The Duke's Reform (8 page)

      Breathless she
tumbled into her sitting room and for the first time since she had arrived here
she locked the doors behind her. She rang for her maid, the sooner she was
safely in her bed the better. 'I shan't require you again this evening,
Cranford.'

       She
settled back with the latest novel from
Hatchards
and
became immersed in her romance and quite forgot that she had left her external
doors locked.

****

Alexander heard the shouting and came to
investigate. According to his cronies Isobel had thrown a glass of wine over
Bartram for no other reason than that he had failed to move aside quickly
enough to please her.

      This was
unacceptable
behaviour
. He'd already had to smooth
the ruffled feathers of his housekeeper because of her incivility. Tonight he
would make it clear to her he would not tolerate breaches of etiquette.

      His head was
thumping— he couldn't recall exactly how many bottles of claret he'd drunk over
dinner or how much brandy he'd consumed since then. Drink numbed the senses,
dulled his disappointment with his wife, and helped him to accept that he would
never have another child to cherish. He paused, leaning his burning face
against the wall for a moment. He closed his eyes expecting to see an image of
his beloved
Eleanor,
instead a picture of Isobel
filled his mind. He rubbed his eyes angrily. No—he would not let her creep into
his heart. He had no room for love in his life.

      He tried her
parlour
door. He rattled, but it refused to budge. This
door was never
locked,
it must be jammed for some
reason. He walked along the passageway and tried to enter Isobel's bed chamber.
This door also did not move. Furious he hammered on the panel. He would not be
denied entry to any room in his own house.

      He heard the
patter of bare feet told on the boards. What was the matter with her? Did she
not have a maid to do these things? The key turned but the door was not opened.
At least his wife had the sense not to appear in the passageway in her night
clothes. He stepped in and glared at the young woman who was staring nervously
from beneath the bed covers.

      'Alexander, I
came down to tell you that I am not available this week.'

     
God's teeth!
Is that why she thought he was here?
He felt a flicker of remorse that this
lovely young woman was reduced to hiding in her bedchamber in her own home. 'I
know that, I am not a simpleton. I am quite able to keep note of the date. I
came here to discuss the matter of your

behaviour
downstairs.'

      'That man was
going to touch me. Would you wish me to stand there and let him do so?'

      He shook his
head trying to clear his thoughts—she was quite right. He had not given the
incident sufficient attention. He did not doubt her veracity one minute.
'No, of course not.
But in future you won't respond in that
unacceptable way. It will be the talk of the town, I dislike having

my
good name brought into disrepute.'

      If he did not remove
himself hastily he would cast up his accounts on her carpet, this would not
enhance his attraction. Momentarily he was ashamed by his lack of control.

      'I
apologise
, Alexander, it won't happen again. You don't look
at all well. I wish you did not drink so much, it is ruining your health.'

      Her comment hit
a raw nerve.
This was the outside of enough. How dare she
criticise
him
. 'Madam, let us get this quite clear. If
something similar occurs again don't expect me to be so lenient.'

      He
gulped,
he must get to his own room before he disgraced
himself.

****

Isobel watched him go and her heart twisted.
Her husband was no longer the man she had fallen in love with. He was gambling
heavily as well as drinking too much. How long would it be before he was
unfaithful? As she curled up under the covers she prayed his threat was an idle
one, something he would regret when he was sober. She good
forgive
his drunkenness, but if ever he mistreated her she would hate him. All hope
would be gone. She would let him go to the devil anyway he chose.

Chapter Six

When the unwanted house guests and her husband
departed, Isobel thanked God that the snow had not been enough to deter them from
returning to London. With luck he would remain in Grosvenor Square until the
end of the season and leave her in peace. She consoled herself by writing long,
quite inaccurate and untruthful, letters to her cousin Petunia and her parents.

      Mama no longer
enquired if she was increasing and appeared to have accepted the disappointing
situation. Papa no doubt worried that Alexander might demand his money back as
his wife had failed to fulfill her part of the bargain. Her only solace was
riding and having her faithful friends close by. She visited them more
frequently as time passed. Indeed, Sam and Mary's cottage was more a home to
her than Newcomb.

      The summer she
spent alone, Alexander away on the continent so his man of business,
Mr
Hill, informed her. It was some consolation that the
younger members of staff, those that had not been working at Newcomb forever,
were now eager to serve her and she was slightly more at ease.

      October came
around again with the news that two dozen or more guests were expected. There
would, this time, be several wives accompanying the gentlemen. It would be
pleasant to have someone to talk to, other than Mary. Several times she had
been tempted to send out cards to the nearby houses but did not like to go
against her husband's wishes in this matter.

She waited nervously in the
vestibule to greet him. It had been more than six months since he'd been home.
Had he changed as much as she? When Foster bowed him in her eyes widened in
shock. Who was this stranger shrugging off his top coat? She scarcely
recognized him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy and unhealthy and she
was certain his hand had been unsteady when he'd held it out.

      Curtseying
deeply in order to avoid the necessity of meeting his eyes— she must school her
features and not let him see how dismayed she was. 'Welcome, your grace, it's
been too long since you came home.'

      She straightened
to see him staring at her as if he could not quiet place
who
she was. He nodded. 'You have lost weight, Isobel. It does not suit you.'

