My Dark Duke (26 page)

His dark eyes were quietly solemn, his voice, though soft, was fervent. ‘I do. I will.'

She had the fleeting thought that this was the closest he had ever come to declaring his feelings for her. ‘Come then,' she whispered, feeling more love for him in that moment than she ever had before.

He worshipped her body with his, showing her over and over what he felt, what he was unable to express in words. It did not matter to her, for sometimes, words were inadequate. He was hers, and that was all that mattered.

One week later . . .

‘Where to next, Your Grace?' asked Browning as they waited for the large number of parcels from Madame Blanche to be loaded onto the carriage.

‘Hm . . .' Alethea thought it was probably time to return to the town house, but since James had been called back to the estate after a fire had broken out in one of his tenants' homes, she felt no urge to return to their residence when he was absent. She had no engagements tonight, knowing that she would be much too tired after spending the afternoon at Madame Blanche's. ‘To the milliner's, please, Browning.'

‘Yes, Your Grace.'

A short time later, Alethea was pushing open the door of the milliner's she frequented whenever she was in town.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Brenner.' Alethea smiled at the proprietor.

At her greeting, the other woman visibly jumped. She paled when she saw Alethea. ‘Y-your Grace!'

Concerned at the woman's obvious anxiety, Alethea enquired, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Brenner?'

‘Oh, I am fine, just fine.' The thin, middle-aged woman dressed in unrelieved black hurried out from behind the counter. It never failed to surprise Alethea that a woman who seemed to prefer the starkness of such a sombre hue could dream up such beautiful and whimsical creations. ‘Are you after some new hats today?'

‘Yes, and perhaps something for riding.' Alethea looked quizzically at the milliner when she did not move from her position. In a normal course of events, the other woman would have immediately ushered her towards the back, where the more expensive items were displayed. ‘Is something the matter, Mrs Brenner? I realise it is rather late in the day but I'm afraid I was held up by Madame Blanche. It seems the duke ordered some gowns on my behalf, without my knowledge.' She smiled ruefully. ‘Apparently he is of the belief that allowing me to be free with his purse will atone for the fact that he has been called away unexpectedly and will not be able to return to London for at least another week.' She stopped herself. ‘Oh dear, listen to me go on. Were you about to close for the day?'

‘Uh, no, no. It's just . . .' Mrs Brenner bit her lip. ‘This is not quite the best time . . .' Her voice trailed away and her eyes were filled with such anxiety that Alethea quickly spoke to reassure her.

‘Of course. You must have another customer. Please, don't worry, I can return tomorrow.'

‘Oh dear.' The milliner looked distressed. ‘This is terrible. I am so sorry, I realise I am being extremely impolite. I do not mean to cause you such inconvenience,' she said, wringing her hands, ‘but . . . perhaps tomorrow would be best.'

Alethea smiled reassuringly. ‘Really, it is no inconvenience at all. Besides, I think I have spent more than enough of the duke's coin for the day.' Mrs Brenner still looked so upset that she tried to jest. ‘Do you know he actually ordered me by letter to “buy a few little things or even a great many things that catch your fancy”? I was quick to reply that I am more than capable of spending our future children's inheritance on my own.' Her smile was not reciprocated.

In fact, any remaining colour on the other woman's face drained away when an unfamiliar voice came from behind Mrs Brenner.

‘Trent has many faults, but he always was very generous with his coin,' drawled a huskily low, feminine voice.

Alethea froze when she saw who it was. It was the woman she and Ruth had seen staring at their carriage when they had stopped for ices all those months ago.

The woman Ruth had informed her was James's mistress.

It was not difficult to see why he had chosen her. She was very handsome, with large, thickly lashed dark eyes and softly rounded cheeks. Rich, dark brown curls framed a heart-shaped face which Alethea imagined would easily charm any man, young or old. The woman's figure was shapely, with a generous bosom and hips. She exuded sensuality. She was everything that Alethea was not.

‘Much more generous with his coin than with himself, it seems.' The other woman eyed Alethea with no little malice. ‘Why is that, I wonder? You have not yet been married a year. Surely Trent has not tired of you so soon.'

Alethea's fists clenched and she stared at the other woman, scarcely knowing what to say. She had never dreamt she would find herself in this situation. What does one say to one's husband's paramour? No, his ex-paramour. She must remember that. She quelled the instinct to turn tail and run from the hateful words. She was the Duchess of Trent and the daughter of the Duke of Alton. This was nothing.

