The Duke's Wicked Wife

by Elizabeth Bright

  Next to her, Mr. Eastwood glanced up from his breakfast, looked sharply from his sister to Lord Devand, and gave a disbelieving snort before returning his attention to his toast.

  Lady Freesia tapped one elegant finger against the porcelain teacup, and for a moment Eliza worried that she meant to hurl the thing against the unfortunate Lord Devand’s head. But she only smiled sweetly. “I am an excellent shot, my lord, though I am but a woman,” she cooed. “But I shall be delighted to hear all your opinions on how I might improve.”

  This dubious pronouncement was greeted with a snort from her brother. Eliza agreed with his assessment. The wonder was that Lord Devand did not realize the danger he was in.

  She glanced around the table before her gaze quickly returned to Wessex, who was staring at his plate with great amusement. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. She knew that expression. The small quirk at the corner of his mouth. The gleam in his dark eyes. The slightly arched brow.

  Just what was the duke planning now?

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a truly magnificent autumn day, Sebastian reflected, as the arrow released from Mrs. Eastwood’s bow sailed through the air and landed nowhere near the target. It was uncommonly warm for November, and the mellow sunlight cast everything in a lazy golden glow. Lady Freesia was setting her trap for Lord Devand, Lady Louisa had removed her cloak—thus displaying her bountiful bosom—and lo! An opportunity to annoy Nicholas Eastwood had fairly dropped in his lap.

  A man could not ask for more happiness than that.

  “Allow me to assist you, Mrs. Eastwood. May I?” Sebastian gestured to her bow.

  “You are welcome to try, although I fear it is a lost cause. I am not at all as proficient in physical endeavors as my sister.”

  He stepped behind her and placed his left hand on her waist to guide her. “Turn your body like this. And then your elbow comes back like so.” His right hand came to her arm. “Higher, Mrs. Eastwood. The arrow cannot fly true if the tool is limp.”

  From somewhere nearby came a sound of male outrage. Sebastian grinned.

  “And now the release,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Eastwood sent the arrow flying with a sharp twang. It hit the target—off-center, but at least it wasn’t a complete miss.

  “There now, Mrs. Eastwood. Do you feel the difference when your body aligns itself to the goal?” He all but purred the words in her ear.

  “Wessex,” Eastwood warned.

  There was a fine line between teasing and death, and while Sebastian was happy to dance nimbly along it, he knew better than to step a toe on the wrong side. He released Mrs. Eastwood into the care of her husband and turned to find himself pinned by the far-too-knowing gaze of Miss Benton.

  “Do you require my tutelage as well, Sigrid? I should be happy to school you in the art of archery.”

  “If I required such knowledge, I should be better served by Lady Freesia, as she is far more skilled than you in both archery and shooting. But as she is otherwise occupied with Colonel Kent, perhaps I should ask Mr. Eastwood.”

  “Not Mr. Eastwood.” Sebastian laid a hand to his heart. “You wound me, dear lady.”

  She gazed at him with compassion in her blue eyes. “Has it not been long enough? Forgive him, Wessex.”

  For a moment he did not understand, and then he threw his head back in laughter. “For claiming Mrs. Eastwood when I had sought to make her mine, do you mean? Never fear, Miss Benton. My heart healed long ago. He is just so easy to tease, I cannot resist.”

  “I was not speaking of Mrs. Eastwood. She has nothing to do with this. It is not for her sake that you mercilessly poke the bear. She couldn’t break your heart because it never belonged to her. Don’t pretend with me, for I know you too well. You weren’t in love with Mrs. Eastwood.”

  “I might have been,” he protested. “Everyone says I was. I did offer for her, after all.”

  Miss Benton tilted her head. “Were you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I liked her very much. I still do. But my heart did not break when she chose Eastwood.”

