Never Deceive a Duke (11 page)

Gareth looked at the doctor incredulously. “She was fox hunting whilst with child?”

Osborne hesitated. “From what I am told, the second duchess was very young, and a little impulsive,” he confessed. “She was wed at eighteen to a man much older than herself, and perhaps none too pleased to be settled down. The marriage might have been strained.”

“I daresay it was,” said Gareth.

The doctor shrugged. “I was still at university, myself,” he said. “At Oxford. I know nothing firsthand.”

“And the third wife?” said Gareth. “Was she an impulsive debutante, too?”

“A debutante, yes,” said Osborne. “But an older, rather solemn girl. I quite liked her, really. Though she was not a beauty, everyone thought it an ideal marriage.”

“But it was not?”

The doctor looked sad. “She was barren,” he answered. “It was a terrible disappointment to His Grace.”

“Yes,” said Gareth grimly, “and I daresay he never let her forget it.”

Osborne did not deny Gareth’s allegation. “Her failure to conceive left her deeply unhappy, too,” he said. “She felt she had failed the duke, and she became melancholy to the point of illness. She began to depend upon laudanum to sleep.”

Gareth saw what was coming. “Did herself in, did she?”

The doctor smiled wearily. “For regular users, Your Grace, there can be a fine line between sedation and death when ingesting opiates. I believe it was an accident.”

“And then the duke was free to marry again,” Gareth suggested.

“It was an
accident,
Your Grace,” said Osborne. “She would never have taken her life out of sheer melancholia, and no one meant her any harm.”

Gareth felt instantly ashamed. “No, I am sure they did not,” he said swiftly. “As you say, a tragedy.”

“The Ventnor family has suffered more than their share,” the doctor agreed.

Gareth wondered how much Osborne knew about his history at Selsdon. But did it really matter? He set both hands on his thighs and abruptly rose. “Thank you, Doctor, for your candor,” he said. “I shall leave you to your work.”

Gareth rode back through the village with his mind in turmoil. He had gone to Dr. Osborne with some very firm suspicions. So why did he now feel so unsettled by having those suspicions confirmed?

Perhaps Antonia really did not recall making love to him. Gareth considered it, then shook his head. The truth, he suspected, lay somewhere in the middle. She had been incoherent when he’d found her, yes. But at some point, Antonia had returned to herself. The woman with whom he had shared unbridled passion had been, at least fleetingly, whole and quite thoroughly in her right mind. She
did
remember. The morning of their quarrel, he had seen the truth and the shame in her eyes. Oh, she was clearly an emotional creature, even a little erratic, perhaps. But was she mad? No, not precisely.

There had been a man aboard the
Saint-Nazaire
—an old salt by the name of Huggins—who had been abandoned by the Royal Navy as unfit for duty. Huggins had fought aboard HMS
Java
with General Hislop off the coast of Brazil, not far from where the
Saint-Nazaire
had taken him on. It had been a long and brutal battle, and in the end, the Americans had been merciless.
Java
had struck her colors and was burnt. The survivors had been few and broken.

Huggins, too, had had that look—the wild, haunted look he had seen in Antonia’s eyes in the rain that night. It was as if they looked through you even as their eyes became a portal to a terror almost unimaginable. On the ship, Huggins had proven delusional and useless. The captain had set him ashore again in Caracas, where he had likely died.

Good God. How could he think of Antonia and that pathetic creature in the same breath? They were nothing alike. But the eyes…dear Lord, the eyes.

Gareth shook off the memories and spurred his mount to a quicker pace. He needed a few moments of peace and quiet in which to consider all that Osborne had said. Actually, what he needed was advice. He was too blinded by lust and anger to think clearly. He had an estate to learn to run, and a staff to manage—one which was far larger than Neville’s. He needed to meet his tenants, introduce himself to the local gentry, and hire a decent valet. He needed to learn about crop rotation and irrigation, for pity’s sake. And yet his mind kept turning to the past, and to Antonia. Did people really imagine her a murderess? And why did he wish to prove she was not?

He did not know her. Indeed, he knew nothing of anyone at Selsdon. Almost anyone in the house could have wished his cousin dead. He himself had often done so.

