Royal Regard (53 page)

“I do not want to hear the story.”

“Yes, you do. And you would rather listen to
it now than the next time I have a caller.” Even though Charlotte
clucked her tongue, Bella only sighed, “I suspect I will be very,
very tired of black before long.”

Charlotte’s forehead wrinkled with unspoken
condemnation and commiseration, and a few moments after the sharp
knock that followed the cough, while Bella was sucking on her
fingertip, the butler made his presence known.

His long leg stretched into the room slowly,
a stage player’s larger-than-life tiptoe, allowing the grieving
widow ample time to straighten her dress, dry her tears, or stifle
her conversation. When his head finally drew parallel to his feet,
he nodded to Charlotte, but addressed Bella, “Lady Huntleigh, the
Viscountess Lady Allison Nockham to see you. I’ve explained you are
in seclusion, but she is most insistent.”

Charlotte stood, almost knocking over the
embroidery frame, preparing to tell Lady Allison, as she had
everyone but the king, that Bella was not receiving, no matter who
the caller thought she was, but Bella grasped Charlotte’s
wrist.

“No, Charlotte. I have to see her sometime;
it may as well be now.”

“But you are in mourning, and the only reason
she is here is to—”

“I will be in mourning at least a year; I
can’t shut out everyone all that time. And it is unfair I can make
a full retreat against the scandal, and none of the rest of you
can.”

“But—”

“The duke is her brother, every bit as
deserving of her defense as I am yours, and I have more than earned
every horrible thing she is about to say, far more than His Grace
deserved John’s fist to his jaw. At least Allison is a lady and
will most likely remain polite.”

Charlotte’s shoulders squared. “I will not
allow her to mistreat you in my home. Corbel, please show Lady
Allison into the drawing room, and I will be there directly.”

Corbel cleared his throat nervously, “My
lady, she asked quite pointedly for a private audience with Lady
Huntleigh.”

Bella sighed, “I’m sure she has. I will see
her in the drawing room, please, in five minutes. I would be
grateful if you would have tea sent up. And some of the ginger
biscuits. The duke said she has a sweet tooth. Perhaps this may yet
be civil. Lady Allison and I were friends not so long ago.”

“I will arrange it immediately, my lady.”

Charlotte started, “Bella—”

“You cannot protect me from the whole world.
I will return before you can finish sorting silks.”

Making her way to the drawing room, Bella
castigated herself again for Nick’s downfall, preparing for the
chastisement to come. As she had said to Charlotte several times,
Bella might think less of Allison if she didn’t defend her brother.
Still, that was no comfort in view of the entirely warranted
telling-off of which she was about to take the brunt.

When Bella entered the drawing room, Allison
rushed over and took up her hands. “Oh, dear Lady Huntleigh—may I
still call you Bella?” Before Bella could even nod, as she motioned
her guest to the lavender-striped settee and took a seat on a
pale-green flocked chair, Allison continued, “And you must call me
Allison. We were Bella and Allison before all of this, were we not?
I do hope you have recovered from your shocking ordeal. A peer
abducting a lady. One can hardly credit it. It is outrageous!”

“Oh, er, quite,” Bella said, not sure how to
respond.

“Nicky said you were having headaches, and my
abigail has the most wonderful tisane. I’ve brought you a packet,
and you are to send word if you need more.” She pulled a blue silk
drawstring pouch out of her reticule and handed it to Bella. “She
won’t say what is in it, but it has never failed, and I have the
worst megrims. You have nothing but sympathy from me.”

Bella dropped it into her lap. “Thank you, my
lady. That is very kind. I had assumed you were here to ring a peal
over my head.”

“What, over Nicky?” Allison dismissed him
with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be silly. He has no business
pretending to be a gentleman at all. I’ve told him and told him
that he must respect your mourning. I wouldn’t be here invading
your privacy now if it weren’t for this remedy. It is quite the
best in England.”

“I am sure.” Bella was sure of many things;
foremost at the moment, Allison was not here about a headache
cure.

“No, you are better off without my wretched
brother. You won’t believe the things he has done in the name of
‘recovering from his distress,’ as though a proper Englishman is
ever distressed. My mother told me he was a reprobate, and my
eldest brother, too. I wash my hands of him.”

Bella found herself twisting the pouch of
herbs in her hands, silently beseeching her caller for mercy toward
the man at whom Bella would scream, were he in the drawing room.
The thought that he might have no one to ease him left her
cold.

“Oh, my lady, you must not abandon him.
Please. He is in horrible pain, and I hate to think I am the cause.
If he has no one to turn to in his grief, it will just break my
heart. Please say you will take care of him as a sister should.
Please, you mustn’t leave him alone with no one to look after
him.”

Allison turned up her nose. “My brother has
plenty of servants to look after him. He hardly needs me. My
husband and I should have returned to the country before now, given
the social situation, but with the inquiry and all the rest… Once
the government is finished totting up the accounts on the front
page of the newspaper, my accursed brother will be able to carouse
London to his heart’s content and the rest of us will go hide on
our estates. At least it won’t be my money he loses in the
stews.”

Bella grasped Allison’s hand, moving to the
loveseat in order to be closer, to make her case more directly.

“Please, Lady Allison. He cannot stay in
London. The gossip will ruin him, or the gambling or the drink or
the women. You know this is not who he is at heart. You cannot
believe he deserves such a lonesome life. Take him with you to your
estate, or home to Bristol if he will go. He should be with family.
Please.”

“There is no chance he will go. He has told
me so fifty times. He hates the country and thinks Wellstone is
cursed. He finds the gossip a perfect reason to retreat from Polite
Society, but no cause to retreat from the rest of London.”