  “Exactly.” Miss Benton gave him a smile of smug satisfaction. “Which is why that is not the injury I speak of when I say you must forgive him.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Sebastian said shortly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. Why was he allowing her to irk him? “He has done me no injury.”

  “He has injured someone you love.”

  “Someone I love?” Sebastian laughed. “Really, Miss Benton, after you claim to know me! Have I not told you that I do not love, and neither do I hate? I like Eastwood well enough, as I like everyone. And if I tease and provoke and poke, well, what of it? Someone must. Should a man be allowed to wreak such misery and then be welcomed back into the bosom of his family with no repercussion? Tell me that, Miss Benton. For years he allowed Abingdon to suffer, to fear for his life. And for what? His pride? He could have returned home at any time to make amends. Abingdon is the best man I have ever known. There is not another alive who does not look like a beast in comparison to his goodness. I—” He stopped abruptly.

  Good God.

  Miss Benton smiled.

  “Do go away, Sigrid,” Sebastian grumbled. “You are insufferable when you are right.”

  “Wessex.” She laid a cajoling hand upon his arm. “Abingdon forgave his brother a long time ago. Why can’t you do the same?”

  “Abingdon forgave him even when he thought Eastwood was trying to murder him. As I said, he is an uncommonly good man. There is no use holding him up as the standard of behavior to which I should aspire, because I will not rise to the occasion. Leave me alone to wallow in the depths of my pettiness, if you please.”

  “I do not please. One of these days you will go too far and irreparably damage your friendship with Eastwood. Mrs. Eastwood and Abingdon will side with him, and where they go, Lady Abingdon follows. And as Lady Abingdon is my dearest friend, naturally I shall have to cut you, as well. Then where will you be?” she demanded.

  Sebastian sighed. “Your stubbornness is unbecoming, Miss Benton.”

  It was not his first lie, but it was his most blatant. Her cheeks were rosy with indignation, and her annoyance gave an extra sparkle to her eyes. That had always been the uncomfortable truth about Miss Benton—her beauty was a direct result of her Sigrid-ness.

  True, yes, the blue of her eyes, the luminosity of her skin, the moonlit gleam of her hair were all undeniably perfect. But none of those things were what made her beautiful. It was simply her, the soul of her, that glowed through everything like a lit flame behind a porcelain lamp. She might have had a large nose and spotty skin and she would still have been the most beautiful woman in England.

  Damn her.

  “I am not suggesting you be someone you are not,” she said. Her hand was still on his arm. “Tease him, by all means, as friends are wont to do. Only, let go of your anger and leave Mrs. Eastwood out of it. That is where the danger lies.”

  She was right, again, and he knew it.

  He looked to where Nick stood with his wife. Truly, he liked the man. Abingdon wasn’t the only victim of the Eastwood family legend; Nick had suffered his own share of grievances. And yet…

  “How does one release the millstone one has embraced for so long?” he mused. “It has become a habit that I don’t know how to do without. You will have to help me, Miss Benton. Steer me straight when I veer too far. We could have some sort of signal when I have overstepped.”

  “I’ll pinch you,” she said ruthlessly.

  “I would expect nothing less of you, dearest Sigrid.” He laid his hand over hers. “And now, if you will excuse me, there are games afoot, and the foot is mine.”

  She grabbed his hand, holding him captive. “Aha! I knew you were up to something!”

  He looked down at her in surprise. �
�Did you?”

  “Oh, yes. Your expression gave it away at breakfast. Nothing brings that gleam in your eye, that smirk of your mouth, except scheming.”

  “I had no idea you watched me so closely.” He was ridiculously pleased by the discovery.

  She blinked up at him, her expression slightly befuddled, before she narrowed her eyes. “Well, someone has to. You are always up to no good.”

  “Why does everyone say that?” he complained. “Has it never occurred to anyone that I might be up to something very good? Such thankless work.”

  He did not wait for her reply before striding toward his guests.

