The Day of the Duchess

by Sarah MacLean

  They’d never quite become civil, he and that cat.

  Baron Brunswick, for his part, appeared to have been sent to do the knocking, but had little interest in whatever was supposed to happen once the door was opened. The other man blinked, took a step back, looked Mal up and down, and then said, “All right then, Haven? Have we disturbed you?”

  “You have, rather.”

  It occurred to Mal that much of the work done by the aristocracy was in lying to people about how one felt, so much so, that now, when he answered a question directly, no one in the group knew quite what to do about it. Well, nearly no one. After a beat of silence, Lady Lilith and Lady Felicity laughed.

  Mal made a note to do his best to get the girls well matched just as soon as they were back in town. He and Sera would host them for dinner. They’d introduce them to every wealthy aristocrat in town.

  He was lost for a moment in the domesticity of the thought. The idea of spending the rest of their lives in town and country, building a glorious life of laughter and languish, entertaining their guests before retiring to their bedchamber to make love until dawn.

  Which reminded him that he had to be rid of this collection of people.

  “Well,” the baron said, as though everything were perfectly in order. “Would you—that is—should you put on some trousers?”

  Mal did not move. “As I imagine that anything that would bring a group of houseguests to the door of the master of the house must be terribly important,” he drawled, “I wouldn’t dare postpone whatever this is.”

  For a moment, it seemed as though no one would speak to him or acknowledge his words. And then, Felicity’s mother stepped forward, clearly willing to sacrifice her own goodwill for that of her daughter. “Is it over then?”

  Mal blinked. “My slumber? Yes.”

  The assembly harrumphed, but the Marchioness of Bumble was not cowed. Indeed, it was not difficult to see from whence her frank-tongued daughter came. “The competition. You’ve selected a wife.”

  “I have, as a matter of fact.” Not that he could see why the situation was so very urgent. He could only assume that Lilith and Felicity had apprised the rest of the assembly of what had happened between him and Sera at the folly.

  Lady Brunswick huffed her displeasure. “You see? I told you it was done,” she snapped at her daughter. “I told you he cooled to you. You could have worked harder.”

  Mal did not care for the baroness’s words, nor did he care for the way she seemed to indict Lady Emily in the fact that Mal had chosen to love his wife and forgo finding a replacement altogether. Of course, it was odd that the girl didn’t eat soup, but it wasn’t grounds for cruelty. They would invite her to the dinner with Lilith and Felicity. He could find a man who didn’t care for soup, he was certain.

  “I assure you, Lady Emily, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

  Lady Brunswick continued on as though he had not spoken. “It’s no wonder that the Soiled S’s all departed so quickly, but you would have thought someone could have told us you’d chosen your replacement, so we were not all left alone at the evening meal, waiting for your decision to be announced.”

  He stilled even as she pressed on.

  “Instead, you took to your bed in the middle of the day! Good riddance to you and the Dangerous Daughters. Our family deserves better.” She took hold of Emily’s arm. “Come along, Emily.”

  Emily looked as though she wanted the ground to swallow her whole, but that was not Haven’s concern. He lifted his hands to stay the conversation. “What did you say? The others departed?”

  “Like thieves! Skulking off in the dead of night!” the baroness sniped.

  The words unlocked the other mothers. “An hour ago. The Talbot sisters all climbed into their coach and hied off.”

  “Sesily left her cat,” Lady Felicity added, as though it mattered.

  For a moment, it didn’t. And then Lilith added, soft and serious, as though she understood the implications of her words, “They were in quite a rush.”

  They had left.

  Surely not Sera. Not after everything they’d experienced that afternoon. Not after promising they’d discuss it. After, she’d said.

  He shook his head, looking from Felicity to Lilith and back again. “All of them?”

  “Of course all of them!” the baroness squawked. “They got what they wanted, the madwomen!” She turned to her daughter. “Come along, Emily, we must to bed as well, as tomorrow our search begins anew.” She tapped her husband on the shoulder. “You as well, Baron.”

