by Sharon Page
“Angel, I think we’re going to have to get out of bed.” Grinning, the duke stroked her loose, disheveled hair. It was a delightful caress.
“Mmm. Do we have to?”
He laughed. “It is time to change the bedding, love. Crisp, clean sheets will be a treat.”
“That would be lovely.” Then, daringly, she asked, “Perhaps you would share them with me all night?”
She knew he didn’t sleep in the bed with her. He waited until he thought she was asleep, then he went to an adjoining bedroom. He would close the door, likely so she would not hear him cry out with nightmares or know he paced for most of the night.
But she had heard all those things, and each time she heard him shout, she’d gone to him. No matter how much he thrashed, she would sit at his bedside and soothe him. He must have been exhausted from their lovemaking, because he didn’t wake when she touched him. Each time, she was able to coax him back to sleep.
She knew Beckett had not listened to her: He brought brandy to that room. For two days she had watered it down when the duke slept. Little by little, so no one would notice.
He didn’t answer her, so she asked again, “Would you try sleeping with me, Your Grace?”
He sighed. “Angel, why would you want to take the risk? There’s no need for us to sleep together. We can have sex and then I’ll leave you to your rest.” He wrapped one of her tangled locks around his finger. “It works perfectly. Even my mother and father, who were devoted to each other, didn’t share a bed. My father always insisted part of the continuing excitement was to go to my mother’s room and rap on the door and hope she was equally randy.”
She had to giggle at that. It was true: Married couples did not share beds. Why was she so determined to coerce him to sleep with her? It would prove to him he was healing, and she was certain he was. But she feared if he had a nightmare and hit her, he would take that as proof he was going mad.
He wasn’t mad. After the past couple of days with him, Anne was equally certain of that.
He patted her bottom and lifted her off him, gently letting her sprawl on the tousled sheets beside him. “I’ve ordered the carriage to take you into the village. There’s a dressmaker and a milliner’s. Choose as many clothes as you wish. The seamstress is to complete them immediately. Write a note with those instructions and I’ll sign it.”
“You wish me to buy clothing?”
“It occurred to me you have nothing but that robe of mine and the dress you came in. I can’t keep you here and force you to stay in the same dress day after day.”
“For two days you have kept me out of it.”
“Remember our contract. I’m failing in my duties as protector.” He spoke lightly, but his mouth was grim. “If we were in London, you would have rushed out to the most fashionable modiste in Town first thing in the morning after I made my offer.”
Would she have? The truth: She would not have done so. She wouldn’t have thought of it so quickly. For years, she hadn’t been able to dream of buying a gown. But as his mistress, she would shame him if she was not fashionable. Ironically, she would embarrass him if she did not lavishly spend his money. She was relieved, though, that he seemed to have forgotten her tension.
“Would you wish to accompany me on my excursion?” she asked. “Your Grace, Treadwell told me that the afternoon we walked in the rain was the only time you’d left the house in two weeks.” Surely it would help him to not be indoors all the time.
“Apparently I ran out into the woods one night, when I dreamed I was in battle. I ended up in the stream and almost drowned. Since that foray onto my grounds went so well, I decided to defer another attempt.”
Heavens, no wonder he wouldn’t leave the house. “Come with me now. It would be lovely to walk together.”
“No, angel. Go yourself and take some of my servants. Buy anything you wish. I won’t be able to see it, but I want you to be pleased.”
The ducal carriage rattled down the high street of the village of Welby, which lay four miles from the duke’s house. Anne peered out the window. Sunlight darted from behind gray clouds, dappling the row of narrow shops. Children stopped in the street, then raced behind the carriage. Tradesmen came to their doorsteps. Ladies hurriedly adjusted their daughters’ apparel.
This village was so like Banbury, near her home of Longsworth, and Anne struggled to forget the reminders of a life she’d lived long ago. She’d vowed she would think only of selective things of that time—things she could use to help the duke.