And what was the truth about Antonia? What was it that had left her so tormented? Suddenly it dawned on Gareth that what he needed was Xanthia. Xanthia would know how best to get at the truth of things. She could advise him. Help him find clarity. Suddenly, he laughed aloud at the incongruity of the notion.
He wished his old lover to give him advice on his new lover?

No. No, Antonia was a duty. An obligation. But she was not his lover. He could not go on thinking in those terms. Moreover, Xanthia was on her way to the Aegean on Nash’s private yacht. She would be away for weeks—and she was another man’s wife. Which left only Rothewell.

Gareth slid his hand pensively along his jaw and considered it. Just how desperate was he?

Damned desperate—but for what, he hardly knew. A friend, he supposed. A sounding board. He spurred up his mount yet again, and this time, he kept a steady pace until home was well within his sights. Once there, he went straight into his study and withdrew a sheet of Warneham’s fine, heavy foolscap from the desk.

By Saturday, Antonia was beginning to relax just a fraction. Nothing had been said about her and Nellie leaving, and life at Selsdon with the new duke had assumed a pattern of sorts these last few days. As was customary at Selsdon, they were to dine that evening in the small dining room, a chamber which seated eight, as opposed to the grand state dining room, which could accommodate forty in utter opulence. Antonia glanced at it as she passed by on her way to dinner. The state dining room had never been used during her short tenure as duchess. She wondered a little absently if the new duke meant ever to entertain. Perhaps not. He seemed a solitary sort of man.

At the door to the small dining room, she paused to gather her nerve and adjust her shawl, which felt a little twisted. Then, forcing her chin up and her shoulders back, Antonia entered. In the last few days, she had almost grown accustomed to this; the sense of her breath catching and her stomach bottoming out when she entered a room to find him there.

Tonight the duke was dressed simply but elegantly in black and white. He did not seem to own a great many formal clothes, Antonia had noticed, but those he owned were of excellent fit and quality. As often was the case, his hair was still damp, which dulled its warm, golden sheen to a honeyed brown. His lean, well-tanned face appeared freshly shaved, emphasizing the strong angle of his jaw.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said stiffly.

He had risen at once. “Good evening, ma’am.”

It was the way they had greeted one another for the past three evenings; so rigidly that their lack of emotion was almost an emotion in itself. Antonia dropped her gaze and swiftly took her seat at the end of the table—in the duchess’s chair, as he had insisted from the very first.

The duke gave a nod to the attending footman—tonight it was Metcaff, and there was an almost disdainful curl to his lip. She hoped that the duke did not know him well enough to notice it. As the first course was brought in, Antonia observed Metcaff as he served. There was a decidedly sullen inattention to his motions. Perhaps it was time to dismiss the man? But that was not her business.

She shut Metcaff from her mind and got on with the trouble of dinner. However, after they had made their way through the second course, sole in herb butter, and the third, veal cutlets, Antonia found they were swiftly running out of bland topics like the weather, the harvest, and the king’s health. The duke, too, had noticed it. He motioned for Metcaff to pour the next wine. “Thank you,” he said then. “You may leave us.”

Metcaff hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”

“We do not require your attention just now,” said the duke. “We shall ring for you later.”

Metcaff bowed stiffly and withdrew.

Uneasy, Antonia laid aside her fork, accidentally striking it on her plate rim.

The duke took up his wineglass, drew in the scent, then drank from it approvingly. “Coggins keeps an excellent cellar, does he not?” he remarked.

“Yes, he is quite knowledgeable.” Antonia’s voice was thready.

The duke studied her over the rim of her glass. “Madam, I do not bite,” he said quietly. “At least, I have not yet done so.”

Antonia cut her gaze away. Warmth flooded her cheeks.

He set his glass down with a thud. She could feel the steady heat of his eyes upon her. “We need not continue with this charade, Antonia,” he finally said. “I take no joy in it. Clearly, you do not.”

“Wh-what charade, Your Grace?”

He made an expansive gesture about the room with his glass. “This charade of dinner,” he said. “It is supposed to be a time of relaxation when the household comes together, isn’t it? But we are neither of us relaxed. We do not enjoy this. And there is really no need for you to be uncomfortable when you might as easily have a tray in your room. Or I can dine in my study. Would that better please you?”

