The Duchess and the Highwayman

by Beverley Oakley

  Quickly, Phoebe sat up. She could not simply allow Wentworth to treat her any way he chose. She had her self-respect. Just because Wentworth had visited Blinley Hall every fortnight for the past six months with one objective didn’t mean it had to continue.

  “I will not submit like a harlot in an unmade bed and in a room as bitter cold as the grave.” In the gloom, she could see her breath misting.

  Beside her, Wentworth sat up. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I’ll prove as poor a stallion as your pathetic husband unless we go where the fire’s lit.”

  It was not what Phoebe had intended. Emotion churned in her gut as Wentworth hustled her along the corridor toward the west wing. The maids she passed dipped a curtsy, respectful as always. She knew what they were thinking, and it made her feel ill and ashamed. While she had always received due deference from the staff, she knew the untruths Ulrick spread about her. The master was a man to be feared, and the mistress was a slut.

  2

  As soon as they reached her private apartments and the door closed behind them, he was on her, his breath hot in her ear, his hands, urgent and clammy, unlacing her, tugging, pulling, removing her clothes, so that within seconds rather than minutes she was beneath him, naked, her white limbs wrapped about his muscled, hairy, hard body while he thrust into her with no more preliminaries. But then, that’s how it was with men. Ownership was very different to love though that’s what she’d imagined—once, briefly—she had with Wentworth, illicit and shaming though though that was. Love. She’d thought disgracing herself would be worth it, when she had her husband’s sanction.

  As ever was the case during the unpleasant act of procreation, she transported her mind; this time, to the unhappy prelude of her current dismal situation.

  She’d been an easy target. Wentworth had wooed her with honeyed words and she, a wife starved of kindness for five long years, imagined Wentworth saw her as she really was: a woman of hidden passions who longed for affection.

  He’d made her forget her misery as an unloved wife with the courtly, urbane, and respectful attitude he adopted to coax her out of the silence, which had become, for her, habit following her marriage. Ulrick was not a man who’d appreciated her opinions.

  Or anything she had to say, for that matter.

  Wentworth, by contrast, appeared entranced with her opinions, her desires.

  For at least three visits, he’d elicited her thoughts on everything from what music she liked to what amused her. He’d hung upon her words during dinner, and then, as his visits increased in regularity, an enigmatic glance, a seemingly accidental brush of the hand, had suggested that his heart had been engaged.

  Tormented, Phoebe had not known whether it was right even to go walking with him alone. She was a married woman, and the more she felt her own heart engaged, the more she feared the consequences. She belonged to Ulrick and would for as long as her frustrated, angry husband remained alive.

  What torture it had been to say her demure goodnights to Wentworth, and then to have to submit to her husband’s futile efforts to make love to her. Like the dutiful wife she was, she’d tried every trick she could dream up in order that he might harden sufficiently to pierce her. Dancing naked, she’d imagined her display was for Wentworth’s benefit. When Ulrick forced himself into her mouth, she’d again withdraw into her own thoughts, feeling nothing but revulsion for her unkind husband.

  She wondered, if it were Wentworth, would she summon the necessary enthusiasm. For then, wouldn’t her heart be engaged?

  It was not long before she found out. Ulrick became ill almost overnight. A loss of appetite, cramping in his gut, and then suddenly all physical activity was beyond him. Even the act of procreation.

  When Wentworth had stepped forward to undertake the role her husband had forced upon her, and which Phoebe had found so distasteful for so many years, of course Phoebe had offered outrage, though it shamed her now to recall that her fragile heart beat wildly at the thought of being held by a desirable man.

  But commit adultery?

  No dutiful wife would do such a thing.

  Unless her husband demanded it.

  It hadn’t been hard to take that first step, she had to admit. And the first time had been magical. Wentworth had caressed her limbs, smoothing, massaging, whipping her into unimaginable ecstasy with his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

  It wasn’t long, though, before her whimpers of ecstasy in a tangle of bedclothes were whimpers of fear in any corner Wentworth chose to force himself upon her. Wentworth liked to dominate.