But the smell of the bakeshop made her think of walking in to the one in her village, with a penny in her hand. The stretch of green commons reminded her of village fêtes, and Maypoles, and scampering over the grass despite the fact she was usually wearing a pristine white muslin dress. Then Father had died suddenly of an attack of the heart, and before she had recovered from the shock of losing her father, Sebastian had come. He was the viscount. And he still had wanted her. He wanted to marry her.
Ever since Anne was eight years of age, Sebastian had shown a great interest in her when he visited Longsworth. He began to kiss her—not cousinlike pecks but horribly wet kisses on her lips. Whenever he found her alone, he would touch her on her chest or her bottom, or he would slip his hand beneath her skirts and stroke her legs. Even now, thinking about it made her shudder. It made her feel so bad, so wrong and guilty and sick in her stomach.
She and her mother had been in Sebastian’s power. Mama had agreed she was not to marry Sebastian. She was only fifteen. But one night he’d come into her bedroom. He said if he took her innocence, she would have to marry him. She’d frozen at first as he climbed on top of her. Then she’d been so horrified at the thought of marrying him, she managed to slither out from under him while he fumbled with his clothing. Desperately, she grabbed for a weapon. Her fingers closed on the lip of her chamber pot. When he leapt at her to haul her back onto the bed, she threw it at him.
Her mother had come, along with servants—the housekeeper, maids, footmen. All summoned by her shriek, which had been more in anger than terror. Then she had seen her cousin’s face and she had truly gone ice cold with fear. Red-faced, with bulging eyes, he had looked as if he wanted to kill her. That very night, Mama gathered a few of their things, loyal servants prepared a carriage, and they ran away. They had nowhere to go. Her mother’s family was estranged from them, because her grandpapa—her mother’s father—had married an unsuitable woman. Her grandmother had been a former opera dancer who once performed on the stage. Her mother had said they could not go to any of her family—none of her mother’s relatives would help them. So they had gone to London. Despite their poverty, despite the long, arduous hours her mother worked, Mama had tried to make Anne feel as surrounded by love as she had been when growing up at Longsworth.…
By the time she reached the narrow shop front with fabrics displayed in the window, which stood right beside the milliner’s, Anne has discovered that a heart could feel unbearably small and tight yet full to bursting at the same time.
A footman helped her down from the carriage. She pushed open the door to the dressmaker’s, and a tiny bell gave a melodic tinkle.
The modiste hurried forward, a tape draped around her neck. The woman had gray-streaked brown hair swept up in a chignon and wore a well-made, tasteful day dress. Anne had brushed and pinned up her hair and wore her cloak over her gown, but it was a scandalous gown for the middle of the day, and it looked worse for wear. There were two women in the shop. Anne’s heart sank. Respectable ladies, of course. Members of the country gentry.
She explained her purpose—and the fact that the Duke of March would pay for her purchases.
The dressmaker’s brows rose sharply. “I see. I am grateful for His Grace’s condescension, but …” Her voice was awkward, brittle. The woman glanced toward the two ladies, one thin and dark, the other stout and fair. Lowering her tones, she murmured, “This is a respectable establishment, miss. I dare not offend the sensibiliti
es of the gentlewomen of this village.”
The ladies gazed coldly at Anne. The thin one whispered to the stout one behind her gloved hand. The blonde’s mouth opened in a large O. No doubt the thin one had said the word that scandalized all respectable ladies. Whore. Anne would be less despised if she carried the plague.
She knew she could tip up her nose and use the duke’s name to demand service. But courage fled. She turned on her heel and raced out of the shop. The bell gave a tinkle, the door snapped shut behind her, and the impassive footman promptly opened the carriage door as though it was customary for the duke’s mistresses to run from shops.
Stupidly, Anne buried her face in her hands as the carriage rumbled off. What did it matter if she wasn’t respectable? What did it matter if Bow Street wanted to hang her? She wasn’t bad. She had saved those three innocent girls from the brothel. And she might just survive. Survival was all that mattered.
