Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  Until Alex.

  As she slid down on the bench to hide any shadow she might cast, she wondered yet again if her marriage would have been different if she had conceived a child. She sighed.

  “Do allow me the honor of asking you to join me in my library, Your Grace,” her vile husband simpered on the other side of the carriage door.

  Well, at least this would give Alex the chance to snatch the miniatures while she sat in this overheated carriage.

  When she heard Alex reluctantly agree to her husband’s request, Lawrence instructed the coachmen to move the barouche to the circular drive in front of Paxton Hall.

  Roxanne had more than a half hour in the darkened carriage to contemplate the grave injustice Lawrence had done to her. She had thought she was done with revenge. She had thought she was through with finding answers. Why then did that little question still sneak past her defenses and plague her?

  Why?

  Why had he wanted her to die? It wasn’t her money as Alex suggested. He was clearly courting Miss Tillworth, and her nonexistent dowry.

  The carriage seat had become as hard as the wooden slat bench miners lowered into shafts. She wiggled against the discomfort. And the airless inside of the carriage caused her to become even more uncomfortable. She peeked past the edge of the curtain. There was not a soul in sight. And she knew it was the hour the servants took their dinner.

  She nimbly descended from the barouche and whispered her intentions to the driver before she disappeared toward the west side of the mansion, where the library lay to tempt her.

  She tiptoed up the four steps of the wide terrace, and rested flat against the brick wall adjacent to the French doors. She had not enough luck on her side. The doors were shut. But if she knew anything, she was certain they would be unlocked. One of Lawrence’s favorite activities was to stand on the terrace and admire the landscape he had designed.

  She eased toward the window of the French door and peeked inside. Lawrence was in his favorite chair, the back of his head just visible. The bald spot he had always tried to hide with boot polish was quite evident. It made her smile.

  Her eyes focused on Alex, sitting across from Lawrence. All at once, Alex’s brown eyes met hers and she dared not think what he would do when they were alone.

  No matter. It would be worth it. She reached for the knob of the door and turned it slowly. Noiselessly, she eased the door open an inch.

  “Your Grace, I knew you would understand,” Lawrence stated.

  “Oh, completely. I understand you have quite a bit of gall to ask to remove something from the Mount,” Alex drawled. “It is my duty as the current duke to protect all that is entailed in the duchy’s name. I cannot let anyone run roughshod over the grounds to dig up precious greenery no matter how much you desire to cultivate this rare white camp— Whatever.”

  “It’s the white form of the red campion, actually. Surely there must be some room for negotiation, Your Grace.”

  “I told you not to address me so informally,” Alex announced.

  “But there is no more formal address.” Lawrence’s voice gained a squeak. “I could address you as ‘Peter,’ as you suggested the time we last met.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, why would I have ever requested that when my Christian name is Harry, the masculine form of Harriet, don’t you know?”

  “Please, I beg of you,” Lawrence whispered.

  “Oh, very well,” Alex said with a convincing sigh, “as you said, we are the two most important people residing in Cornwall for the moment. I suppose we shall have to deal with each other. Perhaps I will see fit to accede to your request, but you must give me what I require in return.”

  “Anything,” Lawrence breathed reverently.

  Yes, this was the little man she knew, Roxanne thought with annoyance. She prayed Alex would find a way to secure the miniatures.

  “You must answer a question.”

  The fine hairs on her neck rose.

  Lawrence Vanderhaven leaned forward in anticipation. “And what question would that be?”

  “Why did you kill your wife?”

  Roxanne would have swooned if not for the fact that she had to hear Lawrence’s answer.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her demented husband’s voice cracked.

  “Your dearly beloved wife, the Countess of Paxton.”

  Lawrence half rose from his seat. “How dare you come into my house and suggest—”

  “Because I happened across your wife’s headstone the morning of the funeral. No, I require you to remain seated, sir. I was amazed you were able to have it carved so quickly”—Alex let that sink in before he tapped in the last nail—“and then a party from the Mount toured St. Ives yesterday and I took the opportunity to bring some flowers from your wife’s dog to place on the hat’s grave. Have you seen what has been done to the headstone?”

  Roxanne would have given just about anything to see her husband’s face just then.

  Lawrence stuttered, “I—I—I don’t know what you are suggesting, but I was informed that someone had vandalized my wife’s—”

  “Your beloved wife’s,” Alex corrected.

  “Yes, yes. My beloved wife’s memorial. It is being repaired as we speak. I can’t imagine that it is still there. I asked for it to be removed several days ago. You say you saw this yesterday?”

  “You have forgotten the more important question, Lawrie.” Alex’s voice sounded like that of a disappointed father chastising a child.

  “Sorry?”

  Roxanne could see her husband mopping his face with a handkerchief. How cliché.

  “Why did you kill her?” Alex asked softly. He lifted his eyes from Lawrence and glared at her for a moment before returning his attention to her husband.

  “How dare you suggest anything of the sort. I should not have to defend myself. Of course, I did not kill my wife. I loved her with every breath I possess. Your reasons for thinking such are a grave insult. I should call you out.”

