My Lady Coward: An Episodic Regency Romance

by Grant, Jaimey

  The man was as accomplished as rumor suggested. His kiss seduced her senses, a flutter in her stomach warning that this was not the proper reaction to have when being thoroughly kissed by a man other than one's husband. But Maria had no defense against his onslaught, starved as she was for affection.

  One tiny part of her rational mind commanded her to push him away but her hands lay trapped between their bodies. She could feel her heart hammering beneath her ribs, could feel his heart...

  And that was really all the knowledge she needed. Lord Derringer was unaffected by their embrace, a horrifying realization to a woman whose only romantic thought previously was taken up with her husband. She was behaving like the veriest slut, melting into the arms of the first man to kiss her.

  Before she could shove him away, an icy voice broke through their embrace.

  “Unhand my wife!”

  Shoving Derringer away, tears started to Maria's eyes. All the air left her lungs, her vision growing black around the edges. She refused to give into the blessed relief a good faint would bring, however. She must face her husband, face her escort, and fix the mess she'd managed to create.

  Noticing her husband, though approaching quickly, was still some distance away, she whispered, “You knew he was in the park. How could you?”

  He shrugged. “There is so little entertainment. One must make merry where one may.”

  “You trifle with me for fun?” Unable to comprehend such behavior, such complete disregard for another person's feelings, she could only stare at him, praying for a miracle to rescue her from the situation she'd managed to embroil herself in. Why, oh why, hadn't she listened to the rumors surrounding this man?

  While her husband catching her in the arms of another man was hardly the stuff of miracles, Maria decided to take whatever rescue she was given.

  Richard rode up beside them, his normally sunny expression darkened with an intense anger that Maria had never before experienced. Trembling inside, she forced a smile. Appearing guilty would only worsen matters and they were in public. Indeed, a crowd gathered even as they sat there, all staring at each other.

  “I wish to return home, Richard,” she said so only her husband could hear. She dared much using his given name in a public setting but her emotions were not up to prevarication at the moment and Maria only wanted her husband's understanding, his forgiveness.

  Forgiveness seemed the last thing on Richard's mind. Turning his attention to Lord Derringer, he leaned closer and said, “Name your seconds, Hart.”

  “Really, Richard? You'd duel me? I don't lose but I do kill. Would you take the chance over a strumpet dressed as a lady? Simply because she's your wife?”

  Oh heavens. They were on a first-name basis. How could Maria have missed that they knew each other? Two young dukes would surely be acquainted. And what did he call her?! A strumpet?

  Maria's temper snapped. Drawing back her fist, she punched the Duke of Derringer. Her blow caught him off guard, knocking his hat from his head where it rolled under the horses' hooves. They happily stomped it into the ground.

  The gentlemen didn't move, their shocked expressions saying far more than any words could convey. Reining in her simmering temper, Maria turned her now composed face up to her husband where he still sat, stunned, atop his horse.

  “I would like to return home, my lord.”

  Regardless of propriety, Richard nodded, and reaching over, swept her up into his arms to sit before him on the horse. Winded, Maria couldn't speak. It had been weeks since she'd been this close to her husband and that had been...

  Her face flamed at the memory. Stamping it down, she refused to glance up at Richard, but in avoiding his gaze, she caught Derringer's. The man winked at her with the eye she'd just recently done her best to black for him. Of all the insufferable, irritating—!

  “My seconds will call on you, Hart. You must answer for this insult, make no mistake.”

  Part 6

  In which Maria

  forms an ill-conceived plan...

  A lady never interfered with a gentleman's pursuits. Not even if that gentleman was the lady's husband and the lady loved him more than life. Not even if that gentleman was about to get himself killed due to a stupid insult from an idiotic young man.

  Lady Maria paced the drawing room floor, caring little that her actions were sure to wear an unlovely hole in the beautiful Aubusson carpet. Was pacing ladylike behavior? Maria shook her head. She didn't care. And she didn't care that her lack of concern was just as unladylike.

  A January chill crept in around the window, making Maria shiver as she passed. Sunlight caught her eye and she paused, marveling at the early morning sun's audacity. How could it be so thoughtless as to shine in the blue, blue sky in such a cheerful manner? Surely everyone, even the sun, knew her husband would die this day?

  Maria's hands clenched, fingers twisting and tearing the delicate lawn overdress of her lavender morning gown. She barely noticed, so caught up was she in visions of Richard bleeding, dying in the already dead grass of Putney Heath. A shudder wracked her small frame. Life could not be so unfair!

  When Richard had first challenged the Duke of Derringer to a duel, Maria was sure it had been nothing more than a public display of outrage, a way to save face with so many looking on. Now, today, Maria realized the error of her thinking. Her husband had been deadly serious in his challenge and Lord Derringer was just such a one to thrive on bloodshed. Richard meant to teach Derringer a lesson about insulting the wives of peers and Derringer meant to make a mockery of Maria's marriage.

  And kill Maria's husband.

  Maria shouldn't even know where the duel was to be held. She'd overheard her husband's valet mention the location in passing. And what did it matter that she knew? There was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Or was there?