It seemed the carriage reached the duke’s home far more quickly than it had taken to get to the village. A groom was leading a horse away from the front steps. Anne’s heart dropped. Could it be a Bow Street Runner? She must stop panicking. It could just be a friend of the duke’s.…
It could be Lord Ashton! After Kat had refused his offer to service the duke, he would have continued to search for another woman. What if he’d come to tell the duke he’d found someone? The duke would know her story was a lie.
Anne forced her feet to move toward the front door. Treadwell met her and took her cloak. By now she was accustomed to his odd appearance, and she’d noticed his eyes normally held a merry twinkle. At this moment, though, he looked gravely serious.
“Does the duke have a visitor?” How normal her voice sounded. Astonishing, when her heart pounded so hard.
“Aye, miss. An investigator from London. Name of Mr. Wynter. Used to be a Bow Street Runner, I hear.”
Lord Norbrook was a haunted man.
In his bedchamber, Sebastian blearily faced his reflection in his looking glass. As usual, his dress was faultless—sheer elegance in the style of Beau Brummell. Yet inside he seethed with frustration and his head thudded from the effects of too much port. Last night, he’d dreamed of having Anne in his bed. He’d dreamed of her the way she used to be at Longsworth. He wanted her so much. And he hated her. Hated, hated, hated her.
How could she have refused him? He shook his head, even though it made his brain slosh painfully in his skull. She could no longer be the lovely little angel she had once been. She would be dirty now. When she’d been young, she had been so precious. So pure.
He wanted so much to touch her. He could not forget how beautiful she was as a young woman, when her hair had first been put up. He was haunted by the memory of tendrils of gold coiled against her smooth neck and the pretty push of youthful breasts against her bodice. But how could he caress those delightful breasts now, knowing she was no longer untouched?
Before his looking glass, Sebastian adjusted his expression, as though he was putting on a mask. Now he appeared as a viscount should, not like a man suffering lust for an ungrateful chit who did not deserve his desire.
Each step brought a slice of pain through his skull—and it was Anne’s fault he’d had to drink so much, tormented with erotic memories of her girlish beauty—but he went down to his drawing room to greet his guest. The elderly lady, Anne’s maternal great-grandmother, rose from her seat as he entered. Her hair was silver, rubies glittered at her neck, and silk swathed her slim form. Her face was drawn with worry. “Have you found her?”
“Not yet, my dear Lady Julia.” Feigning gentlemanly concern for the trembling old lady, Sebastian hastened to her side. “But it will not be long. I have spared no expense in the search.”
Pained dark-green eyes peered at him, yet this woman’s sorrow only irritated him. She knew nothing of what real torment was. She thought he would find Anne, then she would reconcile with her great-grandchild, and all would be happy. She had no idea that Anne was now ruined. She had no idea how greatly he was suffering—both hungering for Anne and hating her.
“I fear she is dead, Norbrook,” Lady Julia whispered. “I wanted to make amends to her, but I fear I am too late.”
“No, you must have faith.” Sebastian clasped the old lady’s hand and drew her to sit on the settee. “I am certain Anne is alive.” Yes, he was certain of that. He wasn’t so certain Mick Taylor could find her, as the brute had promised.
“I have no other family, Norbrook.” Lady Julia clutched his arm. “My son, Anne’s grandfather, is dead. My two daughters are gone, and they died childless. I have two titled wastrel sons-in-law. They expect I will leave my wealth to them. I will not. I despise them. I have made Anne my sole heir.”
He’d heard the tale a dozen times before and the only part that interested him was Lady Julia’s assurance that she had made Anne her heiress. She had disowned Anne’s grandfather—her son—over his marriage to an opera dancer. She had refused to acknowledge his family—his daughter, Millicent, and his granddaughter, Anne. But once she ended up alone, the old witch had come to Longsworth to find Anne, who was the only family she had left.
“Yes, my dear lady. You will have Anne home soon.” This time, Sebastian would make Anne marry him. Anne would be desperate now that she was suspected of the madam’s murder, and he had to wed her. For he desperately needed money.
