Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  She didn’t understand the numbers, and a sick feeling permeated her stomach at the thought of all the money they’d lost. Worse, the numbers never added up. Whenever she tried to account for it, it seemed that there was inconsistent income from another source.

  It will be all right when Henry returns, she reassured herself. He’ll straighten matters out.

  She touched her bare wrist, remembering the sapphire bracelet he’d bought her fifteen years ago. He’d surprised her with the stunning jewelry, catching her in his arms. She’d given him a warm kiss of thanks, delighted with the gift.

  Last Christmas, she’d sent it to her sister Charlotte, to be sold. And although the sacrifice had been necessary, her wrist felt empty, like a part of her had gone missing. Beatrice sent up another prayer to God, that her daughters would find husbands to marry soon.

  Before she no longer had a dowry to give them.

  Chapter Two

  THREE DAYS LATER

  THE HOUSE seemed empty without her mother and sisters, but Victoria was thankful Beatrice had allowed her to stay behind. Her mother had given Mr. MacKinloch a stack of letters to post, but Victoria had intercepted the letter meant for Cousin Pauline. Though she understood her mother’s intent, the last thing she wanted was to be smothered by relatives she hardly knew. When they returned, she’d simply tell her mother that the letter must have been lost.

  Lost in the fireplace where Victoria had cast it, but Beatrice didn’t need to know that.

  She glanced outside the window. The weather had turned colder, and snow had begun to drift against the house. Though it was still mid-morning, she suspected the snow would keep on throughout the day.

  All around her room lay undergarments. Over the past three days, she’d used an older set of stays to create a pattern, and she’d made a matching chemise and corset lined with the red satin. Using bits of silk as padding, she’d sewn them into the corset so that it had the effect of lifting a woman’s breasts upward and pressing them together.

  Even her own too-small breasts looked more interesting. Without telling her sister what was in the parcel, she’d wrapped the garments in brown paper and ordered Margaret to give them to Mr. Sinclair to be sold, along with the other gown she’d made a few weeks ago.

  Yet, she worried about the dressmaker’s reaction. What if Madame Benedict hated the garments? What if she refused to buy any more ball gowns?

  It had been such a risk sending the corset and chemise. She didn’t know at all if anyone would want to buy them. Women were supposed to wear chaste, plain undergarments. Certainly not crimson satin that molded to their bodies and emphasized their breasts.

  But it was too late now to take back her impulsive decision.

  Today, using an old silk mourning gown, she’d begun creating a second corset, made of buckram but covered entirely with black silk and lace. The color was awful, but she had no other fabric to use. She could only hope that a woman in mourning might want to buy it.

  This time, she was intent upon making the garment as lovely as she could. It was one of the most difficult challenges she’d ever attempted—not only constructing a second corset, but somehow finding a way to make the dark color beautiful. Even if it came to nothing, she welcomed the work. Perhaps it would bring in additional money for their family.

  Although her mother was trying to find wealthy husbands for her sisters, Victoria was practical enough to understand that rich men didn’t usually marry women without respectable dowries. They would want heiresses to add to the family fortunes. And even if Margaret and Juliette married, there were still the financial problems their family had inherited upon the death of their uncle last year.

  What they needed was money and a great deal of it. Since she wasn’t likely to ever find a husband, Victoria intended to make the most of her sewing talent. Someone had to take care of her mother, now that Father was off fighting in Spain. A painful knot tightened within her at the thought of him never returning. But war was a capricious master, one who could sever lives with a single bullet. If the worst happened and her father died, she could help her family survive with the profits from her garments.

  The sudden thought of living within these four walls for the rest of her life made her heart clench. Always alone… with no man to ever see beyond her crippling shyness.

  You should have gone with them, her conscience taunted. You should have tried to face your fears.

  Her family cared about her. They’d wanted her to come with them, to enjoy the holidays with Aunt Charlotte and their cousins. What harm was there in that? But now it was too late, and she would spend Christmas alone.

