The Duke's Reform (9 page)

      'There has been
an incident in the drawing-room, involving her grace. Your presence is required
immediately.'

      He had been
angry before. Now he was incandescent. The only kind of
incident
he
could imagine that could involve Isobel was that some bastard had made advances
to her. If that was the case, he'd put a bullet through the man's heart after
he had beaten him to a pulp.

      He strode out
and the cold air all but flattened him after the fug of the billiard room. The
long passageways in this barrack were never heated. Although not yet winter,
the nights were cold and the prodigious amount of glass along this side of the
house did not help. He was obliged to stop for a moment, resting his hand
against the wall until his head stopped swimming.

      When his stomach
settled and his eyes had cleared he
continued,
his
fury building at every step. He was about to turn to the grand drawing-room
when Foster spoke from behind him. The man was slightly out of breath.

'I beg your pardon, your grace, but
Sir John is in an ante-room. I thought it best to remove him immediately.'

      So much the
better, one thing he could always rely on was the loyalty of his staff. Opening
the door to a room he couldn't remember entering before, he saw a man, slumped
in an upright chair, Sir John Farnham—his head was encircled by a clean white
bandage and judging by the amount of gore on his person he had received a
serious head wound.

His sharp features were not enhanced
by the blood. The man glared at him. ‘No-one treats me with disrespect. Be very
sure every house in Town will hear of this.’

      Two gentlemen
were hovering behind their friend. The shorter one, he misremembered his name,
stepped forward.

 'It's a disgrace, Rochester.
Sir John did no more than exchange pleasantries with your wife and she struck
him down with a candlestick. He will demand substantial reparation for this
outrage.'

      Without
hesitation Alexander grabbed the speaker by his cravat, lifting him bodily and
shaking him like a rat. 'If my wife was obliged to strike Farnham then it can
be for only one reason. He made improper advances.' He tossed the man aside and
he fell like an empty coat to the boards.

      The second man
instantly dodged behind the chair in which the bastard sat. Alexander wanted to
throttle Farnham. He loomed over the seated man and Farnham flinched. Isobel
would never encourage a gentleman to take liberties; she kept herself apart
from his friends and hated every moment he forced her to act as his hostess.

      Farnham shrank
against the chair back. Alexander decided he wasn't worth the trouble. 'You

and
your associates will depart from here
immediately. If I discover you when I rise tomorrow I shan't hesitate to kill
you.'

As he left the room he heard Farnham
call after him. ‘You will pay for this, Rochester. I never forget a slight.’

      Alexander
ignored the comment. The man was of no account. The matter here was dealt with,
but there were still his other guests. Before he entered the grand
drawing-room, he needed more brandy to steady his nerves. He detoured to his study,
his private sanctum into which no one ventured without invitation. He was
shocked to find his hands were trembling— another drink should settle him down.

       This
incident would take more than diplomacy to defuse. His anger turned towards
Isobel. Hadn't he warned her that this kind of
behaviour
was unacceptable, would not be tolerated or excused a second time? Whatever the
provocation, the family name was sacrosanct, it must never be besmirched.
Striking a man with a candlestick in front of his guests was going to send
ripples throughout the
ton
. The people he'd gathered around him would
not hesitate to gossip about what had happened.

 He stepped into the
drawing-room and viewed the assembly through narrowed eyes. There was not a
person among them he would wish to call a friend—they were sycophants and
hangers on. Some, like him, aristocrats, but others merely on the fringe of
Society, there to lap up what largesse he was prepared to throw their way. He
shook his head and regretted it, almost losing his balance. He cared not what
this assortment of scroungers thought about his family. They could all depart
the following morning. The shooting party was over. His icy stare sent
shockwaves around the chamber and gradually the chatter stopped and every head
turned his way.

       'I regret
that you were obliged to witness the unfortunate incident. Farnham has been
dealt with. You’ll understand I am obliged to ask you all to leave at first
light tomorrow morning.'

      Turning his back
on the silent group he stalked out. He would not demean himself by asking for
their discretion knowing the incident would be all over Town whatever he said.
Over the years his intimate friends had dropped him. He was married to a barren
wife. But the one thing he
could
rely
on,
was
the family name. Tonight Isobel had bought it into disrepute and this could not
go unpunished. He returned to the study to allow his guests to retire for the
night. Whilst he waited he finished a decanter of brandy.

       The house
wasn’t silent until after midnight.
Time for a reckoning.
He could not blame his wife for being childless. The least she could do was
behave with decorum. He paused, heartsick and lonely. Even in his befuddled
state he understood the fault was not hers—but his. He was a pitiful specimen
and it was hardly surprising he had failed to father further children.

      He punched the
wall, the pain sending shockwaves up his arm. He was master here and whatever the
provocation Isobel must pay. His anger grew with each step he took. He had been
too lenient with her and allowed her to run wild when he was absent, to ignore
her duties as chatelaine. She had become impertinent, not at all the submissive
wife he thought he'd married.

 From tonight everything
changed. He'd lavished money and gifts on her, had not overburdened her with
his demands in the bedroom, and what had she done? She had thrown it all back
in his face by behaving like a common trollop. A lady would have fainted, run
weeping to fetch him, or possibly slapped the bastard across the face. But no,
she must pick up a candlestick and brain the man in full view of a dozen
people.

      Having left the
butler to supervise the departure of those three men he was free to take the
necessary action that would ensure no further breaches of etiquette occurred.
His valet was hovering nervously. Alexander smiled grimly. When his evening
coat had gone, his cravat, boots and waistcoat also, he held up his hand. 'Leave
me, Duncan, I can do the rest myself. I shan't require you until the morning.'