Those gaming hells had cheated him. He was a clever gentleman—how could he have lost so badly at a simple game of dice? But he did not dare hint that he’d been cheated. The brutes running the hells did not take kindly to such charges. However, they did want their blunt. And he had none.
Sebastian had mortgaged the estate and the income did not begin to touch his debts. When he married Anne, he could use his expectations from Lady Julia’s estate for funds.
It meant marrying a tarnished, ruined woman. It meant touching Anne, when she was now revolting to him. But he had no choice.
“If only my granddaughter had not left her home.” Lady Julia’s shrill voice cut into his thoughts. “She would be alive and Anne would be safe. I still do not understand why she took Anne to London, Norbrook.”
His head throbbed. Why did the old woman keep harping on this? “Anne’s mother was having an affair with a married man,” he lied smoothly. “She pursued him to London but he ended the sordid relationship. Millicent had no money and ended up in the stews. But it does not matter.” Would the old crone not let it drop? It was not his fault Millicent had run away with Anne. “I will find Anne. I promise.”
Anne should have done as she was told. She should have married him. Sebastian had only one consolation for having to wed her now: Once she was in his power again, he would punish her for her disobedience. That he would enjoy greatly.
Chapter Nine
E NEEDED ACTION. He had to do something, but he was capable only of walking slowly while counting steps and swinging his walking stick to warn him of oncoming furniture.
Damn the blindness.
In his study, Devon fingered his glass of brandy. His investigator in London, Maxmillian Wynter, had brought him a report of his findings in London’s stews. The former Bow Street Runner had given him an address, but his quarry—the wife and the child of Captain Tanner, a man who had been killed at Waterloo—had disappeared.
He’d already downed two glasses of brandy. The stuff had been watered down again, and he’d roared at a footman until his supply was replenished with the full-strength variety. The young footman, Beckett, had finally admitted they were diluting the stuff on the orders of Miss Cerise, as they called her belowstairs.
Two things had occurred to Devon at that moment. First: He didn’t know his mistress’s last name, and he couldn’t read their contract to find out what she had signed on it. It was bloody embarrassing to have to ask her now, after he’d made a legal agreement with her.
And second: Since when did a duke’s ladybird give commands about his liquor supply? And why in blazes were his servant
s paying more attention to his mistress than to their master?
“If Miss Cerise has returned from the village, fetch her for me,” he barked, assuming that a servant lurked somewhere close by. “At once.”
He got up and paced the same path in his study that he restlessly trudged each night. Exactly fifty steps from start to finish. He began at the settee and, when he reached the end of his count, he had to turn to avoid hitting the corner of his desk.
“Your Grace.”
Cerise’s voice was a breathy whisper, a lush sound that set desire on fire at once. But he heard a shaky tremble. She sounded fearful. Afraid of him because she knew she must be in trouble over the brandy? Guilt hit him. “You aren’t in trouble, love,” he murmured.
“Oh! You—what do you mean? I—” Her melodic quaver of a voice died away. “You had a visitor—he was an investigator from London, I believe?”
Instant panic hit him. Had she heard any of his conversation with Wynter? Devon’s annoyance over his brandy vanished. His body reacted to the threat of confrontation. Every nerve went on alert, his heart ran at a gallop, his breathing came quick and light.
“Yes, he was from London.” He left it at that, waiting to hear what she would say, learn what she knew or had overheard. Damn, he wanted to see her. Watch her eyes. Assess her face.
She stayed silent, and he realized it was like being in a field hospital with a shattered leg. Better to agree to the pain of the saw than hope to keep the leg and die of the spread of infection. If she knew what his business had been with Wynter, he wanted to have it out with her now. “Did you happen to overhear my conversation with him, Cerise?”
“No! Of course not! But you look grim. Pale.”
“Don’t I always look grim and pale, Cerise? Treadwell tells me I do.”
“You don’t! Over the last two days you looked happier. Your … color was much better.”
“Flushed with exertion from making love, I expect.”
“So there was no bad news … nothing to disturb you?”