  “Shall we be very silly?” he asked. “Let us pretend we are knights of Arthur, and this field and these targets our tournament. Lord Sutton shall be our king and grant a boon to the winner. What say you all?”

  There was a smattering of applause in response to his game.

  “Splendid idea!” Lord Devand cried. “But should you not take the role of king yourself, Duke? You are nearest to the Crown, after all.”

  “Ah, but every tournament needs a fool, and who better to play the part than I? I am not serious enough to play a king. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly, as our Bard hath said.”

  He pivoted back to Miss Benton, who was watching him with a curious expression on her lovely face. He winked at her and threw his arms wide.

  “Now, Sigrid, watch what happens.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Yā haẏēchē tā bhāla’i haẏēchē, Riya’s mother had often said. Whatever has happened is good. And since this wisdom was offered only when everything was very bad, it was inevitably followed by Tāraparē ēṭi āra’ō bhāla karuna. Then make it better. Ma had not provided the solutions to do so, but she had listened while Riya argued that she could not make it better, everything was ruined, her life was over, and so on and so forth, until she stumbled upon the answer herself.

  Sometimes the answer was to make amends for her own part in whatever wrong had occurred. Very often the answer was simply to go to sleep and wake up to a new day. She had therefore gone to bed with the expectation that in the morning, sanity would prevail.

  Alas, she had awoken to find Ramtanyu had not made plans to depart immediately, as she had fervently hoped. To the contrary, he seemed determined to stay for as long as she did.

  All was not good.

  But she was Riya Mukherjee. She had saved herself, crossed an ocean, battled storms and sand and crocodiles. There was nothing she could not make better.

  She stood with Ramtanyu, slightly apart from the others, and they conversed in their native Bengali. They had not had much time to speak privately, and she had so many questions.

  “Did my brother ask you to come here? Has he forgiven me?” She knew it was unlikely, but she persisted in hope. Dada had not responded to her letters, but she couldn’t be certain he had received them.

  “No,” Ram said.

  “Did he know you were coming here? Possibly—”

  “No is my answer to both questions,” he said gently. “It was my idea to find you. I informed him of my journey, but he had no letter to send you, no message. I am sorry.”

  She looked away to hide her disappointment. “I understand.”

  Ram pivoted slightly from her, as though the tournament had fully claimed his attention, but Riya knew his intent was to afford her privacy. He had always been kind. He would step aside to let a spider cross his path rather than trample it under foot.

  “Why do you not join their game?” he asked. “Is it your preference or theirs that keeps you apart?”

  She tilted her face to the sky as she pondered his question. “A little of both, I suppose. I do not like to draw their eye, for once they begin to look, they never cease. They are not cruel, but they don’t entirely know what to make of me. I am invited everywhere Miss Benton goes, as I am her guest, and I have formed bonds of friendship as strong as any I had at home.”

  “And yet…” he said softly.

  “And yet.” She gave him a rueful glance. “I was once invited to dine with Countess Davenport. She collects curiosities and greatly enjoys displaying them for her guests—the more foreign and exotic, the better. Here is a pineapple, she said. And here, a warrior’s mask from New Guinea. And there, a girl from distant India.”

  Ram winced. “It is natural to make much of that which is unfamiliar.”

  “Yes,” Riya agreed. “But it is still unpleasant. I am not a pineapple.”

  They fell silent. There was a soft twang as Lady Freesia’s arrow took flight. It hit the target slightly off the center mark, putting her in second place behind Lord Devand. Strange, for Lady Freesia had already defeated Mr. Eastwood, Colonel Kent, and Eliza—although the latter had not offered much in the way of competition. Lord Devand had beaten Lord Abingdon, Alice, and Adelaide in the first round, none of whom were known for their marksmanship.

  “Shall we make a wager of our own, Lord Devand?” Lady Freesia asked. “If I hit the bull’s-eye, I will win the tournament and a favor from Lord Sutton. I ask the same of you. You will complete a task for me, if I am victorious.”