‘Miss Roberts!' exclaimed Mrs Brenner. ‘You cannot think to insult the duchess in this manner. I must ask you to leave.'

‘I will leave when I choose. And I choose not to,' Miss Roberts retorted coolly, giving Alethea a defiant look.

When Mrs Brenner spluttered at that reply, Alethea spoke quickly. ‘Mrs Brenner, can you please excuse us for a moment?' Her heart was racing so from the tension and anxiety that she was surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

‘Your Grace?' Mrs Brenner stood, looking uncertainly at her.

‘I will be fine.' It was a bare-faced lie, but she needed to present a façade of strength. Even if she was afraid she would shatter into a million pieces once she was alone.

After another moment, the milliner left reluctantly, the small bell on the door tinkling merrily, incongruous with the heavy silence in the store.

Alethea looked directly into the other woman's eyes. ‘Miss Roberts, is it? I assume by your extraordinarily untoward approach that there is something you wish to say to me? If so, please proceed, and the sooner we may part ways.' Her tone was unmistakably haughty, and she was pleased to see the dark-haired woman's eyes widen in surprise.

The woman's mouth curved into a sneer. ‘Well, aren't you a high and mighty duchess? I'll bet you won't be so high and mighty when I tell you how your husband wasn't able to keep his aristocratic hands off me. How generous he was with his attention to
me
.'

An image of James being intimate with the woman before her appeared in her mind, and Alethea had to dig her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from reacting to the surge of pain it produced.
Take hold of yourself, Alethea. He is with you now, not with her. Do not show your feelings. Do not let her have the satisfaction.

‘Why,' Miss Roberts continued, a cunning look appearing in her eyes. ‘Just four months ago, he spent a score of nights with me. You were already married by then, were you not?'

Alethea felt the blood drain from her face and she felt light-headed. No, that couldn't be true. He would not break their marriage vows. He had told her that he wouldn't.

Her companion's smile was cruel. ‘I can see from your face that you were unaware of his visit. Really, what did you expect? A high-born woman like yourself wouldn't know, but a man has needs and I am extremely good at satisfying those needs. He is quite incredible, really. Even well into his cups, he can still perform magnificently.' She pretended to straighten her gloves. ‘I'm sure you know what I mean.'

No, thought Alethea. She had to be lying about the visit. James's ex-mistress was just saying these things to hurt her. Even so, she felt nausea roil violently in her abdomen. She prayed she would not heave up the contents of her stomach. And yet, a niggling doubt lingered in her mind. They had been apart for three months and he had been so very angry with her. Perhaps he had visited his ex-mistress. No. She could not think that. She must not.

‘Is that all you wished to say to me?' she asked, affecting a bored tone. ‘That was many months ago, and truth be told, I am finding this tale remarkably tiresome. So if you have nothing else . . .' She raised an eyebrow and gave Miss Roberts the most arrogant stare she could muster.

Satisfaction swept through her when the other woman's face flushed red with anger. ‘We shall see if you can still act so high and mighty when Trent tires of you and finds another mistress. You have no conceivable idea of how to please a man like him,' she spat, her pretty mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. ‘And if you still doubt me, it was in my quarters that Trent cut his hand on a piece of glass. I was the one who dressed his wound,' she concluded, looking triumphant.

Pain struck Alethea so hard that she almost doubled over. How could the other woman have known if James hadn't . . . She stopped her thoughts and did the only thing she could. She lifted her chin, imagining those hurtful words bouncing harmlessly off her person. James loved her. He loves me, she repeated in her head, over and over, as she prepared to leave. ‘This conversation is at an end.' She narrowed her eyes and stared at Miss Roberts. ‘I have one last thing to say. Do not ever approach me or my husband again. Do so and I will use my small-sword in such a way that you can be sure no man will ever find you attractive again.'

The woman looked at her with hate-filled eyes. ‘Is that a threat, duchess?' she hissed.

Alethea returned her gaze with ice-cold calm. ‘Absolutely. I bid you good day.' She turned and walked out, projecting an unaffected demeanour. She even managed to smile stiffly at Mrs Brenner before entering the carriage.

