The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “In that case, perhaps it will be better if I stayed in London,” Lucinda said. She bit her lip as Denbigh swung around to face her, his color high.

  Inside, deep inside, she cringed. Once more, she’d let her tongue run ahead of her thoughts.

  In long impatient strides Denbigh crossed to her chair, his brow lowered, his mouth hard. “No, it won’t be better. I certainly do not want Lady Elizabeth bothered with the ordering of the house while I am entertaining.”

  A chill flashed through her, like a cold plunge on a hot day. Lady Elizabeth Trubshaw, a widow as slender as a willow and her husband’s longtime mistress, was to make one of the party. How could he be so cruel as to humiliate her with his other woman in front of Vale and the rest of his rakish friends? Knowing the least sign of annoyance would further incite his temper, she kept her voice reasonable. “The housekeeper at Denbigh Hall is quite capable of seeing to your guests’ needs. My parents are expecting me for dinner at the end of the week.”

  If only she could throw herself into her mother’s arms and let her make everything better. She blinked away a sudden rush of tears.

  Anger radiated from the rigid set of her husband’s shoulders. “Another feast to gorge at? Do you put your family before my wishes?”

  Had he had more to drink that she’d suspected? Her heart beat a nervous tattoo. Do not shrink. Do not press back into the safety of the cushions. A show of fear only intensified the cruelty of his tongue. She intertwined her fingers, resisting the urge to protect her throat. “But I promised them.” Dash it. She sounded like a whiny child instead of a grown married woman.

  “I don’t care,” Denbigh said. “I gave the housekeeper leave to visit her family. I need you at Denbigh Hall.”

  If only he truly did need her, things might be different. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth to stem another flow of words.

  Vale strolled to the window. One hand on the shutter, he gazed down into the street. The golden light cast his face into the burnished angles and shadowed hollows of some unearthly creature of nightmares. “You see, Lady Denbigh,” he murmured, “when we have our special parties, we prefer not to . . . disturb old family retainers with our festivities.”

  He swung around to face her, a question mark of dark hair curling on his high forehead and the sardonic curl to his lips more pronounced. “We prefer to keep our activities within the family, so to speak.” He bowed. “I shall be only too pleased to introduce you to the full range of diversion we offer the women who join us. I am sure once you have savored the array of delicacies, you will find your appetite returning again and again.”

  Her mouth dried. The tightness in her chest increased. She could scarcely credit the unabashed lascivious meaning in every word. Her skin crawled as if steeped in filth.

  Denbigh grinned at his friend like some besotted schoolboy. Did he not realize what Vale was saying? Or did he really not care?

  “If you think you can stir my wife’s blood,” Denbigh said, “you are welcome to try.” He glanced down at her. “All she cares about is her next meal. I doubt even your famous charm can break through her wall of ice.”

  The duke had as much charm as an adder.

  “I shall look forward to making the attempt,” Vale whispered, his suddenly limpid gaze scanning her from head to heel.

  Over her dead body. The desperate thought sent a shiver down her spine. She could almost believe Denbigh would welcome any release from his marriage. Damn him. And damn the duke. She would not be intimidated by a pair of shiftless wretches. She rose to her feet.

  When Denbigh stepped back to avoid coming into contact with her body, she squashed a smile of triumph. It was all bravado, a saving of face, to little purpose. Unless she did something about her predicament.

  “Please excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, surprised at the steadiness in her voice, “but if I am to prepare for a journey to Sussex, I have a great deal to do.”

  Denbigh narrowed his eyes on her face, and she tried not to squirm. “I’ll meet you outside, Vale. I need a word with my wife.”

  The duke hesitated. An expression flickered across his impassive face. It might have been regret or boredom. She didn’t know; nor did she care.

  With languid grace, Vale bowed. “Farewell, Lady Denbigh. Don’t be long, Denbigh. My groom hates to keep my cattle idle in the street for too long.” He sauntered from the room.

