“There are rumors of other women as well as the actress,” Flora hissed. “They say he’s been visiting a young woman with a baby.”
Meg looked up.
“Flora!” Hector warned.
“Take me to Hartley Place,” she said. “I’m very tired. I need to think, need to sleep. He likely won’t be home tonight.” Or tomorrow night, or the night after that. She clenched her fists, hating Nicholas.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Hector asked.
She stared out the window into the darkness. “Everyone expects me to run away. Perhaps that’s what he expects. I will decide tomorrow what I will do, when I am calmer.”
“Calmer? You barely seem upset at all! Surely you don’t have feelings for him?” Flora asked.
“He’s my husband, Mother. I had—hopes.”
Flora sniffed. “Hopes. You’ve always had hopes. Your father never paid you any attention, and you tried to be smarter and better than your sisters so he’d notice you, didn’t you? I suppose you hoped Nicholas would notice you too, not give all his attention to actresses. It’s not that your father didn’t love you, Marguerite. He didn’t know how to deal with strong, clever women.”
“He’d be proud if he could see you now,” Hector said.
“Would he?” Meg asked softly. “Married to a man who doesn’t—couldn’t—love me?”
“It was your father’s shortcomings that brought us to this, not yours, in my opinion,” Flora said. “You are the best of us all, and you make a magnificent duchess. If Temberlay can’t see that . . .” She paused. “I suppose that doesn’t ease the shock and hurt you’re feeling now.”
She opened her reticule and pressed a small vial into Meg’s hand. “Take this. It’s laudanum. It will help you sleep without dreams, and without any pain at all.”
“Flora, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Hector said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hector! There are times a mother knows what’s best.” She held up the glass bottle and stared at it. “I used it after your father died to help me sleep. His death was a terrible shock. He simply abandoned me to face what was quite unfaceable. Sleep made it bearable.”
“Meg made it bearable, Flora, not the drug. Meg, Laudanum is dangerous. Too much can make you completely unconscious, or worse,” Hector said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Flora interrupted.
“For how long?” Meg asked. She took the vial and looked at her mother.
But Hector put his hand over Meg’s. “You’d be out for hours, and you’d wake feeling awful, and want more.”
“I see.” Meg stared at the vial in her palm, and closed her fingers over it. “I’ll be careful,” she said.
“Just a drop in a glass of water,” Flora advised. “Or two, perhaps. Certainly no more than three or four. Five at the most.”
At Hartley Place, Hector escorted her up the steps and asked Gardiner to fetch some warmed wine.
When the butler looked past Meg’s shoulder for signs of Nicholas, Hector’s face hardened. “See to Her Grace! I doubt your master will be home tonight.”
Gardiner bowed.
“You can still come back to Bryant House for a few days until this blows over, Meg,” he said. “At least give me the laudanum.”
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll be fine. You’d better get Mama home before she faints.”
She went upstairs and sat down at her dressing table, too exhausted to do anything but stare into the mirror.
The dowager entered. “Gardiner told me you were unwell,” she said. “Good Lord, you’re as white as linen!”
“Why would Gardiner come for you?” Meg asked, unfastening the sapphires herself.
“I told him to alert me if you were unwell. Are you with child?” she asked bluntly.
Meg’s stomach coiled. “I am ill for quite another reason. I saw Angelique Encore in Nicholas’s arms. In fact, everyone in attendance at the theater tonight saw them. It was far more entertaining than the play.”
The dowager sat in the wing chair. “Damn him.”
Meg began to pull the pins out of her hair. “Have you seen her? She’s beautiful, everything a man could want.” She felt tears sting her eyes, and she blinked them away.
“You are not so innocent that you don’t know that men keep mistresses, Marguerite. But for him to be so indiscreet is unforgivable.”
“There is little I can do,” Meg said.
“On the contrary—you must do your duty, give him an heir,” the old lady said.
Meg felt her face heat. Other than on their wedding night, he had not done more than kiss her. She shut her eyes. She’d believed him when he said he wished to talk, to start over. Now the truth was plain. He didn’t want her. Shame burned as she looked at the dowager.
“You yourself said these things take time,” she hedged.
“You’re not trying hard enough.” The old lady’s voice dripped with ice.
Meg met her hard, cold eyes. “I am not Angelique Encore. I am not sweet and pretty like Rose. I am the one woman in the world it appears that he does not want. Perhaps if he’s very drunk and the room is very dark, and every other female in London is otherwise occupied, he might be willing to bed me.”
The dowager rose and walked toward Meg. “This is not the time to feel sorry for yourself. If you wish to be complimented, petted, then I’ll tell you plainly that you’re more beautiful than either your sister or that strumpet. Miss Encore’s talent is all between her thighs. He’ll tire of that soon enough. You have wit and brains. Surely you can think of a way to seduce him. You may be innocent, Marguerite, but you are not a fool.”
Laughter bubbled up and spilled out of Meg. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Nicholas has his clubs, his mistresses, and his own life. He has no time left for me.”
The dowager gripped Meg’s chin. “The whole purpose of this marriage is to get an heir of Temberlay blood. Nicholas is the only Hartley left. If you cannot do that, then you are of no use to me, and neither is he.”