  Victoria cleaned up the remaining scraps of fabric, saving them in the trunk for future bits of trim. As she worked, she wondered when they would arrive in London. Her mother had promised to write letters, with all the news about the parties the girls attended and accounts of any young men who showed interest in courting them. Perhaps Margaret and Juliette could stay with Aunt Charlotte through the spring and have their first Season. She would miss them terribly, even if her mother and Amelia returned early.

  A queer ache caught in her stomach, her eyes burning at the thought of her sisters entering the glittering world of the ton. She wanted them to be happy, she truly did. But even more, she wished she could be there to listen to their stories late at night. To hear them whisper of which gentlemen they favored or which gentlemen they loathed.

  When they were girls, Mother had allowed Margaret and her to attend their uncle’s supper party for an hour, before they were escorted back to their governess. Victoria had been enchanted by the sight of the men and women dressed in silks and finery. Both of them had been awestruck by the gaiety and wonder of it all. She’d never forgotten the vivid colors of the gowns or the exquisite embroidery, and that very night, she had stayed up late to sketch images of the dresses.

  “We’ll be just like them one day,” Margaret had whispered. “I’ll wear rose, and you’ll wear blue. We’ll have pearls in our hair and ostrich feathers.”

  A wistful smile crossed her lips, for now, her sister would have that chance. She hoped Margaret would dance and flirt until she won a gentleman’s heart. With a heavy sigh, Victoria rose from her seat, just as a loud cracking sound caught her attention from outside.

  A gunshot. And it was far closer to the house than it should be.

  She glanced at the window, unsure of what had happened. In her mind, she formed explanations that would make sense. It was probably a crofter, hunting food for his dinner. He’d wandered off the boundaries, perhaps getting lost in the woods. Nothing more than that.

  Even so, her nerves grew taut with uneasiness. She left her room and walked downstairs, only to find Mr. MacKinloch, their footman, donning a heavy coat. He reached for a rifle and checked to ensure it was loaded.

  “What’s happened?” Victoria demanded.

  “I don’t ken, Miss Andrews. But I’ll be finding out.” He wound a scarf around his neck. “Stay here with Mrs. Larson, and I’ll return in a wee bit.”

  Victoria’s hands clenched as he opened the door. Snow swirled inside, and she stood at the doorway for a moment, afraid of what he would find.

  Pain. Indescribable pain burned through him until Jonathan craved death. He wanted so badly to push past the wall of misery and reach the haven of emptiness. There would be no glimpse of heaven for him, no Elysium.

  Many had damned him, and rightfully so.

  The bitter snow was trying to bury him alive, and his body trembled with the cold. His leg was an agonizing fire that rivaled Hell’s flames.

  He clenched his fists and tried to calm himself. How long had it been since the boy had shot him? He didn’t know, but at least he’d regained consciousness before freezing to death. When he reached down to touch his leg, the slickness of blood nearly made him pass out again. Jonathan supposed he ought to be thankful that the boy’s aim had been bad. He might have died from the bullet or lost part of his leg. As it was, it seem
ed the bullet had gone through the outer part of his thigh.

  He gritted his teeth, enduring one minute at a time. This journey to Scotland had been the worst idea he’d ever had. He doubted if his family even knew he’d left England, as often as he traveled to the different estates. They saw him so infrequently, he could die tonight, and it might take half a year for them to realize it.

  But he refused to die without a fight. His first priority was to keep from freezing to death.

  Jonathan heard the sound of a man shouting, but his vision blurred. He felt someone lifting him up. Who had found him and where were they taking him? Not that he had any strength to protest. He could barely lift his head, much less escape whatever fate awaited him. Anywhere was better than lying in a snowdrift.

  But soon enough the darkness swallowed him whole.

  Mrs. Larson hurried into the parlor, her face stricken. “Miss Andrews, I’m sorry, but Mr. MacKinloch found a body outside where we heard the gunshots. The puir man’s bleedin’ right bad.”