  “Why don’t you?” Alex’s voice sounded thoughtful.

  “I don’t believe in such barbaric practices. That sort of thing should have remained in the dark ages—or in London, for hotheaded young blades who consume too much spirits. Something I would never do. I am a peaceful sort. In fact I am the magistrate in the district and I’m known for my generous forgiveness of sins.”

  “And so you forgive yourself first, then?”

  “I don’t have anything to be forgiven for.”

  Alex was accomplishing it. He was finally getting the earl angry. She could hear it in Lawrence’s voice.

  “In fact,” her husband continued, “if anyone should require forgiveness, it is my poor wife.”

  Roxanne almost lost her balance in her desire to inch closer.

  “Yes,” Alex agreed. “I find most women to be deficient on many levels. There is even one I know who never, ever keeps her promise or does what she is told. What did your beloved wife do to merit forgiveness?”

  Lawrence hesitated.

  Alex urged him on. “I have yet to find a female worthy of any man. Don’t you agree?”

  That opened the floodgates. “To be perfectly honest, she was frigid,” Lawrence gushed. “A most spiritless creature, and incapable of procreation. Everyone knew it. Reproduction is the main purpose of every living thing on this earth. Plants manage it perfectly, even brainless animals. She could not. And why are you so bloody interested in my wife? You never even met her.”

  Alex ignored the question. “And so you killed her. Your beloved wife?”

  “No, I did not kill her,” Lawrence said stiffly. “You asked me why my wife merited forgiveness. You suggested all women have faults, as we both know. Eve tempted Adam, remember? Why, I pitied Roxanne more than anyone, but I did not kill her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now, may I please remove a portion of the white form of the red campion on the Mount?”

  “No,” Alex said calmly.

&n
bsp; “I beg your pardon?” Lawrence stood up suddenly. “And what do you keep looking at behind me. It’s as if—”

  Alex rose up from his seat, like a giant specter behind Lawrence, and whacked his head as Lawrence turned to look over his shoulder toward her. Her husband went down in a boneless, spineless fashion, but Alex caught him to silence the fall.

  It all unfolded so quickly Roxanne had barely a moment to react. She had been frozen as solid as a Scottish icicle in January since Lawrence’s words had floated through her, paralyzing her. Frigid. She had been deemed frigid and barren.

  Her arm fell to her side, cracking the tension in her body and she stumbled through the French door.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered with more than a modicum of hope.

  “No. He’s too thick-headed for a book about dairy cows to do any satisfying damage. Now’s your chance to give him a good kick or three if you’d like.”

  “I just want to leave,” she murmured, dejected, “before one of the servants discovers us.” She turned to go, but he reached for her arm to stop her.

  “Wait,” he said in a serious tone. “You might be finished but I’m not.”

  She couldn’t respond, but for once she did as he asked. She just didn’t have the spirit required to banter with him.

  And so she waited as he had bid her.

  She watched as he pulled something out of his vest pocket and picked up Lawrence’s limp hand. He jammed her tiny ugly ruby and diamond ring on her husband’s pinkie which was more than a mite too large for the ring.

  She tried to muster a smile.

  “Now go outside and meet me in the carriage,” Alex said. “Have a care and try not to let anyone see you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll join you before you have a chance to plan your beloved husband’s funeral.”

  She couldn’t speak and so she nodded her agreement.

  A thousand and one thoughts flew through her head as she waited for Alex in the carriage. A thousand and one times the word frigid echoed within her. She squeezed her hands over her ears. She was not even entirely sure what it meant, but she knew it was ugly.

  And how dare he suggest she was barren? True, they had not had any children, but he had made very little effort if the local midwife’s advice had been accurate. Roxanne had privately sought out the woman to learn the secrets no one dared speak of in polite company. She had learned that relations should be frequent—at least several times a week—if one was to conceive a child. It was also a fact that Vanderhavens were notoriously short on producing heirs, and notoriously long on handing down the title to distant relations.

  Barren, indeed. She refused to be saddled with that particular shame her husband assigned to her. Then why could she not stop the flood of doubt raining down on her? She was going to leave anyway and—

  Alex’s voice, commanding the driver to make haste to the Mount, cut into her rumination. The door opened and his large frame was crowding her, forcing her to move to accommodate him on the bench again.

  “There’s more room on the other side,” she muttered.

  “Yes, but then I wouldn’t be next to you.” He knocked on the roof to signal the driver to move on.

  “Why would you desire that?” she said, annoyed with the petulant tone she could not keep from her voice. “I’m prone to send a chill down a man, didn’t you hear?”

  “Sounds perfect. It’s hotter than Hades during a midsummer’s night in here,” he said, his voice gravelly as he draped an arm about her.

  She allowed him to draw her near, but she remained as rigid as Lawrence had suggested.

  “I have something for you,” he said quietly.

  “I’ll look at the dairy book later.” She stared out the window at the passing scenery.

  She was frigid and barren.

  She felt rather than saw something slip onto her lap. She looked down to see the twin ovals of her parents. She swallowed hard.