Meg stared at the hatred glittering in the old lady’s eyes. No wonder she didn’t care which sister her grandson married. Better the plain sister after all, to make Temberlay’s punishment worse.
“You think I’m cruel, no doubt,” the dowager said. “I’m merely practical, no different than you. You married Temberlay to save your family. I arranged it to save mine. I want an heir. Perhaps your sister would have been a better choice after all, but it’s too late now. You have chosen this course, Marguerite, and you will do as I say. I want an heir. Even if your family is safe now, that could easily change.”
Meg’s throat closed. “What do you mean?”
The old lady smirked. “I could destroy the prospects of your sisters forever. If the details of your father’s death were made known, for instance—”
She knew? Not even Mama or Hector knew the truth. Meg had made sure . . .
“You wouldn’t,” Meg croaked around the lump of dread that filled her throat, threatened to choke her.
The dowager smiled unpleasantly. “Wouldn’t I? I made Nicholas marry against his will. I control him because I control the purse strings. His blood, his seed is all I have. I want a child to raise to be duke in his place—a decent, honorable man who deserves the title. Once I have an heir, Nicholas can swive himself to death with a whole chorus of actresses for all I care.”
Meg paled. And she would no longer be necessary to anyone. The dowager reached out and grasped Meg’s chin again, and her fingers dug into her flesh like claws. Meg held her eyes, refused to flinch.
“Seduce him, Marguerite. Find a way. If you are not with child within three months, I will reveal what I know about your father’s death, and expose your mother as his brother’s whore. Is that clear? You would all end up in the gutter.”
Meg looked away first.
The dowager released her, then picked up a long lock of her hair and stroked it through her bony fingers. “Good girl.” She left the room.
Meg went to the basin and scrubbed the old witch’s touch from her skin, and stared at her blotched face in the mirror.
Seduce him? With a lover like Angelique a short carriage ride away? She turned away from the glass. Impossible.
But the safety of everyone she held dear depended on it.
Chapter 37
By the time Nicholas reached the staircase that led to the foyer, there were a hundred people in his way. Men slapped him on the back. Women turned away to whisper behind their fans.
He was in too much of a hurry to catch his wife to stop and explain, or to plant a fist in anyone’s face. He shoved his way through the crowd, but Hector’s coach was gone by the time he reached the street.
He clenched his fist and drove it into the stone wall of the building, feeling his knuckles split. The pain didn’t erase the image of Meg’s face, the stark horror, the betrayal in her eyes. He felt hot shame flood him at who he’d allowed the ton to make him.
He found his coach and climbed in. The ghost of her perfume rebuked him. “Bryant House,” he commanded.
He’d look there first.
Chapter 38
Meg wasn’t sure how long she sat at her dressing table. The soft knock on the connecting door startled her. She stared at the shadowed panels, her heart in her throat, unable to speak.
The latch rattled and she cast a quick glance at the key on her dressing table. She picked it up and clutched it in her hand, squeezing until the metal dug into her palm.
“Go away.”
“Open the door, Meg,” he commanded.
She stayed where she was. She couldn’t look at him tonight, fresh from the arms of another woman, her perfume on his shirt, her touch still on his skin.
She stood in the center of the room, and glowered at the portal. “What do you want? To gloat?”
“I won’t have this conversation through a locked door.”
The word “conversation” made her lips twist bitterly. “You want to talk?” she hissed. “I think we’ve said everything. Go back to your mistress!”
She flinched as his fist hit the door. At least she thought it was his fist until the door crashed inward and landed at her feet. He stood in the opening, shattered wood at his feet, more pirate than duke.
A shiver of fear coursed through her.
“Never lock me out again, Maggie. This is the only time I will warn you.”
She folded her arms over her chest and glared back, meeting the anger in his eyes with her own fury. “Oh, is that the way to tempt you into my bower? To challenge you? That door has been locked for weeks, and you’ve shown no interest in opening it. Why tonight? Was my public humiliation not revenge enough? Have you come to laugh, to point out that I can now see why I am not good enough for you?”
Nicholas regarded his wife, saw the pain in her eyes. She was trembling. He felt shame fill his chest at the hurt he had caused her, even if it had been unintentional. She wore only her shift and a silk dressing gown that she’d forgotten to fasten. Her skin was flushed pink, her breasts heaving with anger. There was no paint, no jewels, no artifice. She was more beautiful than any woman, especially Angelique.
He had planned a very different ending to this evening. He had no idea how to fix this. Should he apologize, fall to one knee and beg? He didn’t beg. Nor could he bring himself to tell her that he’d dismissed Angelique because he couldn’t even think of any woman but his wife. He sensed even saying Angelique’s name would make things worse, not better.
“Perhaps I came to claim my husbandly rights,” he said instead.
It was the wrong thing to say. He saw that at once. She flushed scarlet, and her chin rose. She clenched her fist, and he thought for a moment she’d punch him. She threw a key at him instead. It hit him in the chest, and fell to the carpet.
“You dare to come to me from the arms of another woman and talk of rights and privileges? You have her makeup on your mouth! What of my right to respect as Duchess of Temberlay, your wife, or does that apply to everyone but the Duke of Temberlay?”