  Her knees quivered with the strain of remaining upright before Denbigh’s intent stare. The tremble vibrated deep in her bones. Why did he need to speak to her? She’d agreed to what he wanted, but from the suspicious glint in his eye, she’d given in too easily. For all his foppishness, Denbigh was no fool. Look how easily he had tricked her into this parody of a marriage and her father out of a fortune.

  She clenched her fists at her sides, lifted her chin, and held his gaze.

  The sound of the front door closing brought Denbigh to life. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She tried not to flinch but knew she had failed when his fingers ground against her bones. “I don’t trust you.” His controlled undertone frightened her more than his shouting.

  “I have never given you the kind of reason for mistrust you have given me.” Inwardly, she groaned. Would she never learn the trick of silence?

  His gaze dropped to his hand on her shoulder. “If you had done as you were told, that would never have happened.”

  One of life’s little lessons, as Father used to say. She pressed her lips together. Her tongue might be swifter than Denbigh’s, her brain quicker, but even though she equaled him in weight and height, he reminded her with increased pressure on her collarbone that his greater strength always won out.

  “You will make the arrangements for tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yes, Denbigh.”

  He gave her a shake. “Don’t think about running off to your precious family, Lucinda. You must obey me. If Vale is pleased, he will drop all kinds of blunt at the faro table. He always does. And since I will be banker, it will help repair some of my losses. You will do everything you can to please him. Do you understand? Everything.”

  The finality in his tone confirmed what she had suspected for months. Denbigh cared nothing for her or their marriage. Defeat weighted her shoulders. Hopelessness dragged at her spine.

  “Well?” he rapped out.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  His gaze searched her face. Once she had thought his eyes the most wonderful shade of blue. Now she saw only shattered hopes. Emptiness filled her chest. She welcomed the numbness.

  His expression turned sweet, cajoling. “Unless you can help me out from your allowance this month?”

  She wasn’t fool enough to fall for that ploy. Not again. Not unless she wanted the bailiffs at the door. Even if she gave him every penny to be rid of him, he would send for her the moment he lost at the tables.

  She glanced away, fearful he would see the lie on her face. “I spent it on the bills, your tailor, the servants.” She brought her gaze back to his handsome face. “I bought this gown.”

  “What possessed you to choose such a hideous color?” Like talons, his fingers dug deeper into the sensitive hollow at her shoulder. “For God’s sake, do not pay any more bills without asking me first.”

  “We will be ruined.”

  “Will we?” He gave a hard laugh. “Do you think your father will allow his precious daughter to starve?”

  Dizzy from lack of air, she felt nauseous. His scorn buffeted her, weakening her fragile hold on what little remained of herself. She clasped her hands at her breast. “Denbigh, if you have money troubles, there are other ways than gambling to solve them. Even small amounts invested carefully will reap good profits. I could help you, the way I helped my father.”

  “You, my dear, are of no use at all unless you can produce the next Earl of Denbigh.”

  Barren. The word hung between them, cold and hard and empty. All fight went out of her, leaving her limp and completely exhaust
ed. The one thing she wanted most in the world, she had been unable to deliver. She’d tried every remedy—herbals, lying in bed for days—nothing the doctors suggested had worked. As a woman, she was a failure.

  He released her shoulder, and she rubbed her aching flesh.

  A look of remorse crossed his face. “Did I hurt you?” He brushed his knuckles across her collarbone. “I didn’t mean it. You make me so angry sometimes that I don’t know what I’m doing.” He flashed her a regretful smile, his face once more charming and handsome.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said dully.

  His smile brightened. “Spend tomorrow preparing to leave. I’m relying on you.” He strode for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned and flashed his wonderful smile. “I’ll tell the chef you are back on your diet. Have a pleasant evening, wife. I will see you in the morning.” With a cheery wave he whisked out the door.

  Blast him. She longed to wring his neck. If she thought it would bring him to his senses . . . she’d give it a try. She stared at the gleaming white door. It might just as well be the bars of a cage. She had no choice but to go to Denbigh Hall. The thought of entertaining his rakish friends drove bile into her throat. She pressed a hand to her lips, afraid she might be sick on the carpet. She sank into the chair she had vacated with all the pride of a countess and buried her face in her hands.

