Finally, the door opened, but instead of Elise, the wizened man came forth with an envelope on a salver. His unease grew. Taking the envelope, he opened it hastily. There was a note.
The enclosed will explain why I never wish to see you again.I had come to believe that there was more to you than the legendary rogue. Now I have learned, in the cruelest manner, that you are wicked and debased.Would that Robert’s blade had killed you! But no, that would have been too quick. Would that it were you who was hanged on Tyburn Hill. E.
Fluttering to the ground was what appeared to be a newspaper cutting. Numb with shock, he bent to retrieve it. He read: The Marquis of S-----bets 5,000 guineas with Duke of R---- that seducing Miss E---will cure the duke’s well-known ennui. Shall Miss-----‘s charms succeed where Lady M----‘s have failed?
At first, it made no sense to his battered brain. Gradually, however, he recalled the bet as having been made that long ago night when George had lost 10,000 guineas to him over a fight at Gentleman Jackson’s. The bet was made in jest. For his sins, he had not connected the name with Beynon’s Sunshine. At that time, he had never even met her.
It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Chessingden must have seen this bit of gossip and cut it out. Hadn’t George said that she had just broken her engagement to him? Like the sneaky cobra he was, the viscount had saved it for just such an occasion as this.
Collapsing on the couch, he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. She hated his gambling, which didn’t make it any easier. He must make her understand. He must see her!
Spotting a small desk, he rose and opened its single drawer. There he found ivory vellum stationery. Using the quill provided, he dipped it in ink while he thought. Finally he wrote.
I know you are too just to dismiss me before giving me a chance to explain… He then gave as clean an account of the incident as possible, signing it with his elaborate “R.” After sanding it, he folded the paper, affixed a navy blue wafer from the desk, and opened the door to the hall. Not seeing the man he wanted, he pulled the bell rope.
It was answered by a woman who appeared to be the housekeeper by the loop of keys at her waist. “Could you see that Miss Edwards get this? Tell her I am awaiting an answer.”
Again he waited, this time with less patience. He could understand her hurt and her anger. But he had come from London! Couldn’t she at least rage at him in person? Wasn’t she the least glad that he was alive when she had thought him dead? Perhaps the words he thought he had heard her say were fever dreams.
This time when the door opened, it brought Lady Clarice, Queen Elizabeth under her arm. She gave him a formal curtsey. “Duke.”
He bowed, “Lady Clarice.”
Her face struck him as infinitely sad. Never had he seen her so out of spirits. Advancing, he took the hand that was not holding her confounded cat. “Will she not see me?”
“You have to understand, Duke. She truly loved you. She went through months of mourning. I daresay she put you up on a pedestal next to poor Sir Joshua. Her grief consumed her, and as if it were not enough, it was tied up with this terrible scandal. Then Viscount Chessingden came here to renew his addresses. From him, she learned that you were alive. The change in her was remarkable.” Sitting down carefully on a straight-backed chair, she stroked her fat Siamese. “She was so very happy. But I never guessed that man could be so vindictive. He left her with that clipping. It crushed the life out of her. She has scarcely left her room since. She takes her meals on a tray. I have no idea what she is doing. She won’t answer my knock, but she did slide that awful clipping under the door for me to read.”
The duke made up his mind. I will see her. It’s time someone did. Her aunt’s temperament is too yielding.
Leaving Lady Clarice staring, he exited the sitting room and bounded up the stairs. A brief reconnaissance showed that there were no bedrooms on the first floor. Taking the next staircase two steps at a time, he found himself in a hallway where all the doors stood open to comfortable rooms, but one. Going to that door, he pounded on it with the heel of his hand.
“Elise, open this door. Cease this nonsense! I must see you. Surely you know that. Don’t be so confounded missish!”
When she did not yield to his imperative request, he went looking for a key. He hoped that in this small a manor, perhaps the keys were the same. Wrenching the key out of the door to a bedroom decorated in innocuous pink rosebuds, he tried it on Elise’s door. It did not move the lock.
“Go away!” she called out. “Find some bit of muslin to cure your ennui! Better yet, bury yourself in Lady Marianne’s charms.”
Her voice sounded cracked from disuse. He tried to imagine what she was doing, how she was dressed, what her hair looked like, but he failed.
Silently apologizing to Lady Clarice, he backed up and ran at the door with his good shoulder—once, twice. The third time the lock splintered and yielded. He stood in the doorway staring at the woman who had taken possession of his soul. The first thing he noticed was her hair, tumbling gloriously over her shoulders and down her back in heavy, black curls to her waist. Her midnight eyes were huge, her lips open. Finally, he saw that she clutched a shawl to her bosom. She was dressed only in a silk wrapper that matched her eyes. She sat at her writing desk, her face without color except for two pink spots burning on her cheekbones.
Tension charged the air between them. Though their bodies were apart, it was as though some part of them met and wildly embraced.
Never had any woman looked so desirable. With several hundred years of ducal privilege running through his veins, he did not think, but strode into the room, meaning to pluck her from her chair and make her his with a thousand kisses, all through her hair, down that divine neck . . .