His gut tightened. “It seems you’ve forgotten the fortune you earned as your reward for marrying me. You want my respect as well? You’ll have to earn that, Maggie.”
She made a strangled sound of fury. “How, on my back, while you compare me to her?” she demanded. “Please leave, Your Grace. You have shown me that I am repugnant to you—”
She drew a breath as he advanced on her. “Shall I take you to bed and show you how far from repugnant I find you?”
She stared at him, and he watched anger warring with indecision in her eyes. She turned away. “No. I cannot do this. Not tonight, not now.”
For a long moment he stared at her silk-clad back, her bare feet.
“I have no interest in bedding an unwilling woman. Go to bed, Maggie. Alone. I wish you joy of it.”
He ignored her gasp of indignation as he stepped over the broken door and went to his own room. He crawled into his cold bed and pulled the pillow over his head and shut his eyes against the image of Meg’s tormented face, the ghostly sound of David’s final words. It’s all Nicholas’s fault.
This time at least, it was true.
Chapter 39
“The Countess of Wycliffe is here to see—”
Marguerite watched as her mother barreled poor Gardiner out of her way and entered the breakfast room the next morning.
“I have brought the scandal sheets,” Flora said, brandishing a sheaf of papers.
Meg turned to Gardiner. “Would you burn those, please, Gardiner? The dowager sent the morning papers to my rooms this morning, Mother. I did not read a word, and I do not wish to read them. In fact, I have banned them from being brought into my presence ever again.”
Flora frowned and sat down, helping herself to tea. “You sound very regal this morning. I trust the laudanum helped?”
Meg focused on stirring her tea. “I didn’t take any.”
She had stared at the vial after Nicholas left her, and put it away. She had lain awake half the night, thinking of the dowager’s threat. What would Flora do if she were publicly disgraced? She had retreated into a dangerous half world induced by drugs when her husband died.
The only thing to do was to find a way to make Nicholas sire a child to protect the ones she loved. Poor, poor child. It was an impossible choice, but perhaps it would be possible to find a way to protect her son.
“I came to ask which invitations you’ll be accepting this next week or two. I’ll arrange my schedule to match yours. The old cats may hiss behind your back in the face of this dreadful scandal, but they won’t claw at me!” her mother bungled.
“That’s kind of you, Mama, but I will be staying in this week.”
Flora’s eyes popped. “Staying in? Do you think that’s wise? You should be everywhere, seeing everyone, proving that it does not matter one whit to you what he gets up to.”
She raised her chin. “But it does matter. I must start again, come to an agreement with Nicholas if this marriage is to be bearable for the short time necessary to get an heir.”
“Get an heir? You still mean to allow him husbandly privileges?”
Meg felt her skin grow hot. What would her mother say if she knew it wasn’t a case of allowing him, but rather forcing him to bed her?
Meg got to her feet, breakfast rolling in her belly like an uneasy sea. “I must speak to him before he leaves for the day.” She hooked her arm through Flora’s, and led her firmly toward the door. “I trust you’ll be able to enjoy the parties and hold your head high without me?”
“Of course,” Flora said, and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I shall tell everyone . . .” She paused. “What shall I tell everyone?”
“Not a thing. Let them think what they want,” Meg advised.
When her mother had gone she went along the hall toward the library, steeling herself, thinking of just how she would insist that he must—
“You are too good to me. I could not have a b
etter, dearer, more loving—” a woman’s voice murmured, and dissolved into tears. Meg froze in the hallway.
“I’m glad this has worked out, Julia,” Nicholas replied.
“I must thank you for the little house, and for all the gifts. You have quite spoiled us both.”
Meg peered around the door. A young woman with dark hair sat on the settee. Nicholas sat beside her, gazing at her with a gentle smile and love in his eyes. Her heart twisted.
“How is the child?” Nicholas asked.
“I think he’s excited about the trip. He’ll miss you.”
He looked dubious. “Can a lad his age miss a dreadful old man like me?”
Meg’s heart stopped beating. A child? Hadn’t her mother heard a rumor that he had been visiting a woman with a child? His child? Her heart sank to her shoes.
She watched the young beauty lean forward and kiss his cheek. “I am grateful for all you’ve done, Nick.”
They rose, and the woman looked around. “I might have been duchess here,” she murmured. “How different things might have been, if only . . .”
Meg fled. She didn’t stop until she was safely back in her room. She put her back against the door. Someone else might have been duchess, if not for Meg. And there was a child.
She wrapped her arms around her own empty womb and let out a panicked cry of pure agony. No wonder he didn’t love her, couldn’t love her. He’d had hopes of marrying someone else.
She thought of the duchess’s threat. How would she ever get his attention now, lure him into her bed? She’d have to be the only woman on earth.
She crossed to open the trinket box that sat on her dressing table. The vial of laudanum lay amid the earrings and pins and ribbons. She picked it up, held it to the light. The liquid was as dark as sin, as dangerous as—
“Good morning.”
She closed her hand on the vial and hid it behind her back at the sound of Nicholas’s voice.
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