  Lord Devand cocked his head, amused. “It seems more likely that I shall be the one earning a favor from Sutton, and therefore you, as well. There, let’s shake on it.”

  Lady Freesia showed no hesitation as they clasped hands. Neither did Lord Devand. Riya wrinkled her nose. What seemed like earned confidence in the former struck her as stupidly arrogant in the latter. Had he not been paying attention during the first round? Lady Freesia had hit the center every time—a feat Lord Devand had not yet managed even once.

  Riya returned her attention to Ram. “How is your family? I hope they are well.” This was true, despite knowing how they hated her. The list of her enemies was long and populated by those who had once called her beloved. But she would not allow regret to weigh upon her heart, for down that path lay nothing but despair and misery. What was done was done; the mistakes of her past were as immutable as the stars in the sky.

  “They are very well, thank you.” Ram cleared his throat. “They will be happy to learn that you are…alive.”

  Riya laughed, and one corner of his mouth tilted up in acknowledgment. Ram couldn’t tell an outright lie, but he could dodge around the truth with the best of them. His mother might harbor hope that she developed incurably spotty skin and rancid breath, but she would never wish death on anyone.

  Riya fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve. “How long before you can return home?”

  “I suppose that depends on where home is,” he said cryptically. He looked sideways at her before turning his gaze straight ahead. “I have good news, I think. A college for Hindus has been created to teach English and other studies. Raja Ram Mohan Roy himself has asked me to teach. The Hindu College is in Calcutta, not a very far distance from our town, but I will have to find a new residence. It would be impossible to continue in my family home.”

  “Ram! Of course that is good news!” Riya exclaimed. Her brow furrowed. “Are you not overjoyed? Do your mother and father object to you leaving them? But you will visit often, and this is what your mother has always hoped for you.”

  He smiled slightly. “Ma is very pleased. She has already packed my belongings and informed her friends that her son has accepted a position at the Hindu College at the request of the raja. But I have not yet accepted.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head.

  She tried again. “Is it not where you wish to be?”

  “It is exactly where I ought to be, and where I believe I can do the most good. The English make dangerous friends, Riya. We would be foolish not to teach our children their language. Furthermore, under the guidance of Raja Ram Mohan Roy, there will be an expansion of ideas and learning. India is changing so quickly. I want very much to
be a part of it, to guide its future and serve our people. It cannot be the British alone who decide our fate.”

  “Then why have you not accepted the position?”

  “What if my wife refuses to accompany me there? I must know her mind before I can decide my future, for it is her future, as well.”

  Riya looked at him, startled. It was a surprise, and not an altogether pleasant one, either. “Ram… You are married?”

  “Not yet.” He pivoted to face her fully for the first time.

  His eyes were dark and deep and vaguely pleading. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine. The breeze sharpened, rustling the grass at their feet and freeing a lock of hair from her braid. She tucked it back beneath her bonnet. His gaze followed the movement, tender and patient.

  “What are you doing here, Ram?” she asked quietly. “Why have you come to England?”

  “Three years ago your eldest brother and my father agreed that we would marry. Gifts were given. I will not claim my mother was entirely pleased, but she accepted that this was the path I intended to walk. But you ran away in the middle of the night.”

  A hot flush crept up her neck. “I did not wish to humiliate your family, Ram. I had no choice but to flee. I thought you would be relieved to be free of my burden.”

  “Did you?” He tilted his head, studying her. “But you know I do not change my mind, Riya. Therefore, you know why I am here.”

  She shivered and wrapped her pelisse more tightly around herself.

  “I have come for my wife, Riya. I am here to marry you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The wind forced the party indoors, but not before Lady Freesia won the tournament and thus would collect favors from both Lord Devand and Lord Sutton. It was neatly done of her, and Eliza was left wondering not if Wessex had orchestrated that very outcome—for there was no doubt in her mind that he had—but why.