  Brunswick grimaced at the summons, but followed it nonetheless; at least, Mal assumed he followed it. He did not linger in the doorway, turning on his heel and heading for the door connecting his rooms to Sera’s.

  He burst through it, half expecting her to be there, in the bed, asleep. At the dressing table, fiddling with a button hook. In the chair by the empty fireplace, reading. Laughing with her sisters. Something.

  But she was not. The room was dark and empty of her.

  She’d left him.

  He moved to inspect the wardrobe, finding it full of her things, dresses in a dozen purple hues, shoes piled below. On the dressing table, powder and hairbrushes, pins and baubles, a bracelet she’d worn at lawn bowls. Earbobs he recognized from one evening’s dinner.

  She’d left him, and quickly.

  Goddammit, she’d told him she loved him, and she’d sped from the house as though hell itself was chasing her. Like Merope and the Pleiades taking flight as doves. And Malcolm, blind and desperate Orion, forced to hunt her again. Like a fool.

  He bit back the scream of rage that threatened to loose itself in the dark room and went to the window, open to let in the summer’s night breeze. The room faced the drive, a long, lingering path that led to the main road and then to the London post road.

  There was no sign of the carriage, no lantern light flickering in the distance, no indication that she’d ever been here.

  He placed his hands on the windowsill, clutching it until the stone and wood bit into his palms, and whispered her name with all the rage and desperation and love he could find.

  She’d left him, like a damn coward.

  And then the thought came, cold and harsh and terrifying. What if she’d run again?

  He went stick straight. She wouldn’t run again. Not the way she had before. She’d left with her sisters this time. They wouldn’t let her go, would they?

  Words echoed, memory of the day she’d appeared in Parliament and asked for the divorce he never intended to give her. I have no reason not to end our unhappy union. I have nothing to lose.

  No reason not to run. Nothing to lose.

  And she didn’t have anything to lose. She’d made sure of it. She’d returned to London on the arm of the American, with whom she had friendship and nothing else. She sang in a tavern. Slung whiskey as what—a lady barkeep? She had money—her father’s and his mother’s—and nothing to tie her to London.

  But she had him, dammit.

  “She said she loved me!” His harsh, broken whisper cut through the darkness, and he closed his eyes, fists clenched at his sides. “How could she leave me?”

  Love is not enough.

  “Your Grace?”

  He spun, heart in his throat, to face Lady Felicity Faircloth, framed in the doorway, a lantern in one hand and Sesily’s damn cat in the other. He shook his head to clear it. He did not have time for these girls. “It was never real, Lady Felicity,” he said. “You were a ruse.”

  She nodded. “I know. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that you and the duchess were for each other and no one else.”

  “Anyone but the duchess could see it, I think you mean.” He could not keep the frustration from his tone.

  “I think she sees it, too, you know,” she said. “But far be it from me to get involved.”

  “You’re standing in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat, so I think you are rather involved already,” h
e pointed out.

  She nodded, a smile playing over her lips. “That may well be true.”

  “As a matter of fact, I cannot think of a less appropriate location for you than in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat.”

  The smile broadened. “Are you planning to debauch me in some way?”

  “I am not.”

  “Well then I think I am perfectly safe. Also, the cat seems to dislike you.”

  Mal looked to the white animal, who appeared perfectly content in Felicity Faircloth’s arms. “I thought we’d reached a détente, honestly.”

  The cat yowled.

  “Oh, yes, it seems so.” She paused. “The point is, I think my person is quite safe with you.”

  “There was a time when I would have been disappointed with that assessment.”

  Felicity smirked. “I imagine you were younger then. And less besotted with your wife, which puts a considerable damper on a man’s dangerousness.”

  “Definitely younger, likely not at all less besotted with my wife.”

  “That seems to be a problem for you.”

  “Considering I regularly lose her, I would have to agree,” he replied, unable to find humor in the situation.