Allison placed her hand gently over Bella’s,
trying to calm her, but Bella only held on tighter, her fingers
beginning to shake, eyes welling with tears. For a moment, she even
considered going down on her knees. “I have heard stories of his
descent into the stews before your brother died, and I daresay you
saw it in person. Please, will you try?”

Allison huffed, turning her knees on the
sofa, but squeezing Bella’s hand in sympathy. “I’m not sure why you
care, after everything he’s put you through. He is an awful cad,
treating you as he has.”

Pulling her hand back, Bella stared at the
floor, wringing her fingers together in her lap. “Nothing that has
happened can be laid at his door, Lady Allison. He is the one
wronged. Only through circumstance, you understand, never malice,
but the blame belongs to me.”

Bella was so busy condemning herself she
missed the significance of Allison’s small, smug smile.

“Well, if you insist I ensure his wellbeing,
Bella, I will—to ease your grief, mind, not his—but he isn’t worth
one minute of my time, or yours.”

“But he is, Lady Allison. He is… he is…
everything.” Despite her best efforts, the forced-back tears began
to fall. “I can’t bear to think he might…” She covered her face
with her hands until Allison pulled them away, wiping the teardrops
from her cheeks with a lace handkerchief that appeared out of
nowhere.

“You really must call me Allison. I cannot
promise anything, Nicky being the Pigheaded Peer, but I will do my
best to convince him to come to Yorkshire with us. Or perhaps he
can be convinced to winter on the Continent. Nockham and I had been
trying to agree a plan with Henry, now he is finished at Eton.
Perhaps a Grand Tour with his uncle. In Italy, Nicky is only the
Cold-hearted
Conte,
not the Dangerous Duke.”

She patted Bella on the hand. “Please, take
heart. With so many troubles to bear, you must not let Nicky be
another one. I will take care of my brother. You take care of
yourself.”

My Dearest Lord Duke,

It is with greatest sadness I leave my heart in
Grosvenor Square tomorrow morning, in the hands of a man whom I
love deeply—now tragically. Should you read this letter rather than
consign it to flames, I repeat the same words I shall each day
until we are reunited, even to the end of my life: I adore you,
Your Grace. You are the greatest love of my life, and I foresee no
time when I will not yearn for you and weep for the loss of your
affection.

As you know, my love, I dearly hope my departure
from London will be the last, leaving nothing I regret, but you. I
have surely ruined any possibility you might return to my side one
day, and in the process destroyed my own life irreparably. I shall
spend my days in Saltash craving the return of your most tender
sentiments.

Many believe I married my husband for his money and
his nouveau title, that we could not possibly have common
interests, given his age. Those same gossips say his interest in me
was entirely lecherous, since I cost him a bride-price and was of
dubious nobility. None of these assumptions are accurate, and if
you have chosen to accept any as true, you will naturally
misunderstand my deep respect for his memory, even to the detriment
of myself.

As a girl, I spent years wishing for any means to
leave behind a father and brothers who cared nothing for me, my
aunt and uncle whose primary concern was ensuring I would not
starve outright in adulthood. I wanted nothing more than to be
liberated from a near-certain life of drudgery.

When I met Myron, he made it possible for me to
leave not only my family, but also my tenuous place among the
aristocracy, my failure as a debutante, and the surety of social
ruin when my father and brothers were caught out in their schemes.
And Myron offered me travel, a lifelong fantasy I had never dared
voice. My gratitude to him was the basis for our marriage.

He needed to accomplish two opposing goals to
maintain the favor of the Prince of Wales: beget an heir for his
fortune and barony, while still travelling wherever the Crown
chose. He was socially rough, more sailor than ambassador, so also
required my assistance as a gentlewoman to help him become a proper
envoy. His gratitude to me was the basis for our affection.

The great sadness of our marriage was lack of
children. We lost no fewer than six, the last Arabella. Each time,
and for the many months in between, my husband protected,
supported, and cherished me, even to the point of doing harm to his
business. Even to the point of giving up his desire for an
heir.

I have told you before a thousand times, he was the
kindest of men and the gentlest of husbands. He provided for me in
so grand a fashion that I will never want for any material thing
again. And he did his utmost, with you, to ensure my heart’s
passions would be equally fulfilled. He never made my pulse race as
you do, dearest, for he was not the same type of man, but my
happiness today would be naught but ash had he not come before you.
He is more deserving of my respect—and yes, love—than any other
person in my life, excepting you.

Further, he would want no uncertainty about the
inheritance of his title or yours; there must be no question I am
not increasing, although I am more aware than any it is no
possibility. He would hate to hear gossip about a seven-month
child, which will begin as soon as a wedding is announced and
follow any such child for a lifetime. He would have given your
natural child his name to keep my reputation from being tarnished.
I know this, as he knew I would never take you as a lover until
after he was gone. I am deeply ashamed to have betrayed him.

For these reasons and more, though the ton deems it
improbable, I genuinely grieve my husband. I feel deeply the loss
of his presence from my side: strength that saw me through
horrendous circumstance, wit that entertained me in my darkest
days, his protective nature that sheltered me in situations with no
measure of safety, including the marriage mart in London. Baron
Holsworthy, Lord Huntleigh, was a balm to the harshest of lives,
and the answer to my lifelong prayers. That ours was not a
passionate marriage has no relevance to what we were to each
other.

There are not enough widows’ weeds to honor his
memory, to rid myself of the pain of never having said goodbye.
Social convention is nothing to the sorrow that weighs on me at the
thought he died alone while I was in my lover’s arms, and was
interred while I lay sleeping. Wishing nothing more sincerely than
your touch, in my heart I know I cannot agree to join my life with
yours until this burden is removed between us.