Strangely, the notion did not please her. In fact, his offer inexplicably stung. She cleared her throat and lifted her eyes to his. “No, Your Grace,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice. “Dinner is an important tradition here at Selsdon.”

The duke began to swirl his wine around in a lazy circle. “And are you a woman who enjoys traditional things?” he asked quietly.

“I was brought up to greatly respect tradition,” she answered. “It is the backbone of all we stand for, is it not?”

Surprisingly, the duke shrugged. “I’ve never given a tinker’s damn for it, myself,” he said, without a hint of disdain. “Tradition has never done a thing for me. But I am willing, I daresay, to give it another chance if you think it proper.”

There was something in his voice—a strain, perhaps—and a hint of fatigue about his eyes. And suddenly it occurred to Antonia how hard this must be for him. Perhaps it had never occurred to this man that one day the mantle of duty—and yes, of
tradition—
would fall upon his shoulders.

She made a vague, fluttery gesture with her hand, then jerked it back into her lap. Damn it, she was
not
a witless schoolgirl. Why was it that in the duke’s presence, she became so painfully aware of her own shortcomings? So fully conscious of the fact that she was no longer the vivacious, confident woman she had once been? What was it about him that made her…
feel
?

“I am so sorry,” she said quietly. “I have handled this badly, Your Grace. You have been unexpectedly saddled with me, I know. And I…I have been a poor hostess. I have been of no help to you whatsoever.”

“I do not require your help, Antonia,” he said calmly. “Merely your happiness, as much as it is within my power.”

He meant it. She could hear the sincerity in his voice. And when she looked at him, with his solemn, dark gold eyes and his too-handsome face, something inside her seemed to give way. It was a rush of appreciation and admiration—and other emotions best left unnamed. “I should have helped you to settle in,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I should have been…more gracious. Instead, I have—well, I should rather not remember how I have behaved.”

The duke was quiet for a long moment. “Grief does strange things to us all,” he finally said. “Just know, Antonia, that I am sorry for all that has happened to you. My personal feelings for my cousin aside, he was your husband. I know you miss him. I know, too, that a certain amount of security has been stripped from your life with his passing—and it is not my intention to compound that loss.”

Antonia felt an unexpected pressure well in her eyes. “You…You are very kind, Your Grace.”

The duke shoved his glass a little away. “Look, Antonia, I can only imagine what has been said of me around here.” His voice was sharper now. “I know Warneham loathed me. He never wanted me here to begin with—and God knows I never wanted to come back. But tell me, Antonia—what choice do I have? Any? If you can think of one, for God’s sake, let’s have it.”

“None,” she quietly acknowledged. “You have no choice whatsoever. Everyone here at Selsdon depends upon you, and upon your ability to make wise decisions. The dukedom is a large and momentous responsibility.”

“But I could simply walk away,” he suggested. “Even though Cavendish tells me the law does not provide for it. If I did walk away, however, what would happen to the workers and tenants?”

She shook her head. “I do not know.”

The duke was staring into the depths of the room now. “Eventually, I suppose, this whole bloody mess will be the Crown’s,” he said pensively. “But I can stand here with my finger in the proverbial dyke for a few years, I daresay—and eventually, perhaps some long-lost Ventnor will turn up after all.”

Antonia gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, I do not think so, Your Grace,” she said, taking a healthy sip of her wine. “If there had been one, trust me, my husband would have found him long before now.”

The duke smiled a little bitterly. “So the Crown’s it shall be, then, when I turn up my toes,” he said. “I’ll bet old Prinny is already salivating at the thought.”

Antonia looked at him blankly for a moment. “You…you do not mean to begat an heir, Your Grace?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it. Not unless…unless we—” His voice fell to a whisper. “Oh, Christ, Antonia. What the devil would we do if—”

She heard the glass snap before she felt the pain. She looked down to see a drop of blood, bright red on the tablecloth. She must have cried out, for the duke was out of his chair and bending over her before Metcaff could burst into the room.

“Good God, let me see your hand,” said the duke, raking away the broken glass with the back of his fist.