      'Your grace,
allow me to help you into bed. You're trifle unsteady.'

     
'Silence.
Know your place or lose it.' What was it about
tonight that all about him were defying his every order?

     
He glared and his valet collected the discarded garments and retreated into the
dressing-room. The door clicked shut. What was going to take place in the
adjoining apartment needed no eavesdroppers.

****

Isobel tensed at every passing footstep, but so
far he had not burst in through her sitting room door to berate her. The house
was quiet, even the most recalcitrant of the guests had retired to their bed
chambers. He was not coming tonight. Thank God for that, he had been drinking steadily
for hours. With luck he had passed out in his study and would wake with a sore
head in the morning and no recollection of what had transpired.

 She turned, plumping the
pillows and finally relaxing. On the verge of sleep she heard the distinctive click
of the door that led from his bed chamber. He entered quietly, pushing the door
closed behind him. She held her breath. If she feigned sleep would he retreat?
Her heart was hammering—a wave of nausea engulfed her.

Through the slit of her eyelids a flickering
light showed he was in his shirt sleeves and pantaloons. When he came to her in
the usual way he wore only his silk bed-
robe,
was
naked underneath. She could not welcome him into her bed when he was angry and
in his cups. Here was the only place she could still cling to the faint hope
that one day he would learn to love her and this marriage would become like his
first. If he took her in anger, it would be over— with no children to keep them
together she would have nothing to hope for. The rest of her life would be
lonely and miserable, trapped in a marriage that had failed them both.

      Perhaps he was
not angry about had come to check she was unharmed from the unpleasant
experience. She dare not raise her head to look at him for this would reveal
she was awake. The sound of further candles being lit could mean only one thing
.
S
he could no longer dissemble. He had
not come to make love to her or to check if she was distressed— he had come to
punish her for besmirching his precious name in public.

      Would it make
things easier if she
apologised
? Pushing herself
upright she forced her lips to curve in a smile of welcome. His face was
unrecognizable. His eyes glittered strangely, an arctic grey— he was a stranger
to her. She tried to find words to mollify him. He was not himself, anger and
drink was making it appear as if he hated her. Her words remained locked behind
her teeth. Her mouth was too dry to release her tongue from the roof of her
mouth.

      With slow
deliberation he placed his candlestick on the ormolu table beside the bed.
Isobel shivered— she feared her bladder would empty. Why didn't he speak?

'Tonight, madam, you brought
disgrace to my name. The last time you did this I warned you what to expect. I
am master in this house and it’s high time you learnt what happens when you
disobey me.'

His words were clipped, each one
enunciated clearly. This was the voice of a madman. He stepped forward and
slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and, ignoring her protests, he
carried her into the anti-room in which she took a bath.

      'You disobeyed
me. You have only yourself to blame for this.'

      The door slammed
and she heard him pushing a large piece of furniture against it. She was shut
in a freezing room in only her nightgown. How dare he treat her like this? She
was not a recalcitrant child to be punished. There were no other doors in the
room and she couldn't escape into the servants' quarters even if she'd wished
to.

She pressed her ear to the door. His
footsteps faded into the night. Slumping onto the icy tiles she hugged her
knees and tried to stop her teeth from chattering. How long would he leave her
here to freeze? After an hour she was too dispirited and cold to do more than
huddle in a corner praying for release. She shivered and froze for what seemed
like hours before she heard him removing whatever he'd used to barricade her
inside. She scrambled to her feet.

His voice reverberated through the
door. 'I hope you have learned your lesson, madam.'

She would never forgive him. Rage
overwhelmed her—she was blinded by it—her fear and misery burned away by its
ferocity. The door swung open and she sprung forward snarling with anger.

Before he had time to react she
lashed out punching him squarely in the mouth. His teeth ground into her fist,
his lips split, but she ignored the hurt that travelled up her arm. He reeled
back, blood dripping from his mouth, his eyes wide. Not giving him time to
retaliate she punched him with her left hand. This connected with his eye.

She was incapable of speech. Her
cheeks were awash with tears of rage. He stepped away from her shaking his
head, wiping blood from his mouth with his shirtsleeve. She turned to see what
she could snatch up to hit him and her fingers closed around a candlestick. As
she lifted it, his hand grasped her wrist and he
prised
it from her.

'Enough, little firebrand, there are
better ways of venting your spleen than that.' He flung her full length onto
the bed, his weight pinning her down,
then
held her
arms on either side of her head. She bucked frantically to get free.

'Alexander, I beg you, not like
this. Haven't I been punished enough tonight?'

He disregarded her plea, trapping
her. His tongue invaded her mouth—she could taste his blood. He took the two
sides of her nightgown and ripped them apart leaving her naked and exposed. His
lips closed on hers but they were not hard but soft, persuasive, seducing her
into submission.

He trailed hot kisses down her neck;
taking a nipple into his mouth he nipped it gently between his teeth. Her
treacherous body began to respond. Although she hated him, was still imploring
him to stop, inside her primitive urges took over. It had been too long since
she'd made love to him.

      The
all-too-familiar heat spread rapidly until she was unable to control herself.
His mouth teased— he sensed she was willing. He was a skilled lover and she was
helpless as his fingers worked their magic. Down her shoulder, caressing her
breasts, then lower to the very centre of her being. Her anger evaporated
beneath the heat of her desire—
a wildness
flooded
through her and she grabbed his shirt and tore it from his shoulders.