It lasted until the carriage pulled away. It was only when she placed her parasol on the seat that she realised that she was shaking like a leaf. Tears burned harshly in her throat but she refused to allow them to fall. Not yet. Not till she reached the privacy of her bedchamber. Yet, as she drew nearer to their town house, she felt dread build in her heart. She couldn't face the servants waiting for her there when she knew that every emotion she felt was written on her face for all to see. But where was she to go?

And then she knew.

‘Browning,' she called out to the coachman. ‘There has been a change of plans. I will be going to Alton House. After we reach the town house, make the necessary preparations, for I wish to leave immediately.' Her voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘I just want to go home.'

Our Hero Retrieves our Heroine

‘Whereabouts is Her Grace?' Trent handed his tricorn to the waiting footman and pulled off his gloves while addressing the under-butler who had greeted him at the door. ‘Does she have an engagement this evening?' He hoped she was upstairs in her bedchamber. After being apart for a fortnight, he was impatient to see his wife. So much so that he had told himself to hell with his estate business. Stanton would have to oversee the building of the tenant's new house and everything else that had been destroyed in the fire. All he wanted was to see Alethea again. To kiss that beautiful mouth of hers, to bury his face in her jasmine-scented tresses and feel her soft, warm body against his. He would never tire of her; in fact he could never seem to have enough of her.

‘Uh . . .'

Trent frowned at the hesitation in the under-butler's voice and face. ‘Townsend? What is it, man? And where is Jensen?'

‘He's taken ill, Your Grace.'

‘Where is Her Grace?' he repeated, annoyance creeping into his voice. He was tired and hungry after riding directly from his country estate. But most of all, he wanted to see his wife.

‘She's . . . uh, not here, Your Grace.' Townsend hesitated again, then hurriedly continued when Trent glared at him. ‘She left town three days ago to visit her parents in Hampshire.'

Startled, Trent stared incredulously at his under-butler. ‘She's not in town?' What the hell was she doing at the Alton estate? ‘Send Browning to me in the library.'

Trent downed a snifter of brandy as he waited impatiently for his coachman, wondering what had caused Alethea to depart for her father's estate without even leaving him a note. Had there been a tragedy of some sort? An illness? Before he could contemplate further, a knock sounded and he called out for his coachman to enter.

Browning came into the library and stood by the door. He was a trim, quiet man in his forties who kept to himself. He had been in the duke's employ for twelve years, and Trent trusted him implicitly. He wasted no time on niceties. ‘I need to know why the duchess is in Hampshire, Browning.'

The coachman was quiet for a brief moment before speaking. ‘Her Grace had a run-in with someone at the milliner's shop three days ago, Your Grace. I was not privy to the other person's identity, but . . .' He paused, looking uneasy.

‘Go on,' directed Trent, as a sense of foreboding came over him.

‘Her Grace was distressed after the encounter. Upon entering the carriage, she informed me that she wished to be taken to Alton House.'

‘You did not see this other woman?' demanded the duke, feeling his heart start to pound.

Browning shook his head apologetically.

Trent clenched his fists. No, it couldn't be. She wouldn't have dared, not in a thousand years. But he had not been in town, and he couldn't discount his ex-mistress's rage. Fear coursed through his veins. What had happened? ‘What —' He inhaled, clenching his fists in an effort to calm himself. ‘You said Her Grace was distressed?'

His employee's eyes were kind. ‘I saw her face after we arrived in Hampshire. She had been crying for a long while.'

The duke closed his eyes, feeling pain course through him. His wife had been hurt and it was all because of him. His mind flashed back to the night he had told Beth that their arrangement was at an end. He recalled the anger and malice in her voice, the spite she had exhibited towards Alethea even then. He didn't have to be present to imagine the ugly things that would have spewed out of his ex-mistress's mouth. What had Alethea thought? Had she been disgusted, repelled even? Had she believed the lies she had been told? He had to believe so. For she was gone. She had left him without a word or a backward glance.

A cold sweat broke out and a knot formed in his abdomen as he tried to imagine his life without her. The days that stretched out without end would be beyond bearing without her by his side. This was different to the fear he had felt after her illness. He knew that if he had lost her he would never have recovered from her death, but in a way, this was much worse. She had chosen to leave, and to know that Alethea was physically within reach and yet be unable to breach the gulf between them would be unbearable. In fact, he was not certain he had sufficient control over himself to be able to keep away from her, no matter what her wishes may be.