  Maria stopped pacing, glancing down at the breakfast tray left for her by some thoughtful servant. No doubt her failure to appear in the breakfast room, as was her habit, had alarmed certain faithful retainers who saw to her comfort just as if she had any right to their loyalty. Had she been born into the aristocracy, instead of having married into it from the working class, she might believe they owed her some of the loyalty they bestowed upon her husband. But duchess or not, she was not of her husband's class and never would be if she didn't start thinking like a lady and stop thinking like a woman in love.

  Still, what wife would sit idly by and allow her husband to die if she had the means to stop him? But did she? Her gaze slid over the knife on the tray. It was dull, to be sure, but sharp enough.

  What she contemplated was madness. Surely there was a better answer?

  As if another being inhabited her body, Maria reached for the knife. With one quick movement, she slashed her hand. Blood seeped from the resultant wound, a swift welling of bright red that spread and darkened.

  A scream ripped from her throat. Horror at her stupid actions melded with the pain now radiating from her flesh.

  What had she done?

  As servants converged upon her from all directions, this one question repeated itself in her mind. Over and over, the words tumbled over one another until they no longer resembled the original thought.

  Blackness edged its way into her vision, blackness Maria fought even as the maid at her side fought to stem the flow of blood. She didn't understand what was happening now, only that she hurt, the wound wouldn't stop bleeding, and the maid wrapped cloth after cloth around her wrist.

  Her wrist?

  The blackness was winning. Her sight grew hazy, the servants' voices garbled, and everything became oddly unreal. And yet, one statement, shouted by the butler to the first footman, made its way into her brain, allowing a smile to break forth.

  “Quickly! Send for the master!”

  Part 7

  In which Maria

  mourns her loss....

  The exquisite gown of black watered silk boasted fifty perfectly matched black pearl buttons
marching down the back. Jet beads and more black pearls decorated the high-waisted bodice, glinting in the light of no less than a dozen beeswax candles. Matching jet beads encircled the pale ivory throat and adorned the honey gold locks of the gown's wearer.

  Lady Maria slid her feet out of matching black satin slippers, frowning at the jet beads winking from the toes. How she hated jet. She always had.

  Mourning was a terrible thing. It sapped all the strength from one's limbs, weakened the mind, and shattered the heart. It killed as surely as any bullet. And Maria mourned. Oh, how she mourned.

  As deadly as grief was guilt. The guilt lodged forever in Maria's heart, a lead weight where once love reigned.

  Colette entered the room, her presence a mere wisp in Maria's grief-clouded consciousness. When the maid moved to help her undress, she shied away, one small hand raised, an odd defensive reaction.

  “Leave me,” Maria ordered, voice heavy with unshed tears. “See that my mother is comfortable.”

  Colette dipped her head but hesitated. Meeting Maria's eyes, she said, “I am deeply sorry, madam, for your loss.” And she fled before she disgraced herself with tears of her own.

  Maria collapsed. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, hugging herself and rocking in a pool of shimmery black. The faceted jet beads on her bodice cut into the delicate flesh of her arms, into the barely healed cut on her wrist.

  She ignored the pain and the fresh welling of blood. Didn't she deserve a little pain for what she had done?

  Tears soon dotted the black fabric. Her heart hurt, lodged so tight against her ribs as if trying to escape the pain in her mind and body. Oh, how she longed for her father's comforting embrace! How many times in her childhood had he spared a moment to draw her close to his heart when she was sad?

  Rage tore through her chest, stopping her lungs mid-gasp. Her fingers clenched, digging into her shoulders, the sharp jet gouging her palms.

  The slash in her wrist began to throb, reminding her that this was all her fault. No one was to blame but her.

  She should have remembered her place. The duke's wife, submissive, complacent, content to bear his children, manage his home and decorate his arm. Accepting. Demure.

  She should have turned a blind eye to her husband's affairs, done as the other Society matrons and pretended Richard's mistress didn't exist.

  Had she behaved as a true lady ought and not as the ill-trained daughter of a Cit that she actually was, she'd never have sought to make her husband jealous. She'd never have gone driving with Lord Derringer and Richard would never have challenged that heartless rake to a duel.

  And Maria wouldn't have sliced her wrist in a hair-brained attempt to stop the duel. And then...

  Grief slammed into the guilt, a fresh wave of tears seeping from Maria's tightly closed eyes. Her arms tightened around her body, as if she could give herself the comfort she so desperately needed.

  And then he was there.

  “Maria.”

  The deep whisper shivered through her mind, calling her from the whirlpool of desolation into which she'd plunged. Her heart stuttered. She so badly wanted to hear his voice and did not trust her sleep-deprived, grief-stricken mind to tell her the truth.

  But opening her eyes would only prove he wasn't there, that she was alone. So she squeezed them tighter and prayed with all her might, prayed he was real, he was there, that the past days hadn't happened at all.

  Strong fingers covered her hand, gently easing her grip until her fingers were enclosed in his. She felt him ease down beside her, unwinding her stiffening arms from around her body. And then he drew her close to his heart and whispered, “You are not to blame, my love.”

