How to Manage a Marquess (35 page)

She had to hurry to keep up with his long, rapid strides, but she didn't ask him to slow his pace. The Spinster House was just down the hill and across the road. She could run that short distance if she had to.

It would be the first time he'd been inside it since that terrible night.

She'd spent the months since avoiding him. At first she'd thought it would be impossible—Loves Bridge was a small village—but fortunately he'd been just as determined to avoid her.

Poppy met them at the door. She rubbed against William's leg as if to comfort him while he jotted down the names of his students. Then he bent and patted her absently as he handed Belle the list.

“Thank you for taking care of this, Belle. I'm sorry to burden you with it.”

“It's nothing. I'm happy to do it.”

She wasn't certain he heard her. He was frowning, and his eyes had a distant look. He nodded, and then he was out the door and down the walk.

“Safe journey! I hope you find your wife much improved.”

He raised his hand in acknowledgment but didn't pause. In a moment he was out of sight.

She sighed, closed the door, and turned to find Poppy sitting on the carpet staring at her.

“Don't look at me that way. I'm
not
happy his wife might die.”

Poppy blinked at her.

“All right, so maybe I am a little happy.”

That was a horrible thing to admit. She sank down onto the worn red settee and stared at the hideous painting of a dog with a dead bird in its mouth that hung on the wall. What had someone been thinking to put that in a spinster's sitting room?

Though the painting's air of gore and gloom did match her current mood.

Poppy must have sensed her black thoughts, because she jumped up and settled into Belle's lap. Her warm weight was surprisingly comforting. Belle stroked the cat's ears.

She'd tried to hate William these last seven months. It was easier to hate him than hate herself, and he had been very much at fault.

But he would have stopped if I'd wanted him to. He
did
stop, and at a point many men would not have.

To be honest, it wasn't so much what William had or hadn't done that was bedeviling her. It was what he'd awakened in her. Desire was now her constant, uncomfortable companion. She couldn't see William or hear his voice without this desperate hunger flooding her.

Poppy butted her head against Belle in sympathy.

Or perhaps the cat's ear merely itched.

She'd known William hadn't loved her when they'd coupled at Benton. He'd liked her—they were friends; they'd grown up together—but he hadn't loved her. Marriage had never entered his thoughts, and if it had, his father would not have allowed it. She'd known that, too. A vicar's daughter wasn't a suitable match for the Duke of Benton's son.

In her heart of hearts, she'd realized that her charming, handsome former playmate had taken her to bed because she'd made herself available.

Just as she'd almost done seven months ago.

Her hand froze, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Merrow.”

“Sorry, Poppy.” She started stroking the cat again.

Since that night at the Spinster House, she'd gone back to reading the gossip columns in the London papers when they came to the library. Every one mentioned some scandal William's wife had been involved in.

Poor William.

She frowned. No, not poor William. It took two people to make a marriage and two people to ruin one. He chose to wed his wife. No one had forced him. He must have loved her—

Her heart ached. Stupid. She should be happy William had found love, no matter how briefly.

Happiness was not the emotion swirling in her belly. It was desire—hot, insistent desire.

She sighed and scratched Poppy's ears. “I hate to say it, but if William comes back to Loves Bridge a widower, I doubt I will turn him away again.”

Chapter Five

“I can't believe you held such a shabby funeral.” The Duke of Benton took another swallow of brandy.

William looked at his father. They were sitting with William's brothers in the study at Benton, having just laid Hortense to rest in the family plot.

He still found it hard to comprehend that Hortense was gone. He'd arrived at his London house to find her alive, but only barely. She'd mixed too much alcohol with too much opium and taken a dip in the Serpentine—in
January
. Her companions, whoever they were, had thoughtfully deposited her, wrapped in a blanket, on his front step. Then they'd knocked on the door and run.

She'd never regained consciousness and had died within hours of his return to Town.

“Indeed.” Albert sniffed as if he smelled something distasteful. “Several people mentioned it to me before I left London. They were very shocked there was no funeral procession in Town. They didn't say it in so many words, of course, but it was clear they were wondering if you'd fallen on hard times, William.”

Oliver nodded. “My friends said the same. Well, it wouldn't be surprising if you were under the hatches, would it? Hortense must have been quite expensive.” He poured himself some more brandy.

In truth, she hadn't been. He'd made it clear several years into their marriage that he'd not fund her self-destructive behavior any longer. Not that his refusal had mattered. She'd had many “friends” who were all too happy to pave her way to hell with their blunt.

“Fill my glass, too, will you, Oliver?” Father asked.