She, who had given him more joy than he had ever dared dream of. He, who had never done anything in his entire life to deserve such joy, much less the woman who brought him the only real happiness he had ever experienced. The thought brought him back to his senses. What the devil was he thinking? He could not lose her. He wouldn't.

‘Browning, order a fresh horse saddled. I am going to Hampshire.'

Alethea stirred, surfacing from sleep at the loud commotion coming from down the hall. The room was still swathed in darkness except for the candelabra burning in the corner of the room.

‘Martha?' she called out, pushing herself into a sitting position. ‘Are you there? Whatever is that racket?'

Before her maid could answer, the door to her bedchamber was pushed open with such force that it bounced back from the wall with a loud bang, making her jump in fright. ‘What in heaven —'

Her mouth fell open when James strode in. Behind him stood Wright, the butler, and two other footmen, all looking on anxiously, but not daring to enter. Without sparing her even a glance, the duke jerked open the drapes, allowing the emerging sun to cast a dim light into the room. Alethea looked speechlessly at her husband as he strode back to the foot of her bed.

She had never seen him in such a state. He had obviously been riding hard. His damp hair hung in disarray about his shoulders. His boots, breeches and sand-coloured greatcoat were splattered liberally with mud. What shocked her was that his normally immaculate cravat was completely absent, exposing a throat which gleamed with perspiration. He stood motionless, his expression unreadable. Alethea was struck by a pang of fear when she saw that his gloved hands were clenched tightly by his sides. What had happened?

‘James, what are you doing here?' She sat up, hitching the sleeve of her nightgown back up over her shoulder.

He ignored her question, but she observed his eyes following the movement of her hand, then linger when the sleeve slipped off again, baring her shoulder to his gaze.

‘Get dressed. We're going home.' It was not a request.

‘James, what in heaven's name has happened?' She stared at him in bewilderment as he walked to the side of her bed. He pulled back the covers, then leaned over and lifted her off the bed and placed her on her feet.

He continued to ignore her, striding towards the jug of water at the nightstand and pouring some into the bowl. ‘Martha, bring a gown for Her Grace. We will be leaving as soon as she is ready. Place the gown on the bed. I will assist Her Grace.'

Alethea looked around and saw with surprise that Martha had entered the room without her noticing. At the duke's request, her maid quickly curtsied and left the room, closing the door behind her and shielding them from the prying eyes of the other servants. The duchess watched silently as her husband stripped off his greatcoat, then his black velvet coat, before washing his hands and face.

By the time he finished, she was standing next to him, arms crossed and lips pursed. Enough was enough.

‘Did I not tell you to prepare yourself?' he asked, surveying her coldly as he dried his hands on the linen provided. Damn him; even when she was annoyed at him, she was still so drawn to him that she could barely stop herself from reaching out to touch and kiss him.

‘I will do no such thing until you explain yourself.' She lifted her chin, daring him to make her do something against her will.

His lips thinned. ‘I am Trent and I need never explain myself.' His tone was arrogance personified.

Alethea pretended to look bored and unimpressed when she was feeling the exact opposite. Even in his state of undress, he was still the duke, and she didn't think she would ever cease to be in awe of him. One needed merely to look at him to know that he had no small sense of self-worth and entitlement. Everything about him, his bearing, the way his eyes seemed to pierce through a person, the very manner in which he held his head, was commanding, demanding that a person submit to his very will. Still, she wasn't about to pander to him and act the submissive wife when they were both fully aware that she was nothing of the sort. She knew him well enough to know that
he
wanted nothing of the sort. ‘James, if you don't tell me what you are doing here in the next five seconds, I will —' She was not given the chance to finish her threat.

‘What I am doing here?' he shouted, his sudden loss of control making her take an involuntary step back. She had never heard him shout. Ever. Even when she had disobeyed him that time. His eyes flashed with anger. ‘I am here to retrieve my wife.'

She stared at him incredulously. ‘I beg your pardon? Retrieve me? Whatever for?'

He stepped closer and she swallowed at the rage and turmoil in his eyes. ‘You are my wife and you belong at my side. Or did you not understand the vows you took?'

She shook her head in bewilderment. She wondered if she was hallucinating. What the devil was going on? Had she wandered into a dream and not realised it? Or was he the one who had lost his mind?