  She would never cry again. She was done with regret. Done with mourning. Done with the past. She silently closed the miniatures together and engaged the clasp. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  As the miles passed in quiet reverie, she pushed away everything that had been and forced herself to think only of everything that was to be her future. Yet a random reflection emerged from her torrent of thoughts. What she liked most about Alex was that he knew when to be silent. It was a talent few possessed. In fact there was not a soul she knew who possessed it, even her father. As she had the thought, Alex opened his mouth to discredit everything she had just deduced about the man beside her.

  He spent the last half hour of the journey chastising her for exiting the carriage at Paxton Hall, and creeping about the estate. He reminded her of all the risks she had taken. He asked if she wanted Paxton to discover she was still alive. He continued the barrage of questions yet never waited for an answer. She intervened when she realized he was doing it on purpose—to stop her rumination of her failure as a wife.

  “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. It all turned out perfectly well.” She could pretend to be distracted if it made him feel better. She owed him so very much.

  “Yes, if you consider a possible investigation for knocking your husband silly ‘perfectly well.’ ”

  “He didn’t see you and I’m certain you explained everything in an exemplary fashion to the servants.”

  “You could show a bit more appreciation.” He leaned down to her ear and nipped it.

  “He might have seen me,” she admitted. “I suppose I should have stayed in the carriage as you suggested.” She waited for his agreement.

  “I told the housekeeper that he slipped on the newly waxed floor and required aid. And then I asked her if the earl was a bit touched in the head since he insisted he had seen the ghost of his wife before he fell.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured and then turned to look out the window again. “I’ll show him a ghost all right.”

  “That’s my girl.” He kissed the top of her head.

  After the exertion Roxanne had shown partaking in that evening’s meal, she did not have any more reserves of false calm and good humor to endure another evening of cards, or billiards, or charades with the others, despite Barry’s plea. Instead she slipped out for a quiet stroll to take the cool evening air.

  She had not gotten much farther than the short privet hedge near the small cemetery on the grounds when a trio of ladies caught up to her.

  The ladies on the Mount had naturally fallen into two groups. Those who were not desperate to marry, and those who were. The three who found her were in the former camp.

  Isabelle walked slightly ahead of Candover’s sister, Hope, as well as Lady Mary Haverty.

  “You were very quiet tonight,” Isabelle said, catching up to her first. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course,” Roxanne replied, taking care to keep her voice even. “Is not the air particularly fine this evening?”

  “Pardon me,” Isabelle said with a smile. “But I do believe that is the first time I’ve ever heard you stoop to talking about the weather.”

  Hope and Mary, linked arm in arm, closed in on the pair.

  “I’ve always found,” Lady Mary Haverty inserted, “that when a lady speaks of the weather when there are only other ladies present then she is really thinking about a gentleman.”

  Hope laughed. “I suppose that means you think I only think of gentlemen. How mortifying, Mary.”

  “Oh, not you, dearest,” Mary said, patting her friend’s arm with her gloved hand. “You, I know, do not want to intimidate anyone by admitting that you are thinking of some terrifying mathematical concept that not a soul would comprehend, including your own brother.”

  “Pardon me,” Roxanne said, not a little put out by the beautiful lady’s outrageous suggestion regarding her banal comment. “I shall change the subject. Shall we not all discuss geometry, Hope? I’ve always enjoyed theorems and drawing figures.”
She, of course, did not add that she had learned to love geometry and the architecture of every mine her father had ever built.

  “Please forgive me, Miss Barclay. I’m sorry if I offended you,” Lady Mary continued. “I only tease people with whom I sense I could share a friendship.”

  Roxanne felt Isabelle’s hand clasp hers in the growing darkness. She squeezed back. “Of course, we shall become friends.”

  “That doesn’t sound very promising,” Mary Haverty replied with a low laugh. “I suppose I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot again.”

  “What do you mean ‘again’?”

  Hope released her arm from her friend to adjust her shawl as Lady Mary replied. “I’m not very good at befriending ladies. Most do not take to me at all. I’ve never understood it. I used to fawn and flatter, and try to fit in, but I finally gave up a long time ago. Ladies either love me or hate me. There is no gray area, you see.”

  “I know why,” Roxanne said, unable to stop herself.

  Three pairs of eyes examined her.

  “We’re all jealous. Except Hope and Isabelle. They’re too kind to be jealous of anyone.”

  “Speak for yourself,” mumbled Isabelle.

  “Oh, that is very true,” Hope said louder. “I was terribly jealous when I first encountered Mary. I wondered how God could be so cruel as to give over my portion of beauty to another woman. Then I realized he had also given her my share of wit.”

  “Enough of that, Hope,” Mary murmured. “We shall not fall into a match of compliments for you know I shall beat you every time. Your reserves of goodness surpass everyone else’s.”

  Roxanne and Isabelle murmured their agreement.

  “Well, then,” Mary said with a deep sigh. “Can we all stop complimenting each other and get to the more interesting topic? Who is in the forefront of the race for Kress? He is even more handsome than I had heard. Miss Barclay, what do you think?”