Oliver obliged, even though Father's doctor had told them in no uncertain terms that the duke should drastically limit his drinking.

“The gabble grinders feasted on poor Hortense's actions during her life,” William said. “I wasn't about to let them gloat over her death and snigger at my hypocrisy.”

Oliver raised his brows. “Appearances, though, William. Appearances are so important.”

Oliver knew all about appearances. As the spare, he lived on an allowance, but acted as if he would one day be duke. Which he would be, if he managed to outlive Albert.

“There were no appearances left to keep up, Oliver. You know that. Not a day went by that the gossip columns didn't have some mention of Hortense's scandalous activities.” William shrugged. “The
ton
long ago declared me a laughingstock.”

For years he'd tried to ignore the talk, to act as if it was beneath his notice, but he'd finally had enough. And so he'd gone to ground in Loves Bridge—and found Belle.

“No son of mine is a laughingstock,” his father said indignantly, spraying brandy on his cravat.

Albert cleared his throat. “You mustn't blame yourself, William. It's true your marriage was unfortunate, but you couldn't have guessed how disastrous it would be. Hortense was an earl's daughter, after all. And her sisters were all models of proper behavior.”

Father nodded. “Cunniff did apologize to me a few years after the wedding. Said he had no idea the girl was such a whore. Didn't blame you at all, William.”

Perhaps he should have.

William had courted Hortense as though she were a delicate, easily shocked young woman. He'd never allowed himself more than a chaste kiss, and she'd acted as if even that—the barest brush of his lips on her cheek—was too bold.

And then on his wedding night, he'd discovered she wasn't a virgin.

She'd laughed and told him she hadn't wanted to marry him, but her father had insisted. William was a duke's son, after all, if only a younger one, and the man she really loved was a lowly clerk and no longer in London. Her father had had him dispatched to the West Indies when their relationship was discovered.

Perhaps if he'd been able to see through the red haze of anger, he would have realized her reaction was fueled by nerves and bravado. But instead he'd walked out of the bedroom and out of the house—out of her life—and spent the next several months at his clubs or at brothels. He, not Hortense, had been the one creating the gossip then.

He'd put her in a very awkward position, opening her to all the worst elements of London. By the time he'd finally started sleeping at home again, too much damage had been done. Hortense had taken up with a very bad set.

Still, I should have made an attempt to salvage things. The situation wasn't that unusual. Most of the
ton
marry for convenience, not love. We might have been able to come to some agreement, especially if I'd taken the time to realize it was my pride and not my heart that was wounded.

He closed his eyes briefly.
How could I have been such an idiot?

As he'd sat by Hortense's bed, watching her slip closer and closer to death, he'd finally seen the truth of the matter. He'd never loved his wife.

“At least you're finally free of the woman.” Father extended his glass again, and this time Albert refilled it. “I will say the vicar did a good job with the sermon. I hope you gave him a generous contribution, William.”

“Generous enough.” He'd always thought Belle's father a pompous bully. He'd got through the fool's sermon today only by not listening to a word of it.

Perhaps his father or brothers knew why Belle had ended up in Loves Bridge, though of course he couldn't ask directly. “Where's his daughter these days?”

Oliver's brows rose. “The man has a daughter?” He snorted. “I was always surprised he had a wife. Seems far too pious to do anything as earthly as bed a woman.”

“I vaguely remember the girl.” Albert frowned. “She was more your age than ours, wasn't she, William?”

William brushed an imaginary speck off his pantaloons. “Yes, I believe she was.”

Albert shrugged. “I imagine she married and went off with her husband. That's the way of things, isn't it?”

Except that hadn't been the way of things with Belle. Why?

Oh, God. Belle had been in the same situation as Hortense, except Belle would never marry a man without telling him her history.

Anger and guilt cramped his gut.

“What was the girl's name again?” Father tried to take another sip of brandy and spilled some on his waistcoat. “Blast! Pour me some more, will you, Albert?”

“Don't you think you've had enough?” The words were out before William could stop himself. Damnation. Father hated to be challenged.

“What? Are you my doctor now? I'll thank you to keep your tongue between your teeth, sir.” The duke extended his glass, and Albert refilled it.

“My apologies.” If Father wanted to drink himself into the grave, there wasn't anything he could do about it, especially if his brothers were going to aid and abet him. “As to the vicar's daughter, her name was Annabelle.”

Father took a more successful swallow of brandy and nodded, apparently forgiving William because he deigned to answer. “I seem to recall she disappeared shortly after you went back to Oxford”—he scowled—“after I had to grovel to get them to take you back, that is.”