  Wentworth liked to inflict pain and humiliation.

  Yet with Ulrick tonight as insistent as Wentworth that she submit like an animal, Phoebe had no choice but to do his bidding, taking refuge once again into her own imaginary world.

  She was brought back to the present when her unwelcome lover suddenly withdrew and pushed her out of the way. Phoebe blinked open her eyes and saw with dismay that Wentworth still had a way to go before he was finished.

  “Onto the floor,” he demanded, eyes as black as the devil’s. “Now!”

  Oh yes, Wentworth liked to dominate, and there was no point in arguing though she burned with humiliation.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she tried not to whimper. “Please, Wentworth…”

  The pain in her voice seemed to only excite him but he relented. Roughly he parted her legs, and thrust into her with a cry of triumph.

  “If you weren’t with child before, you certainly are now!” He was panting heavily, grinning as if he expected her to gaze at him with adoration.

  Phoebe was not in the mood to pander to him. He’d hurt her physically, though the wounds to her soul and her dignity distressed her more, and she was trying hard not to cry.

  But he was clearly angered that she turned her head away, her expression more sullen than was wise.

  He gripped her chin and made her face him. “Ulrick is not destined to remain long on this earth, and you’ll not be a widow long, either. Think on that, Phoebe, before you show me such lack of deference.”

  Suddenly, the idea of belonging to any man ever again was an abomination. Shrugging out of his grip she rose and faced him, eyes blazing. “You take a great deal for granted, Wentworth,” she rasped. “It’s true I look forward to being a widow. I also look forward to remaining one. No one can force me to become a wife if I do not choose it.”

  He stilled, and in the pale glow of candlelight, she saw the evil transformation of his features, as he rose into a sitting position and moved to sit with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

  “You will be the mother of my child.” His voice was low and dangerous.

  “I will be the mother of Ulrick’s child. The mother of his heir.” She dared to whisper it. He could not, would not, hurt her when there was the possibility she carried such precious cargo. For one of the few times in her life, surely Phoebe could revel in a degree of power. Wentworth needed her far more than she needed him.

  She bent to pick up her discarded chemise that lay in a tangle of stays, gown, and paisley shawl.

  “You may go now, Wentworth.” Though she was naked and her hair a tangle of gold that brushed her waist, she strove for dignity. “Our business is at an end.”

  He interpreted her meaning correctly for he had his argument ready. “If Ulrick dies without an heir, where will you live? Not here, in comfort, that’s certain. You’ll be the wife who failed to do her duty…failed to fill the nursery which was the only reason Ulrick married you. Unless you’re mother to Ulrick’s heir, you’ll be cast out to live in the country in penury. Your father made a poor bargain when he signed the marriage contract. And don’t think I haven’t seen it.”

  He spoke the truth. Her father had cared little for her beyond her ability to provide him a reprieve when he was dunned. She’d had no say in this hateful marriage. With widowhood beckoning, her future was even more perilous. Had Ulrick made any provision for her in his will?

  “
There are others who can fulfill your role as well as you, Wentworth,” she hissed, turning her back on him as she pulled on her chemise. “You’ve done little enough to win my heart, and to tell the truth, I desire marriage with you as much as I ever did with Ulrick.”

  When he rose above her, she regretted speaking with such bravado. He would make her pay for her belittling words. Fear bloomed, and she retreated, still only in her chemise, eyeing the door.

  These were her apartments, and he was not going to vacate them, warm and comfortable as they were. But if she ran, she could find a refuge in some cold guest room and she could lock the door against him, surely?

  An unexpected rapping on the other side offered salvation. Sagging against the four-poster, she called faintly, “Come!” without a thought for Wentworth in all his naked glory just a foot away.

  “Ma’am! Terrible news!” Her maid, Barbara, hurried into the room, squeaking when she saw Wentworth. She brought her apron up to her face as she continued in a rush, “Oh ma’am, His Lordship’s heir is dead!”

  “My brother?”

  Phoebe gasped and instinctively put her hand out toward him. “Oh Wentworth, I’m so sorry.”