  All the air seemed to evaporate from Victoria’s lungs. “Who’s bleeding?”

  The housekeeper shook her head and shrugged. “We don’t ken. He’s got a bullet wound in his leg and he’s had his brains knocked in a bit. He may no’… live.” She muttered in Gaelic beneath her breath, as if to ward off evil spirits.

  Her mother, Beatrice, would wring her hands and worry, if she were here. Perhaps even cry. But a strange calm descended over Victoria, and she took a deep breath. “Can you and Mr. MacKinloch set up a bed here in the parlor?”

  Mrs. Larson nodded. “Aye. And I’ll send for Dr. Fraser as well.”

  Victoria ignored the trembling fear that began to undermine her courage. A man’s life depended on her. She couldn’t turn cowardly and let him bleed to death, no matter how much she wanted to run upstairs and bury her face in a pillow.

  Instead, she took another deep breath to steady herself. Mrs. Larson would need fresh linens and blankets. She could fetch those, as well as strips of leftover muslin that she’d cut from the hem of Amelia’s gown. They might serve well enough as bandages. She grabbed them, racing back downstairs, her mind spinning off in a thousand directions.

  What did she know about tending a man’s wounds? Nothing whatsoever.

  Victoria hurried upstairs into her mother’s sitting room, where she searched the bookcase for something that would help. There was a book about animal breeding, but that was all. She flipped through the pages, hoping to find some information about tending wounds, but it was useless.

  You’re stalling, she warned herself. While he’s bleeding.

  She counted silently to ten and walked back downstairs. Mrs. Larson and Mr. MacKinloch had indeed made up a bed for the stranger in the parlor, elevating the mattress upon two low tables. He was lying there unconscious.

  Panic boiled inside her throat, but she forced herself to take one step forward. Then another. She realized she was still holding the animal book and the muslin. When she neared the man’s left side, she placed the volume upon a nearby table.

  The stranger had blond hair the color of tarnished gold and a strong jaw. He was older than her, possibly in his late twenties. The light prickle of a beard covered his cheeks, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch it. Would it be sharp and scratchy? Or smooth and silken?

  It was the first time she’d taken the time to study a man so closely. At any moment, she expected him to open his eyes. A tremor caught her just thinking of it.

  “Will he live?” Victoria asked, embarrassed that her voice came out with a quaver.

  “He’s wearin’ his grave clothes,” Mrs. Larson pointed out. She studied Victoria, her mouth tightening. “Aye, ’tis possible. But then, ye’re standing at his left. I can nae be certain.”

  “What do you mean?” She knew the housekeeper was inordinately superstitious, but she’d never heard anything like this before.

  Mrs. Larson only shrugged. “I’ll go to the kitchen and do what I can to drive off the spirits.”

  Mr. MacKinloch glanced back where the housekeeper had gone. “I’ll fetch Dr. Fraser.” Within moments, both of them had fled.

  Victoria held her ground, suddenly realizing that they’d left her to handle him alone. She gripped the muslin in her hands and went to his side. Beneath the coverlet, a reddish stain rose, near his leg.

  Had they done anything at all to help him?

  She glanced behind her, but she could hear only the clang of a copper pot from the kitchen. With shaking hands, she pulled back the sheet Mr. MacKinloch had used to cover the man. Snowflakes had dampened the man’s clothing, a few white crystals dotting his topcoat.

  Her gaze passed down his neck to the rumpled linen neckcloth. Beneath the long coat, he wore expensive riding clothes with a matching waistcoat, turned-back cuffs upon his sleeves, and box pleats on his brown tailcoat. Such detailed work she’d never seen before. She practically itched to take the coat apart, to study the way it was made.

  But one thing was clear—this man possessed a great deal of money, to wear such fine clothes.

  When she pulled back the rest of the coverlet, she saw that Mr. MacKinloch had tied a bandage to the man’s leg. It was covered in blood, and the very sight made her ill.

  He’s going to die, she realized. And she didn’t know if there was anything she could do to save him.