She threw a missile at him. Startled, he stopped in his tracks. Looking down at his chest, he saw his silver waistcoat stained with black ink. The bottle clattered to the floor.
“Are you no better than Robert? Have you come to ravish me, Your Grace?” she demanded. “Come! Have at it, then. But know this! I loathe and detest you. But I do not fear you.”
He remained where he was. Her accusation that he was like the dead earl effectively cooled his ardor. But she was magnificent in her rage!
“Then you know this, Elise Edwards,” he said. “I will prove to you that I am different than you think. Chessingden did a great deal of harm in his pique. But, may God help me, you are enough to drive any man to rash extremes. You are the only one I love or have ever loved. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
Drinking in one more look, he then turned and walked out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the house.
“Back to London, Harris,” he told his man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RETURNS TO LONDON
The duke’s visit had only hardened Elise’s resolve to finish and publish her book. She had not missed that air of privilege about him when he charged through her door. Thanks be to Providence, she had a bottle of ink and sufficient words handy to stave him off. His last statement about loving her she discounted completely.
From that day on, however, she ceased to feel as possessed by hatred and hurt. She dressed and went downstairs for meals. She moved into the rosebud room while her door was repaired. And she spoke to her aunt.
“Dearest Elise,” Aunt Clarice said, “I do believe the duke’s regard to be real.”
“What is it about me that causes men to pester me so? I am not a diamond, by any means.”
“I have a theory about that,” her aunt said. “Come along, dear. Let’s get you some fresh air. I don’t like your color. Your face is so pale, it has a bluish tinge. Let us stroll in the garden for half an hour. Surely you can spare that much time from your work.”
The garden was warm and fragrant. Elise realized that she had as good as jailed herself. Summer was passing, and she had spent the entire season writing, first one book and then the other. The hollyh
ocks stood taller than she was, but the sweet peas had long gone, unable to endure the heat. The roses were still brilliant with color. In this garden, Aunt Clarice had planted only shades of pink and red.
“So, what is your theory, Aunt?”
“You radiate a singular combination of qualities—all of them very appealing, my love.”
“Rage is certainly not appealing.”
“I am speaking of your normal self. When things are going well.” Stopping, she clipped some pink tea roses with her secateurs and laid them in the basket on her arm. “Your childhood, Joshua’s death, and Robert’s madness have endowed you with a vulnerability that makes men want to protect you. But you also have character. A character that rises up from each devastation and carries you through. Not only do you recover but you thrive. Look at the good you have done for those poor soldiers.” She stopped and looked at her niece. “That combination radiates from you, drawing people to you. When added to your appearance—a fragility of bone structure dominated by your lush hair—I believe that you have all the elements of an irresistible female.”
Elise considered her words. “I fear that the duke’s treachery has changed me. I will not arise from this disillusionment, Aunt.”
Lady Clarice smiled her vastly comforting smile and pulled her into an embrace. “You will, my dear. You will. That is what makes you Elise.”
“So you do not believe my essence has been crushed?”
“How can I believe that when you have been writing like a woman possessed? If you had been wandering about with vacant eyes, I might believe differently, but you are like yourself, only more so, if that makes sense.”
“When I have finished my book, we will return to London,” Elise said. “I will never be able to thank you adequately for carrying me away when I was so inconsolable and spending all this time away from civilization. You are more than an aunt to me. You are my dearest friend.”
“I would do it again and will, if you need it. You are the child I never had, Elise. Sometimes I do not understand why Providence sent you to my brother instead of me.”
Elise kissed her aunt on her round, pink cheek and put an arm around her waist as they walked. “You really are the most extraordinary person, you know. I am sorry there is not a piano here. When we return to London, we shall resume work on your opera.”
“That will give me something to look forward to. I have been visited by some fresh inspiration.”
For the remainder of the walk they discussed her aunt’s opera, the award that Sukey had been given by the Royal Society for her beetle collection, and the next novel that Elise would write.
* * *
At the end of September, her book at last complete, she helped her aunt organize and pack the few belongings they had brought, made one last trip to her place of solace, bade the Deans good-bye, and finally boarded the carriage for their return to London. Dreading the duke’s renewal of his addresses to her, she resolved to keep her heart under lock and key in a figurative box insulated by her anger.
Upon arrival at her aunt’s townhouse, she was surprisingly happy to see Henry Five and Sukey.
“Did my mother threaten your life when you carried her off to Shropshire?”
“Several times,” Sukey said. “I was forced to wrest away her crutches and store them in the boot.”
“I’m so sorry,” Elise told her. “Now show me this award you won! That is famous! Were you the first female to win?”
“Yes!” Sukey displayed a handsome gold cup with her name engraved along with the name of the prize and the year.
The first order of Elise’s business was with her publishers, who promised that her book would be issued as soon as possible in November. They made no secret of their excitement over the project and promised her excellent sales. Elise then made a satisfying trip to the mantua makers to order autumn and winter ensembles. She made certain they were more than ordinarily modest, a feat in the modern world of design.