  Felicity Faircloth took pity on him then. “I’m afraid I’ve something to tell you, Your Grace, and I do not think you will enjoy hearing it.”

  He moved to the low shelf by the window and fetched a flint box, lighting the lantern there, at once making the room more welcoming for the young woman and more devastating for him. There was a hatbox at the foot of Sera’s bed, open and empty, as though she’d had neither time nor inclination to fill it and take it with her.

  And next to it, a piece of paper. Folded haphazardly, a scribbled M its only adornment. He opened it, his heart pounding.

  I cannot stay.

  I await news from Parliament.

  —S

  He swore, harsh and unpleasant, and crushed the paper in his hand.

  He looked to Felicity. “Is it more or less enjoyable than hearing that my wife has left me . . . again?”

  The young woman’s pause unsettled, he had to admit. And then, “Well, to be honest, it is less enjoyable, I’d imagine. Considering the events of the morning.” She paused, rushing to clarify, “The ones I witnessed, that is.”

  Mal’s stomach twisted. “Go on then.”

  She sighed and crouched, lowering the cat to the floor. With no hesitation, the animal leapt into the hatbox and sat carefully inside, watching the two of them with serious, unwavering eyes.

  Mal did his best to ignore the creature, turning, instead, to face Felicity, who had fetched a piece of paper from somewhere, and was now unfolding it.

  “Have you prepared a speech of some kind?” he said, knowing he was being intentionally difficult.

  She cut him a look, but ignored the question. “This arrived via my lady’s maid an hour ago.”

  Mal did not like the sound of that. His gaze flickered to the escritoire in the corner, where a blotter and pen were left in disarray, as though his wife had dashed off a letter before she fled.

  A letter to this woman, for some reason. “Go on.”

  Felicity nodded, and proceeded to read aloud. “Dear Lady Felicity, You must know I am very fond of you. You are intelligent and forthright and, most of all, strong. You have a mind of your own and are unafraid to speak it, all things that will serve you well.” She paused and looked at Mal, and he read the nervousness on her face. Recognized it. Felt it himself, loathing the anticipation of the words that were to come. Loathing the words themselves even before the lady read them. Wanting to stop her. Knowing that whatever she had to say must be said.

  She persisted. “All those things will serve Malcolm well, also.”

  “No,” he said, unable to keep the word from exploding from his chest.

  Felicity Faircloth looked to him, in clear affront. “Of course not.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. Then, simply, “She doesn’t seem to care how we feel about it, Your Grace.”

  That much appeared to be true. Felicity continued. “He is a good man, Lady Felicity—one who knows about life and about love. One who has showed a remarkable loyalty to his wife.” Felicity stopped. “Then she corrects herself. To his wives.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “My thoughts, precisely,” Felicity replied. “He will make you a good husband—”

  Frustration turned to disbelief. “Is she gifting me to you?”

  Felicity’s brows shot up as she considered the letter in her hand. “It’s unclear, honestly, as I rather fear she’s gifting me to you.” She paused, taking a deep breath, as though she had to gird her loins to speak the rest. “Some things you should know: First, he loathes asparagus.” She stopped. “Your Grace, I’m sure you’ll understand if I say I have no earthly idea why your affinity or lack thereof for asparagus is relevant in any way to a marriage—let alone relevant enough to be point number one on a list of important points.”

  “It’s not,” he said.

  “Well, the others are just as odd, so . . .” Felicity returned her attention to the letter. “He’s fascinated by the Greek myths. Read and learn them. He will be grateful for someone with whom to discuss them.”

  The words felt like a betrayal of confidence. Mal remained silent.

  Felicity moved on. “And this one is the strangest. Find yourself a red frock and do your best to get him alone once you’re wearing it. If you can do that in his private study, all the better.”

  That’s when the rage came. He moved for the letter, as though he could somehow use it to turn back the clock and stop her from the madness that had clearly consumed her. “What in hell?”