Unfortunately he mistook her actions for refusal. ‘Till death do us part, Alethea, that is what you swore to when we married,' he said harshly. ‘You are sorely mistaken if you think that I would allow you to leave me, no matter what the reason is. Now, are you going to get dressed, or am I to remove you from your father's house clad in nothing but your nightdress?' His jaw was clenched and tension radiated from him like heat from a bonfire.

Alethea looked up at him. Something was very wrong. He thought she had left him? How could that be? He muttered something, and she blinked. ‘What did you say?'

‘Nothing.' He turned away and picked up his coat, his actions abrupt and uneven as he jerked it on, so unlike his usual smooth, economical movements that gave her so much pleasure to observe.

She stepped into him, taking hold of his hands when he would have moved away. ‘James, what did you say?' she repeated.

For a long moment, he did not look at her. And when he finally did, his eyes were filled with such torment that she could scarcely breathe. ‘I said, you didn't keep your word.' His voice was hoarse and wretched and it was all she could do not to throw her arms about him and hold him. ‘You told me you wouldn't leave me.'

Oh, my sweet love.
‘I have not left you.'

There was no visible reaction from him and she knew he did not believe her. Or perhaps he hadn't understood. ‘Then what are you doing here?' His voice was flat, uninterested, as if he already knew the answer.

‘You wrote that you would not return for at least a week, so I thought to come and visit my family while I waited for you. I sent you a note. Did you not receive it?'

He stared at her, his face unreadable. ‘I left for London yesterday.'

‘Oh. I only sent the note two days ago. It must not have arrived before you left. I also sent one to Jensen. Did he not tell you?'

He shook his head. ‘Jensen has taken ill. I did not speak to him. Townsend said nothing about you visiting and when I spoke to Browning . . .' His voice trailed off.

Alethea's heart stopped. ‘Y-you spoke to Browning? He . . . told you everything then?' Her chest tightened with anxiety. She had not wanted him to know about her encounter with his ex-mistress, ashamed that her reaction to such a meeting was to flee to her childhood home. She didn't want him to think that she had doubted him, but her actions said otherwise. So she had written him a cheerful note. She spoke of her decision to visit her family as a spur-of-the-moment affair. She missed them terribly. But he need not be concerned. She would be waiting for him when he arrived in London, she had written. Yet it had all been in vain.

‘I'm . . . I'm —' He stopped, his throat working. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his irises darkened to black from pain and regret. ‘I am so sorry. It is my fault that you were exposed to such ugliness. I never meant . . .' He visibly struggled to find the words and she tightened her hands around his. ‘I would have done anything to prevent you from meeting her, and I will never forgive myself for allowing you to be hurt.'

‘No! Darling, please, do not blame yourself, for I certainly do not blame you. I was a little overwrought, that is all. It was nothing,' she said, not wishing to distress him any further.

She should have known that he could see through her. He knew her too well by now. ‘It was not nothing if you asked Browning to take you to your parents' estate half a day's ride away when it was already dusk. What did that woman say to you?' His voice had hardened, but she knew it was not directed towards her.

‘All right, it was not nothing,' she admitted. ‘Yes, I was somewhat more than a little overwrought, but I came to my senses the very next morning. I am sure it was merely exhaustion and hunger. I did miss my afternoon tea that day,' she said lightly, wanting to take away the anger that was now clearly etched on his features.

He was not dissuaded. Nor did his mood lighten. ‘What did the bi—' He cut himself off with an effort. ‘What did she say, Alethea? I know she hurt you and I am going to do everything in my power to ensure she pays for it.' The ice that coated each word sent a chill down her spine. She did not doubt that he meant every word he uttered. ‘Now tell me what she said,' he commanded softly.

His gaze was steady and she knew he would wait until she gave in, no matter how long it took. She sighed, letting her hands drop from his. Alethea turned away, facing the window. She wasn't sure if she could hold on to her composure if she looked at him while she spoke. Her wound was still too fresh, too tender from the spiteful words that had bit into her like poisonous barbs. ‘She said that you visited her a number of times when you were in London . . . when we were apart. She said it was no wonder you were with her, when she was so much more experienced, and that I had no idea how to please you.' Her voice shook, and she closed her eyes, praying that she would not burst into tears like some silly, weak woman. ‘And . . . she knew about the cut on your hand.'