  Was the disastrous state of her marriage really her fault? She had tried to please her husband, longed to make him happy, and sought his affection. Yet he despised her, and not only because she could not give him an heir. He didn’t like her. Perhaps if she had borne a child in the first year of their marriage, things would have turned out better. Her arms ached for a child. She loved them and had hoped for a large family like that of her parents. Instead, her body was an empty shell, without value. The hot tears she’d fought each month when her courses appeared welled over.

  How could she go to Denbigh Hall and be subjected to the kind of shame Vale had described in loving detail? She swallowed a sob. How could she not? If her family interfered between her and Denbigh, it would put them in a terrible position. Such a scandal might ruin her younger sisters’ chances of making good matches. Truly it seemed as if her wings were clipped like those of the caged linnets she had seen at the fair as a child. Even if she slipped through the bars, she could not fly.

  Or could she? Did she really have no choice? In a blur, she fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief. She swiped the damp from her cheeks.

  She stared at the little scrap of cloth edged in lace, one of a set of six hemmed by a child full of hopes. The carefully embroidered L entwined with tiny purple flowers waited for the initial of the man who would capture her heart. Mother had been awed when the handsome Denbigh proposed, and Lucinda, so proud of having exceeded her family’s expectations, had accepted his offer without a second’s hesitation. But for some strange reason, she had never felt inclined to finish the embroidery. An omen?

  Pull yourself together, woman. Moping never helped anyone. She dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose. The little snort sounded ridiculously pathetic in her elegant Mayfair drawing room. She hauled in a deep breath. No matter what, she would not go to Denbigh Hall.

  Her mind tossed out alternatives from illness to outright refusal. Only one seemed to hold any hope. Flight. She fingered her collarbone. Branded by Denbigh’s touch, it ached anew. She had all of one day before it would be too late.

  • • •

  Hugo, Captain Lord Wanstead glared at the back of the graying head of the army doctor poking at the wound in his left thigh. “What do you mean, you have to operate? I had an operation.”

  “There’s a shell fragment in there, I’m afraid, my lord. It has to come out, unless you want to lose the leg.”

  A cold sensation slid down his spine. “Hell, no. I don’t want to lose my leg.” Nor did he want to hang around in Lisbon in this makeshift hospital in the corner of a convent. Doing nothing only left him time to think.

  He shifted further up the cot. Either his head cocked up at an awkward angle against the wall or his feet hung over the end. “Can’t this wait until I get back to England?” England. Goddamn it. He didn’t want to go. As the last of his line he had no choice, the newly minted Viscount Wellesley had insisted, and Hugo had unwillingly concurred.

  The florid-faced surgeon raised a pair of bushy brows. “You are talking about a sea journey, sir. If the object moves, it could nick an artery. Then you won’t lose a leg, you will lose your life.”

  “Very well. Do your worst.” Sounding suddenly hoarse, he swallowed.

  “I shall do my best, sir,” the surgeon said in clipped tones. He laid his implements out on the battered card table beside the bed.

  “How long before I can travel?” Hugo asked.

  “Two weeks. Perhaps three. It will all depend on whether you obey my instructions and heal quickly or ignore them and go to an early death.”

  An unwilling grin pulled at Hugo’s mouth. The man had a reputation for being one of the army’s finest surgeons and for having a most foul temper. “I promise to behave.”

  “Then I promise to have you back on your feet in two weeks.”

  The doctor handed over a bottle of brandy. “Drink this; it will help with the pain and the shock.” He stepped back and gave Hugo a measuring glance. “Drink the whole thing. With your size, you will need it.” He stomped to the door and poked his head out. “Orderly,” he shouted. “Send me three men to hold this patient down.”

  Hugo knew the drill from when the last quack had dug around in his thigh. It had taken three weeks to recover from that little affair. But there had been more wrong with him than his leg. Far worse than the pain from his wound, the guilt of what he’d done gave him horrific nightmares. They left him sweating and shivering, until he dreaded sleep. Only brandy kept them at bay, kept him numb. Who would have guessed courage lurked in the bottom of a bottle? Perhaps that was the real reason Wellesley wanted to be rid of him.