  Jonathan smelled lemons. Not an acidic aroma, but a fresh citrus scent, like tropical flowers. Against his skin, he felt the softness of cool cotton sheets with a mattress beneath him.

  He thought he remembered voices speaking about what was to be done with him, but pain radiated through his thigh, wracking him with agony. The bullet wound felt hot to the touch, his skin tight. He wasn’t sure who was looking after him, but it had to be a woman, from the scent.

  Why wasn’t she chattering? Women always talked, flittering around like infernal butterflies. They drove him to madness, which was why he avoided them.

  Rude, they’d called him. Insufferably arrogant. He didn’t give a damn. He had better things to do than patronize the matrimonial-minded misses, who wanted nothing more than to capture a duke.

  The silence within the room was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He heard the whisper of skirts, and then he opened his eyes. The woman had her back to him, and he couldn’t tell much of what she looked like. She wore a soft blue gown, and her hair was blond with hints of brown in it.

  Turn around. But she didn’t. She rested her right hand upon the wallpaper, the left poised at her waist. Reminiscent of a small bird, her figure was petite and delicate.

  Like his mother.

  Tight anger and frustration knotted inside him at the unwelcome thought. It was over and done with. Don’t think of her, he warned himself. He couldn’t change the past, though he would bear the guilt forever.

  Thank God his father was dead. He hadn’t mourned the bastard for a single minute. His fists gripped the sheets, to strangle the memory.

  The woman kept her back to him, as though she didn’t want to be seen. She moved toward the piano that rested against the adjacent wall, its surface covered with a white fringed shawl. And then he saw her pick up a bottle of brandy.

  Was that for him? God, what he wouldn’t give for a drink. He wanted to sink into a drunken oblivion where he wouldn’t feel any pain.

  Her gaze remained downcast, as if she were afraid. Jonathan closed his eyes, wondering when she would come back to tend him. The feather mattress enfolded him like an embrace, and he silently pleaded for her to help. But instinct stopped him from opening his eyes again. He suspected he’d scare the hell out of her if he confronted the woman.

  After several minutes, the scent of lemon returned. When her hand covered his brow, he forced himself to remain still. Tread carefully, he thought. He was completely at her mercy, and he didn’t know this woman at all.

  But then, her hand moved down his cheek, stroking the unshaved bristle. She touched him with the innocence of a
young girl, curious in her exploration. Her palms were smooth, and the scent of lemons caught him again. The gentle caress distracted him from the vicious pain of his leg. This woman did something to him, with nothing more than a simple touch. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed, imagining the face of an angel.

  She adjusted the sheet, baring his wounded thigh. From the cool air, he guessed that she’d cut away part of his breeches.

  “Who are you, I wonder? You’re not one of the crofters.” Her voice was like velvet, rich and lush. He held himself motionless, listening to her speak.

  “My name is Victoria Andrews,” she murmured.

  Jonathan opened his eyes to see her face. Gray eyes widened with shock, and she stumbled away from him. Terror invaded her expression, as though she’d never expected him to awaken.

  “I’m not going to harm you,” he told her, his voice rough from lack of use. “You needn’t be afraid of me. I can’t even move with this leg.”

  His reassurance did little to ease her nervousness, for she kept twisting her hands together.

  “Mr. MacKinloch went to fetch Dr. Fraser,” she told him, “but I don’t know how long it’ll take for him to get here.”

  Jonathan tried to sit up, to have a better look at his injury. A linen bandage was tied around his thigh, but it did little to absorb the blood. “Did the bullet go through?”

  She nodded. He was grateful for small mercies. The last thing he wanted was for someone to go digging through his leg for a ball of lead. The throbbing pain wasn’t abating, and he suspected he was slowly bleeding out.

  “How bad is it?”

  Her long lashes lowered with solemnity, her lips tightening when she shrugged. He felt the first stirrings of fear. He’d thought the bullet wound was an inconvenience, not a life-threatening wound.