  Felicity looked up, eyes wide at his proximity. “I agree,” she said. “I don’t understand what she’s trying to do.”

  “I do,” he said, the memory of the last time she wore red in this house—in his private study—etched keenly. How many times had he recreated that moment in his mind? How many times had he taken down her bodice? Taken up her skirts? Made love to her? How often had he imagined doing it again?

  He snatched the letter from Felicity Faircloth’s hand, enjoying the release of anger that came as he folded it and began to tear it into pieces. “She wants you to seduce me.”

  She blinked. “Well, I don’t wish to.”

  “Which works out well, as I have no intention of being seduced by anyone but my wife.” Just as soon as he stopped being infuriated by her.

  Felicity nodded. “That sounds eminently reasonable. Though, if I may . . .?”

  He nodded. “Please.”

  “It seems your wife remains uninterested in being your wife, Your Grace.”

  The words should not have crashed over him. Should not have made such a powerful point. And still they did. Mal turned away from Felicity Faircloth then, hating that she understood the interplay of his marriage even better than he did.

  No. She didn’t understand it better. She was simply more willing to accept it. But Felicity Faircloth had not been married to Sera.

  He could not stop himself from walking to the bed where he’d stood nearly three years ago, and willed his wife to live. Where he’d pulled her back from death. Where he’d come, vowing to fight for her. To love her. To chase her, into the sky if need be . . .

  Only to find her already on the run.

  It was then that Malcolm realized she would always run from him. Away from love. Away from the promise of a future. And he would always chase her.

  Blind and broken.

  His punishment for never being worthy of her.

  He’d be damned if she was getting a divorce.

  Chapter 24

  Successor Selected? Dangerous Daughters Turn Up In Town!

  The Talbot sisters had been stuffed into the carriage for more than two hours, the night roads requiring more time than usual to get them back to London. But it was not the stuffing of
the sisters that was noteworthy. After all, they’d spent the lion’s share of their traveling lives stuffed together.

  It was their silence. The five sisters had never gone any length of time without speaking. Not even church services were sacred.

  And so it was that when Seleste finally broke the silence with a frank, simple, “Well then,” the sisters had been more silent than ever in their lives—something Seraphina appreciated, even as it ended.

  “It was interesting, was it not?” This from Sesily.

  “I, for one, did not expect it,” Seleste replied. “I would have thought that Haven had a better shot at convincing her to stay.”

  “He was willing to take a rock to the head for her,” Seline pointed out.

  If she weren’t so desperate to be out of the carriage, Sera might have found the energy to look up at that. But instead, she remained focused on her fingers, tightly entwined in her lap, ungloved, still ink-stained from the note she’d dashed off for Lady Felicity.

  The note designed to encourage Mal’s next wife.

  If only he could see that their marriage was doomed, he could be happy with another. The thought sent a shaft of pain through her, constricting her heart and making it difficult to breathe. She willed herself calm, inhaling deeply, and returning her attention to her sisters.

  “It’s a good thing the wager was on Haven’s intentions, Ses, and not Sera’s actions, else you would owe the rest of us quite a bit of blunt,” Seleste pointed out.

  Sesily shook her head. “Oh, I never would have wagered on Sera wanting to win him back.”

  “I would have.”

  Sera snapped her head up, her gaze instantly finding Sophie’s. Sophie, who had been watching her since they entered the carriage, concern and interest on her pretty face. “What did you say?”

  “I would never have wagered that you didn’t want Haven.”

  “Why not?” Sera asked.

  Sophie raised one shoulder and let it drop. “It was not long ago that you taught me a lesson about love, sister.”

  The memory came from far away. Sera, laden with child on the Scottish border, sitting with Sophie, lovelorn and desperate for the man who would eventually become her husband. But that night, the Marquess of Eversley had been an impossible catch—until Sophie had gone to him and told him the truth. At Sera’s bidding.