much alone.

  It had been easier in the past week, staying with Evelyn and Dr Hastings. Their house was elegant, but nothing so large as this. She felt almost at home there, after she got used to the novelty of sleeping in a room decorated for a guest and not a servant. Evelyn was both wise and helpful, putting her mind at rest on the subject of pregnancy and delivery. Doctor Hastings was quite different from what she had expected him to be, after Dover. He’d made it clear that his home was at her disposal for as long as she might wish it.

  She had dared to imagine, just for a moment, that they were her family. To be so welcome and not obligated to work for her place was a novelty. Nor did she think St Aldric had paid them for their hospitality to her, as her absent father did the family that raised her. They took her in willingly, expecting nothing in return.

  Then Dr Hastings had hinted, very diplomatically, that if she had a change of heart about the marriage or anything else, she was to come to him and he would help her.

  It made her uneasy. Did he think her not good enough for the duke? Was he hoping, in the guise of kindness, to dissuade her from marrying his brother? Or did he know facts that had not yet been revealed to her and meant this as a rescue? It could be that St Aldric was just as dangerous as she expected him to be and that marriage to him would be a fresh misery.

  But it was too late to worry now. She had chosen to marry him. Despite what a villain her husband might be, she was a duchess and she meant to behave as capriciously as the worst of them.

  When she had demanded that a modiste must drop everything and provide a wardrobe fit for the wife of a peer, St Aldric had hardly blinked. Instead, he’d added, ‘You will need a maid, as well. Do you wish Mrs Card to arrange suitable candidates for you to interview?’

  A devilish part of her had decided that enlisting the housekeeper was the way to cause the most difficulty. But it left her in the embarrassing position of interviewing servants, using a tone that had been used upon her scant months ago. In the end, she chose one of the housemaids who had some experience with dressing and hoped for the best.

  That girl, as the others had, accepted her as her future mistress with eager enthusiasm. She seemed to think any woman that might suit his Grace was near to perfection.

  How could they all be so wrong about him? Was he truly able to hide the darker side of his nature to all but her? The servants seemed to view him not so much as a saint but almost as a God, rushing to do his bidding as though it was an honour to serve here.

  Such misguided loyalty chilled her blood. And with it went any desire to upset the household instead of the master. These poor unfortunate souls had done nothing to deserve her punishment. She knew from experience what it was like to have employers with no sympathy for the servants and the difficulty their outlandish requests might make. She could make their lives hell with unreasonable demands. Or she could set the whole house into chaos by her inaction.

  But there was something in the steady, cold gaze St Aldric had given her when he had introduced her to the staff that made her doubt the effectiveness of such a trick. The house would run on without her, she was sure, just as it had before there was a duchess.

  If she had a grievance with their master, it would not be solved by taking it out on others. So today, she politely thanked Mrs Card for the extra work necessary to arrange a feast on short notice, then announced that she would retire to her rooms.

  She gave a brief, helpless look to the woman. ‘Someone must show me the way.’ If she had come to marry in a normal way, would she still be ignorant of the bedrooms on her wedding night? Certainly not if it had been Richard, as she had hoped. She doubted that the man she had wed would be so particular about preserving his lady’s honour once she had agreed to a marriage.

  It made her think of Dover and the deliciously familiar sensation of a man inside of her, followed by the shock of discovering a stranger.

  The housekeeper noticed her nervousness and smiled, sympathetic and cheerful. ‘Of course, your Grace.’ But where Mrs Card saw the excitement of a new bride, Maddie struggled with feelings of embarrassment and guilt still mixed with the low, erotic hum inside her
, the desire to give herself over to sin, just to be as alive as she had when she had been with Richard. She did not want to be alone.

  But neither did she want to be trapped in a mockery of a marriage. And the smiling housekeeper only made her feel guilty. Did this poor woman not realise her true feelings for the duke?

  Apparently not, for the trip to the bedrooms was peppered with congratulations and good wishes, and the hope that there would soon be a child at Aldricshire, for his Grace had been so hopeful of that....

  ‘Of course,’ Maddie answered with a smile that felt even more false than usual, and continued up the stairs. They would realise, soon enough, the reason for the marriage. Rather than being shocked at her lack of chastity, they would probably applaud the coming of another little duke.

  The housekeeper stopped at an open doorway with an expectant smile. ‘Here, your Grace, are your rooms. They have not been used since the duke’s mother was alive. But we have aired them and Peg is already unpacking your things.’

  As though it would make her feel the least bit at home to think of St Aldric’s mother, who probably had blood as blue as her son’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Mrs Card. I am sure I shall be fine now.’

  With a bob the woman retreated, leaving Maddie alone. Or as alone as she was ever likely to be, for there was still a servant in the room. Her new maid was industriously filling drawers and searching for things that might need mending or pressing. As if that was even needed. The clothes were all new.

  Too new. Though they belonged to her, Maddie felt no comfort in having them. She’d found the most expensive dressmaker on Bond Street and had nearly bought out the shop. The woman was frustrated by her lack of interest in the details and her instance with quantity over style. In the end, she’d had the same design made in multiple colours, so eager was she to get away from the swatches and the measurements and the assurances that this or that fashion would bring out the colour in her cheeks or accent her particularly fine figure.