The first time she saw the duke came as something of a shock. She resumed her duties at the soup kitchen, only to find that he was there that day as well as the viscount. To her disgust, her heart made a little leap when she first saw him. And to her surprise, he was not only talking to the queue of soldiers as he had on previous occasions but he was taking some sort of notes. Instead of ladling soup, she found herself absently watching his kind smile as he conversed. It called to mind the stranger in the park who had drawn a picture of the old cypress for her.
That man had no intent to seduce me. That man did not even know me or expect to see me again, and yet he was kind and gentle.
Stop thinking about him!
She turned her eyes back to the soldier with matted hair and missing teeth who was holding out his bowl. She didn’t recall seeing him before. He was leering at her. Uncomfortable, she ladled him a bowl of chicken soup with vegetables and rice.
To her shock, he reared back and threw the whole bowl of steaming liquid in her face. Fanny Elphinstone and her aunt screamed, but Elise could only claw at her face in panic. It burned, and there was soup in her eyes.
“Bloody do-gooders!” the soldier mouthed. “Think you’re like angels from heaven come down to hell to help us sinners. Find us a job then, why dontcha?”
The duke was by her in a moment, leading her back to the kitchen, where he shocked her further by tossing a pitcher of water into her face. The burning subsided. He filled and tossed another pitcher. And another. “That’s enough!” she cried, sputtering. “It’s not burning anymore.”
“How are your eyes, Elise? Can you see?”
Opening her eyes tentatively, she started to rub them, but he grabbed her fists. “Don’t. They may be blistered.”
“They are burning. Mostly from the salt, I think, but I’m not certain.”
She trembled like a leaf in a high wind. Putting an arm around her shoulders and holding her to him, he said, “I’m sorry I got you so wet. But I had to get that cold water on you immediately to stop the burning.” Using gentle fingertips, he touched her face. “Your complexion is so delicate. It is red and starting to swell. I had better get you home so we can call a doctor. This could be serious, Elise.”
Her eyes were tearing. “I am not crying,” she said. “It is just that my eyes are stinging.”
“Confound that fellow! What a way to repay you.”
“I’d never seen him before. Did Gregory go after him?”
“Yes. Never mind. I’m certain he’ll get him to a magistrate. There were plenty of witnesses, so let’s get a hackney and I’ll take you and your aunt home.”
“But that will leave Fanny alone!”
“Elise, you aren’t seriously considering going back to ladling soup when your eyes are streaming and your face is blistering? Don’t be stubborn. I know you would rather I were someone else . . .”
“No . . . I wouldn’t. You know how to take charge in an emergency. Take me home, Your Grace.”
Elise realized her aunt had left the soldiers long since and was standing by, watching the drama unfold.
“I have a funny little plant in the garden called aloe vera, my dear. It contains a sap that we can use for a salve. It will stop the stinging and heal your blisters. The duke is right. We must get home.”
The viscount had returned without the villain. Elise read anger and frustration in his flashing eyes. At once, he stepped behind the bar and began ladling soup next to Fanny.. “Are you seriously hurt, Elise?”
“She’s blistering, and I’m worried about her eyes,” the duke answered. “I’m taking her home.
Shaking his head in obvious disgust, the viscount said nothing.
Fanny said. “I pray you’ll have no permanent damage to your beautiful face.”
Elise thanked her as the duke came to collect her for the cab. He held one hand and her aunt held the other all the way to the townhouse. She was too shattered to mind. That soldier had been angry at her. Angry because she was not doing enough.
Ha
lfway home, the duke gathered her in his arms and held her close. “Oh my dearest love, you are so brave. Not a tear.”
“I am not brave,” Elise protested. “I suspect I am only in shock.” The nurturing attention of the duke was filling her with welcome emotions she could not be troubled to identify.
Too soon for her liking, they reached Blossom House. The duke bade the hackney driver wait for him. “I’ll be off to Harley Street in a few moments.”
He helped the ladies to alight. Elise put her ungloved hand into his and would have smiled but for the fact that her face felt like a rigid mask.
Once inside, Lady Clarice excused herself and bustled out to the garden to get her unusual plant. Ruisdell put his fingers to her face again.
“Little blisters are starting to form all over. Believe me, that’s better than large blisters. There is a good chance you won’t be scarred, my darling.”
“Don’t call me that, please.” She was trembling again, her wet clothes sticking to her.
“Sorry, my love. If you give me your doctor’s name, I will fetch him for you.”
“Dr. Finch. Sixty-four Harley Street.”
“I will love you even when your poor face is peeling and the new skin looks raw.”
He left her. She went upstairs to change into her wrapper and go to bed. Would her limbs never stop trembling?
Elise felt as though the duke were drowning her in velvet caresses. How long could she resist this treatment? Taking the news clipping out of her dresser drawer, she set it out where she could see it every time she sat at her vanity table.
By the time the doctor arrived, her aunt had already spread the soothing salve from the aloe vera plant over her skin.
Dr. Finch greeted her in his normal astringent manner. “The duke tells me that some miscreant threw a bowl of steaming hot soup in your face! That will teach you not to fancy yourself Lady Bountiful, my dear Miss Edwards.”
She wanted to tell the fat doctor with the liver lips that she was not his dear. Most likely he was a hardened Tory.
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