  Ignoring her, Wentworth pulled on his breeches and shirt and pushed past Barbara. Phoebe ran after him as he strode down the corridor, down the stairs, his footsteps loud and determined before he burst into the drawing room.

  Ulrick was hunched in his chair, his eyes slits from the reflection of the fire. “Terrible accident, Wentworth.” He was properly awake now and holding out a letter which Wentworth snatched from his grasp and scanned quickly.

  Phoebe felt the tug of sympathy at the shock on his face and wished she’d not been so harsh earlier. She took a step toward him, but he avoided her outstretched hand, the shock on his face increasing as he jerked up his head.

  “By God, both of them? Both my brothers are dead.” He stabbed at the letter. “The imbecile was driving. Why, the other’s as imbecilic to let him take the reins and now they’ve both plunged to their deaths.”

  “A great shock, Wentworth,” Ulrick muttered. “Changes everything, of course.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened at the implication. She gasped. “You’re Ulrick’s heir, Wentworth.” She felt a wave of relief and nearly laughed aloud, so filled with joy was she that she need not have to suffer Wentworth’s attentions ever again.

  Casting herself at her husband’s feet, she rested her cheek upon his knees. “Now you can rest in peace, Ulrick, though it’s a terrible thing to rejoice in another’s death.” She took his bony hands in hers and began to chafe their papery backs. “We will mourn as is proper, yet it’s the truth, my husband. Your worries about the succession are over.”

  “Unless you are carrying my child.”

  Phoebe glanced up, shocked at the blaze of anger that marred Wentworth’s expression. Unconsciously, she put her hand to her belly. “I…I don’t believe so, Wentworth,” she said cautiously. And nor did she. She’d only suggested such might be the case to try and deflect his advances earlier this evening.

  “But you may be now. As of five minutes ago, my angel.”

  It was no endearment. Phoebe stared up at Ulrick to gauge his reaction, but he was obviously in great pain; his eyes glazed with it.

  “Then we’ve no choice but to wait and see,” she whispered, her mouth dry though she forced herself to hold his angry glare. “We shall make the best of whatever we have done.”

  “We shall make the best of a badly done deal now.” Wentworth’s voice was frighteningly calm as he stepped forward.

  Phoebe recoiled as she squeezed Ulrick’s hand. “Ulrick, can you hear me?” she pleaded. “You must reassure Wentworth, if only for my sake.”

  Her husband breathed heavily. It was often thus in the evenings when the pain came down strong and hard.

  Wentworth gave a mirthless laugh. “He’s not long for this world, my dear. You can see it; the doctor says it. He’s suffering. See how he suffers.” And all the time Wentworth was moving closer, while Phoebe drew farther back against her husband, who would not help her when he was in good health and would not help her now.

  “A dutiful wife would put him out of his misery, wouldn’t she?” He’d picked up the paper knife from the escritoire settled in the enclave by the tasseled curtain. It was a slender, chiseled, and elegant instrument. Deadly.

  “No, Wentworth.” Her teeth chattered. She tried to get to her feet and run, but Wentworth’s arm shot out and his hand gripped hers, forcing the paper knife into her grasp, forcing her forward. She tried to resist, tried to snatch her hand back, the sharp blade catching on the skin on the back of her hand, drawing a thin, instant incision that filled with blood.

  “No, Wentworth! This is madness!” she cried out, flailing in his relentless grip as with merciless intent, he drove her hand forward, overpowering her with his strength—his evil intent. She’d never fought so strongly to preserve the life of the man she hated as much as Wentworth, but he was too strong, seizing her throat, holding her hand around the knife, forcing her to pierce her husband’s chest with the deadly blade, neatly between the ribs and directly into her hated husband’s heart. She heard the hiss of air as his lung deflated, saw his glazed incomprehension turn to wide-eyed horror in his final moment, and she screamed as the crimson lifeblood spattered her face.