      With these few
terse words he strolled off towards the drawing-room leaving her to greet his
guests as they appeared. By the time the ladies had been directed to their
boudoirs and the gentlemen to the billiard room she was quite exhausted. She
was also bitterly disappointed there was not one of the half a dozen wives she
wished to spend time with. They were all as brittle and shallow as their
husbands, and considerably older than herself.

      Unfortunately she
must act as a charming hostess for the duration of their visit. How long that
would be
he
had not deigned to tell her. At least a married gentleman
would not attempt to molest her; she had not forgotten the last time and
dreaded such an occurrence happening again. She'd had no opportunity to discuss
the matter with Alexander, but it would certainly be she who was blamed if
anything similar took place.

      Everything went
smoothly for the first few days. Tomorrow the men were to shoot and the ladies
to join them for an alfresco luncheon. She was almost looking forward to the
event. To be outside, even in uncongenial company, would be a pleasure. Nothing
remotely enjoyable had taken place at Newcomb these past six months.
Unfortunately the heavens opened and the guests were forced to remain indoors.
This would mean by dinner time all the gentlemen would be in their cups and the
ladies little better.

      She was
returning, after a brief conversation with Foster about the next morning's
arrangements, to rejoin the guests. The majority of the men had retreated to
the billiard room to drink brandy and smoke foul-smelling cigars. The ladies,
and the remaining gentlemen, were in the process of having card tables set out
in the grand drawing room.

 Isobel was hesitating in the
doorway, hidden by a marble column, when a vile creature lurched up to her.

'I've been searching for you, my
lady. I've noticed that your husband ignores you. I should be happy to take his
place— I'm sure you understand my meaning.'

 Making such a licentious
remark was bad enough but his hand snaked out to clutch her breast. No one took
liberties with her person. No one touched her breasts apart from Alexander.
Without a second thought she snatched up a large silver candlestick and struck him
on the head.

      He staggered
back, clutching his forehead. Blood poured unchecked down his face. From the
screams and cries of distress of the female
witnesses
one would have thought she had murdered him. Head wounds bled freely, she was
certain he was not seriously hurt. Then she was surrounded by a ring of
accusatory faces. This was too much and she fled to her bed chamber in
distress.

Alexander was going to be so angry.
She huddled under the coverlet dreading the moment when his footsteps approached
her bedchamber. She clenched her fists, her heart pounding, going over the
horrible incident which had occurred in full view of many of his cronies.
Should she have brazened it out? Remained in the room and not fled to her
apartment in disarray? Maybe she was overreacting— perhaps when he heard of her
appalling
behaviour
he would laugh and continue his
game of billiards. She might as well be invisible to him nowadays. Was it
possible he might
chose
to ignore her this time as
well?

Her failure to conceive was a bitter
disappointment to them both. He had selected her for her breeding qualities and
her impeccable pedigree in exactly the same way he would chose a mare to put to
his stallion. She no longer had any illusions about her marriage. Her family had
been saved

from
financial ruin by her settlement, The Duke of
Rochester had bought himself a duchess. Her immature fantasies that one day he
would love her had long since been trampled under his indifference.

How wrong, how naïve, she had been to believe
she was anything more than an object, and one that did not live up to
expectations at that. Thank God he spent his time in Town, leaving her to our
own devices in the country.

She should be satisfied with her lot.
After all, wasn't she a duchess, dressed in the first stare of fashion, given
as much pin-money as she wanted? For many women being left alone at night would
be a bonus. He had not repeated his invitation that she
join
him at Grosvenor Square and she would not have gone if he had.

The mantel clock struck midnight.
Alexander rarely retired until the small hours when he had acquaintances with
him. The shooting season was well established and cub hunting was about to
start. There was nothing these gentlemen liked better than to be shooting and
chasing
defenceless
animals about the countryside.

Her stomach curdled. Why didn't he
come and get it over with? She closed her eyes, but tears spilled anyway. She
bit her lip—she would cry no more. She'd done enough these past months. Indeed,
she couldn't even recall the name of the obnoxious man who waylaid her in the
drawing-room after dinner.

      However
justified her actions, she was the Duchess of Rochester. One thing her husband
had made abundantly clear was that he would not tolerate her behaving in
anything but the most seemly of manners. She shuddered as she remembered what
he'd said when she'd thrown a glass

of
wine over that other gentlemen. She was going
to cast up her accounts. Her face was drenched with sweat. He had never raised
a hand to her. Tonight, would he extract a physical retribution?

****

Alexander
downed his brandy before chalking his cue and preparing to take the shot. A
hush fell on the billiard room— this was a crucial moment. A thousand guineas
was
staked on the outcome of this pot. As he drew back his
arm someone cleared his throat loudly and he miscued. The resulting screech of
delight from the cronies of the man who stood to gain fuelled his anger. With
clenched fists he turned to find Foster standing rigidly behind him. His butler
knew better than to interrupt unless it was a matter of extreme urgency.

      'What is it
it
, man? It had better be good or you'll be leaving Newcomb
this very night.'

      Foster's
whispered words were barely discernible in the hubbub.
'If I
could be permitted to have a word with you, your grace, in private.'

      Alexander tossed
his cue to one of the gentlemen still celebrating the wager and stepped out of
earshot. 'Well?' His head thumped like the very devil. He'd been drinking
heavily since early afternoon which did nothing to improve his digestion or his
temper. Even in his befuddled state he saw his servant stiffen as if expecting
a blow.