Unease brushed over the back of William's neck. Had they been found out?

“Which scrape was that?” Oliver asked.

“It doesn't matter.” Surely Oliver wouldn't start in on a list of all his misadventures. He'd be the first to admit he hadn't spent his time at Oxford wisely.

His father snorted into his brandy. “I think she left under a cloud.” He shrugged. “Vicar said she went off to his wife's cousin. He never speaks of her, so of course I don't either.”

No, they
couldn't
have been found out. If they had been, the vicar would have spoken to the duke. Not that Father would have thought of marriage as a solution. In his mind, a vicar's daughter wasn't a suitable bride for a duke's son, even if the son was only the spare's spare.

“Why are you so interested in the girl, William?” Albert asked.

“No reason.” He didn't want Albert sniffing around his business. He shrugged and took a sip of his own brandy. Unlike his father and brothers, he was still on his first glass. “Just making idle conversation.”

Oliver sniggered. “Starting to think of your next wife, are you?”

Unfortunately William hadn't yet swallowed. He choked, and some of the brandy went up his nose.

His momentary speechlessness turned out to be a blessing.

“Just so,” Albert said, clearly taking William's reaction as derision. “William would never consider marrying a vicar's daughter, especially one with a questionable reputation.”

“Oh, I didn't mean William would wish to marry that girl.” Oliver laughed. “If she's close to his age, she's almost forty. Quite a hag, no doubt.”

William took another mouthful of brandy so he wouldn't make the fatal mistake of defending a woman he'd just indicated he knew nothing about.

“And likely unable to give him children,” Father said. “You mustn't forget that, William, since neither Albert nor Oliver has seen fit to produce an heir.”

That had the predictable effect of causing both his brothers to glare at the duke. It wasn't as if they hadn't tried. Albert had five daughters and Oliver four.

“It is far too soon for me to think of taking another wife. Poor Hortense is not even cold in the ground.”

Oliver snorted. “Don't try to tell us you are brokenhearted. That would be doing it much too brown.” He chuckled. “Much too brown indeed.”

But it was true. Oh, he wasn't saddened by Hortense's passing precisely, but he was unsettled. His life had changed suddenly and profoundly. It would take him a while to sort out his feelings.

“You'll go up to Town for the Season and inspect the new crop of debutantes, of course.” Father looked at Albert and Oliver. “William shouldn't have a problem finding some girl to marry, should he?”

“Of course not.” Oliver grinned. “He's not too ugly yet.”

Albert sniffed. “The marriage-minded mamas don't care how a man looks. They care about his pedigree and his pocketbook.”

“Well, there's nothing wrong with his pedigree,” Father said.

“But what about his pocketbook?” Oliver looked at William. “
Did
Hortense drain you dry?”

“No.” The thought of shopping for a wife among the London debutantes was nauseating. Most of them were young enough to be his daughter.

“I am not going shopping for a wife in London. I intend to take my full year of mourning.”

His father grunted. “Perhaps the Season would be a bit much. Albert or Oliver—or, more to the point, their wives—can look around for you. Be discreet about it. Then we'll have a house party here with some likely candidates for you to choose from.”

William put down his empty brandy glass hard enough that it clinked against the table. There was no point in continuing this conversation.

“No, thank you, Father.” He wanted to get back to Loves Bridge and Belle. He needed to see her. “I really am not ready to step into parson's mousetrap again so quickly.” He stood. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed. I'm leaving early in the morning.”

“And where the hell are you leaving to, sir?” Father's brows met over his nose. “Your brothers say they haven't seen you in London for months.”

William paused with his hand on the study door. “And I don't intend to linger in Town now. If you need to reach me, Morton knows how to find me.”

“But—”

“Good-bye, Father.” He nodded at his brothers. “Albert, Oliver.” Then he stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.

* * *

Belle sat at her desk in the lending library and stared down at the newspapers. She didn't see them. Instead she saw William's face.

Because she'd been the one to cancel his lessons, everyone had asked her those questions, as well as why he'd left so abruptly. If they'd known his identity, they could have answered the why and where by reading the gossip columns.

The poor man. It was hard to sort the speculation from the facts, but none of it was pretty.

The when of his return, however—that was a mystery.

She'd told those who asked that she understood he'd had to attend to some family matter and would be back once whatever it was had been resolved. She'd repeated it often enough that it now rolled off her tongue.

When
was
he coming back? She scanned the papers again, but could find no new mention of him. The last she'd read, he was taking his wife's body to Benton for burial. That had been several days ago.