  The door was thrust open and two maids ran into the room. Phoebe stared at the knife in her hand, looked down at her blood-stained chemise and then at the horror on the servants’ faces before Wentworth pushed her and snarled, “Get out and summon help, both of you. Fetch Sir Roderick, the magistrate. Your mistress has just murdered the master.”

  Phoebe dropped the knife which fell soundlessly onto the Aubusson carpet.

  “It’s not true. You can’t say that, Wentworth. I’ll tell them the truth.” Shock and horror made her voice thin and weak as the maids scurried out of the room, but Wentworth was entirely self-composed.

  “And they may choose to believe you, or they may not. They may convict, and then you’ll plead the belly.” He shook his head; his lip curled. “Plead the belly because you’ll say you’re carrying Ulrick’s child. His heir. No, I can’t have that, Phoebe.”

  Terror froze her to the spot. Her legs refused to move as he advanced a second time, bending to pick up the knife that lay at her feet.

  He gazed at her coldly. “The maids have gone to summon help, but you’ll have seen the error of your ways before they return. They saw you drive the knife into Ulrick’s heart. They’ll understand perfectly why you’d choose to end your life rather than face the hangman’s noose, my dear.”

  Realization of his intentions snapped her into action as the distance closed between them. In the recesses of her mind, she knew he would be too quick for her. He’d catch her, or one of the servants would. Death was certain, either way.

  The only tiny possibility of reprieve was in flight. Phoebe ran for the casement, thrusting it open before hurling herself through the cavity.

  And as she dropped through the dark and chill night air, she barely wondered if she were consigning herself to a death more terrible than the one Wentworth had in mind for her.

  For nothing could be worse than the fate Wentworth intended for her.

  3

  Dazed, Phoebe lay in the soft mulch, staring at the star-studded sky for a critical couple of seconds before she heard shouting from the first floor. She was alive.

  However, she’d not take much comfort in that if Wentworth caught up with her. Scrambling to her feet, she had the presence of mind to cast about for her shawl, which had caught on a tree branch, before spying Wentworth’s carriage on the driveway. To her surprise, the coachman was on the box with, she saw, Jimmy, one of the grooms. She could hear them discussing the merits of the handsome equipage.

  Dashing across the stretch of damp grass, she hauled open the door and climbed in, rapping on the roof as she shouted. “It’s a mercy you’re here. Make haste for we must
fetch the doctor! His Lordship’s condition is critical.”

  Thank the Lord the coachman was an unquestioning servant and had not caught sight of her blood-stained chemise, for he obediently and with all due haste, dismissed his appreciative audience and cracked the whip over the horses.

  The carriage rolled over the ruts and headed onto the drive through the park with an impressive show of speed, though Phoebe knew it wouldn’t be too long before Wentworth saddled up a horse and overtook her.

  For the moment, however, this was her best chance. If they could reach an obscure turn-off about half a mile distant she might lose him.

  “Take the left!” she shouted when they were nearly upon it. She leaned out of the window to add, “The doctor’s attending Mrs Proctor.”

  Mrs Proctor was a widow who lived another mile down the rutted road. If Phoebe could slip away when the coachman halted and make for another cottage down the slope whose occupants may be sympathetic, it was the best she could hope for.

  Obediently, the coachman eased the horses into the narrow laneway while Phoebe put her head out of the window, straining for sight or sound of anyone following. In the far distance, twinkling through the trees, she could see Blinley Manor, but the coach was going at such a speed it was quickly obscured by the rise of the wooded hill. She allowed hope to blossom just a little more. Wentworth might disregard this road and continue on the main thoroughfare toward the town. He’d think she’d make for her closest friend, Ellen Cosgrove, who lived in the village.

  It was not a road well suited to a sprung carriage. Frustrated, Phoebe watched her surroundings pass by at a snail’s pace as the coachman carefully navigated the ruts.

  The large, waxing moon did not favor her for it lit up the small valley with its sweeping vistas, making them a clear target to anyone in pursuit. If they could only make it to the thick woods on the other side of the clearing where the road was swallowed up by overhanging trees, she may yet have a chance. The widow lived just on the other side.