  He gulped down a hearty swig. It burned his gullet and landed in his belly in a rush of fire. Oblivion welcomed him like a siren’s call.

  Two infantry privates and a corporal clumped into the cell of a room.

  “’Tis no wonder ye be needing the t’ree of us, Doctor, so it is,” the skinny leader, an Irishman, declared. “Sure, an I haven’t seen an ox bigger than the captain here in all my years in Portugal.” He winked lewdly. “I hope for the sake of the poor little colleens, your Thomas don’t match the rest of you, sir.”

  The other men laughed.

  There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t wonder the same thing. Stupid bastards. They’d been doing it since he was twelve. “Eat your heart out, soldier,” he quipped, glancing down to where the sheet covered his groin. “An ox would be jealous.”

  He shifted his gaze to the surgeon. “Can we get on with this?”

  The surgeon handed him a mangled strip of leather. “Bite down on this.”

  The thought of what was to come halted his breath. Being large didn’t make a man any less afraid. Hugo placed the strip between his teeth, clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Rough hands seized his shoulders, arms and legs. He smelled musky sweat and the sour stink of fear. Theirs? His? Probably both.

  “Ready?” the surgeon asked.

  He nodded and cursed his ill fortune. The final shot of the day had killed the wrong man. Now he had no choice, if he survived the damn surgeon’s ministrations, but to do his duty with the life he’d been granted.

  He’d learned a lot about duty in his years in the army, but there was one obligation he would not undertake, not for any price.

  Chapter Two

  The case clock at the bottom of the stairs struck two. Tucked up in bed in the dark, Lucinda listened to its lonely chime. Still no Denbigh. Perhaps he would stay with his mistress tonight? Unlikely, when they were due to leave first thing in the morning. Her heart thudded as she thought about the damning valise hidden under her bed. She’d packed it t
o take in the carriage with her, while the maid filled the trunks to be sent separately.

  Each careful breath filled her ears as she strained to hear his arrival. A pulse throbbed in her temple, beating out seconds one at a time. The clock chimed the quarter hour. A carriage rumbled over cobbles in the still night air and drew up outside. The front door slammed. Denbigh.

  She resisted the urge to dive beneath the blankets or to throw up. Rigid, she lay listening to her husband’s progress up the stairs and into his room, heard his valet’s mumble as he helped him to bed.

  Absently, she rubbed the raised skin on her collarbone. Would he want his husbandly rights tonight? She shuddered. He often did when he’d been drinking. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t look under the bed. He might, if his foot struck the valise or tangled with her hidden clothing.

  Heart in her throat, she leaped out of bed, checked all three sides. Nothing stuck out. Breathing hard, she scurried back beneath the covers, smoothed them flat, and lay utterly still. Taking shallow sips of air, she listened.

  Slowly, the noises in the chamber next door quieted. The valet’s footsteps retreated down the hallway outside. Stiff as a board, Lucinda waited. Please, don’t come in here tonight.

  The house returned to its nighttime silence of ticking clocks and creaking timbers. The odd gust of wind rattled the windows. Nothing out of the ordinary, then . . . his gentle snore. She unclenched her grip on the sheets and slid out of bed, pausing to listen, her toes curled into the rug’s thick pile. Hearing no sound of movement from his room, she raked beneath the bed for the traveling gown and cloak.

  Shivers racing across her skin, she peeled off her nightgown and slipped into her chemise and stays. She drew on the plain gray gown, tying the tapes and fastening the pins as speedily as shaking fingers would allow, then retrieved her bag. The few personal items she could carry.

  To the sound of her husband’s breathing, she glanced around the room. It meant nothing. Beautifully decorated in cream and white before she moved in, it remained the same. She hadn’t changed a thing. No pictures, no treasures. Denbigh hated clutter. And since he came in here whenever he wanted, she had never felt comfortable enough to make it her own.