  The grief in Maria's heart eased the slightest bit at the tender words. She opened her eyes and drew strength from the man who held her.

  “I miss him,” she whispered.

  “I know. As do I.” His concerned gaze fell to her wrist. He frowned at the blood. “You've done fresh damage. Let me call your maid.”

  “No, don't! Please, Richard.”

  Richard eased back down and held her as tight as he could without hurting her. He let her cry into his once-immaculate cravat, twist her fingers into the black silk of his waistcoat. What did an immaculate appearance matter when one's wife grieved for the loss of her beloved father?

  Part 8

  In which Maria

  tries again....

  Snowflakes fluttered to the ground. Each one survived only moments before disappearing into the parched dirt.

  Lady Maria watched them fall all around her, watched them land, watched them die. Desolation swept her ermine and wool cloaked form. She didn't feel the air's chilling caress. All she felt was pain, humiliation.

  Failure.

  A Society wife had one job: conceive a child, bear her husband a healthy heir for his title (if he possessed one) and his wealth. Maria's husband had little in the way of money, other then what she'd brought to the union, but he had property and a title. A duke simply had to have an heir!

  A sigh tried to escape but Maria stifled it. One sigh would only lead to another and another, then a tear would form, thus opening the door for all the tears that lurked just below the surface. She couldn't cry, not now. There would be enough of that when she told Richard she was mistaken. There was no child.

  Her monthly courses were late. Hardly daring to believe she'd already conceived, she'd waited another week, just to be sure, before telling her husband the joyous news.

  Richard's face in that moment was something she'd never forget. The joy that suffused his features, the wonder and awe as he glanced from her face to her still flat belly, was indescribable. Then he snatched her up from her chair and danced her around the drawing room, pressing an enthusiastic kiss on her astonished lips. Her smile grew to a painful wideness, her delight with her condition growing in the face of Richard's.

  His reaction stunned her, such an uninhibited display of joy from a proper gentleman, but not as much as his actions afterward. He stopped dancing her around, kissed her again but this time in a lingering, worshipful manner that sapped her mind of coherent thought and threatened to buckle her knees, then returned her to her chair, seating her with the utmost care.

  Staring into her face, he asked, “How do you feel? Are you well? Should I call a physician?”

  He'd been solicitous of her ever since, asking after, seeing to her every need, escorting her to balls and parties, never leaving her side and glaring at any gentlemen she danced with—just being generally underfoot. She loved this new side of him, loved him all the more. But she couldn't help wishing his love was for her and not the child she'd bear.

  A snowflake landed on her neck, the shiver that consumed her body way out of proportion to the tiny icy bite. She pulled her cloak tighter, the ermine tickling her chin.

  How could she tell him? Four days ago her world shattered. Four days ago she felt failure, dread, and horrible, aching loss. Four days ago her courses started. It had taken her all those four days to screw her courage to the sticking point, to decide to tell her husband there would be no child, at least not yet.

  The conflicting emotions finally drove her to the garden, despite the chill. Her maid did not accompany her, but her much sought after peace still eluded her. She took in one deep cleansing breath, allowing the chill to refresh her, letting it out on a shudder.

  Fours days. For four days she'd allowed Richard to believe she still carried his child, selfishly soaking up his attention, dreading the moment the truth would come out. It was only in those moments that she was thankful he'd avoided her bed since she told him about the baby.

  But her conscience demanded she confess. Dread held her back, an unwillingness to watch the joy die from his face, the expectation turn to disappointment.

  “I do not want to do that,” she told the setting sun. “I do not want to shame him.”

  But he's shamed you over and over, taking his mistress about, whispered a nagging voice i
n her head.

  She shook that off. It was the way of Society. Gentlemen had their amours and ladies turned a blind eye. He'd married outside his class, seeking a bride amongst the working classes. It was natural that he'd seek his pleasure elsewhere. And if she wanted to be regarded as a lady, she had to pretend it wasn't happening.

  Maria brought money, beauty, and a ready womb to the marriage. A lot of expectation rested on her womb. A woman, no matter the station she was born into, was born with this one expectation.

  There was nothing for it. The sun sank below the horizon, streaking the sky in red, orange, and pink. Tomorrow was a new day. Maria wasn't looking forward to confessing but it was inevitable. She straightened her spine and left the barren gardens.

  Richard bent over his desk, brow furrowed as he scratched a quill across the foolscap before him, an open accounts book beside it. Eyes darting between the book and paper, he bit his lip, scratched out a few more things on the sheet, and paused to study the book again. Maria stood by the door, admiring the way his brown curls refused to lay in any semblance of order and the way he bit his lip when perplexed. His dark frown detracted not a whit from his strong, handsome features.

  “My lord?”

  He didn't acknowledge her soft query, muttering something under his breath that she didn't catch and slamming his open palm on the desktop. Her brows lifted. She'd never seen him so upset. Whatever happened to cause it?

  She raised her voice just a touch, no more. She didn't need their servants telling other servants that the duchess behaved like a common fishwife. “Richard?”