The effect was almost laughable. She tamped down an inappropriate giggle bubbling up within her throat. Dear heavens, she couldn’t make light of the august man. He held so much of her future within his age-spotted paws.
The duke made an imperious gesture that she supposed meant she ought to sit. Gingerly, she lowered herself to the edge of a particularly uncomfortable settee. The drawing room seemed somehow more imposing with his mere presence. She fussed with the fall of her gown, attempting to hide her nervousness.
“Lady Pembroke,” he said formally when he too had taken his seat once more. “I understand you’ve flourished here at Carrington House.”
She was under the impression only plants flourished, not people, but she wisely kept that opinion to herself. “I’ve merely done my duty.”
“You have not, my lady.” His voice was stern, unforgiving.
His assertion startled her. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” she was bold enough to question him, perhaps a character trait that was down to her proud American heritage. She had worked wonders upon the estate, and with an absentee husband no less. How dare he suggest she had somehow fallen short of his expectations?
“You are to provide an heir.” He impaled her with an impenetrable glare. “You have not done so.”
Goodness. She hadn’t been prepared to speak of such a delicate matter with him. She’d never grow entirely accustomed to the English and their odd notions. She took care in crafting her response. “Your Grace, if you must be so indelicate, then so shall I. The fault of this does not entirely belong to me.”
“I’m well aware of Pembroke’s shortcomings,” the duke growled. “It’s his mother’s blood he has running through his veins. But that’s neither here nor there. I understand that he obeyed me for the first time in his misbegotten life and has returned to share the marital bed with you.”
Victoria stilled. Will had obeyed the duke? Her entire body tensed as though preparing for a blow. She became hyperaware of her surroundings in that moment—the heavy breathing of the duke, the faint footsteps of servants beyond the closed drawing room door, the ticking of the gilded mantle clock. Tick, tick, tick.
She found her voice at last. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me aright,” he snapped. “The earl has begun sharing the marital bed with you as I’ve asked. ‘Tis half a year too late, but I’m counting myself fortunate that it’s better late than never. I’ll not have the duchy going to my cousin’s spineless, wastrel fop one day if Pembroke doesn’t sire a son. You’ll do your duty until I’ve an heir, by God.”
Her mind stumbled to sift and make sense of what the duke had just said. Pembroke had come to her because of an edict given by the duke? He’d obeyed, the duke had said. That meant everything she and Will had shared—every kiss, every moment of passion, every promise—had all been maneuvered by the hateful man before her. How many times had Will told her he had returned a changed man, that he wanted a new beginning, that he’d returned for her and her alone?
Surely he couldn’t have been lying to her the entirety of the time they’d spent together?
Or could he have? She pressed her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. The room seemed to spin around her. She didn’t know if she was going to faint or scream. Will’s words shuffled back through her mind like a deck of cards.
Victoria, I’ve missed you.
I’ve come back to Carrington House because I want to start anew.
I love you.
Had everything been a falsehood, a fabrication meant to woo her into allowing him to provide the duke with a required heir? Dread skewered her. Yes, of course that was possible. He was the same man who had courted and abandoned her, the man who chased after lightskirts and ignored her with practiced nonchalance. She shouldn’t be surprised by the duke’s disclosure. She should not have fallen for her husband’s handsome looks, charm, and knowing hands.
But she had.
“You appear startled, my lady,” the duke observed. “Pray forgive me my plain speaking, but I’ve never been one to mince words. The plain truth of the matter is that Pembroke needs a male heir, or when he and I pass on to our rewards, the man next in line is an unsuitable country fool who will run the estates to ruin. Our family has possessed these lands for centuries. For them and the title to go to anyone other than the rightful heir would be a sacrilege.”
She swallowed, trying to calm her madly beating heart and assuage the awful sense of betrayal overtaking her. “I do understand the need for an heir, Your Grace. You said Pembroke obeyed you. May I be so daring as to ask you what you meant?”
The duke’s eyes narrowed in what she assumed was suspicion. “Forward lot, you Americans.” He sighed, apparently put out by her lack of manners. “I’ve discovered that Pembroke requires an impetus for everything. I threatened to cut him off unless he returned to you and carried out his family obligations.”
If her heart had been a finely cut crystal goblet, it would have been dashed into hundreds of infinitesimal shards in that instant. She wasn’t so fortunate. Her heart wasn’t an object, and it hurt with an intensity that blindsided her. She wanted to leave the drawing room. Her lungs felt as if they could no longer hold air.
This was far worse than Will’s original abandonment of her. He’d told her he loved her. Lies, all of it. He’d connived and betrayed her all in the name of money. Her stomach gave a surge and she feared she’d embarrass herself before the duke.
“I’m led to believe Pembroke didn’t share his motivations for suddenly returning to play husband,” the duke unkindly observed.
She took a steadying breath. “He did not.”
“Ah.” He paused, considering her. “Surely you realize what sort of man he is, my dear. As I said, his mother’s blood flows through him. He isn’t to be trusted.”
It sickened her that the duke spoke so frankly and with such disdain for his own son. Of course, it would appear that Will deserved it, but she found that notion comfortless. Little wonder he detested his father. The sentiment appeared to be a mutual one.
“I fear I’m unwell, Your Grace.” She stood, her legs shaking beneath the layers of her silk afternoon dress. “Please excuse me?”
He watched her in stony silence, his gaze still sharp as rapiers. “You’d be wise not to allow your womanly sensibilities to impede your common sense. Pembroke will get an heir on you because he must. It doesn’t matter how it’s done, simply that it is.”
If she’d been nearer to him in proximity, she would have slapped him, propriety be damned. She was shaken to her core, disgusted by Pembroke as much as she was his father. She understood his reaction to the duke now better than ever. The man was a toad who disparaged his own flesh and thought of nothing other than his crumbling empire.
She raised her chin, forcing herself to be strong and not allow the duke the last word. “You are wrong in that, Your Grace. There will be no heir, for Pembroke will never touch me again.”
With that, she turned and beat a hasty retreat from the room. The duke called after her, but she ignored him. She’d had all the audiences with the awful man that she intended to have. Indeed, she wished very much that she’d never laid eyes upon him and Pembroke both.
Mere days ago, she’d vowed not to let anyone come between them again. How bitterly ironic that the only person who could come between them was the same man who always had. Pembroke himself.
It wasn’t until after she was safely on the other side of the closed door that she allowed the tears she’d been withholding to fall. She hurried past Mrs. Morton, whose benevolent round visage plainly showed her distress. Pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs, she rushed to the privacy of her chamber before she humiliated herself any further.
* * *
Later that evening, the expected knock came at her door. She had deliberately avoided Will and hadn’t gone down to dinner, pleading a headache. He’d spent the bulk of the afternoon off riding—no doubt an attempt to pla
cate his conscience after his endless deceptions. Of course, that supposed he even possessed a conscience.
“Are you well, my dear?” he asked from his chamber, his tone concerned.
She didn’t answer. Nausea churned in her stomach. A cold sheen of sweat drenched her entire body. She stopped in the act of pacing her chamber, hoping he would simply go away. She didn’t think she could bear to see him just now.
“Victoria?”
Before she could even form a response, the door creaked open, revealing her husband. Of course he would have a key at the ready after last time. She hadn’t thought of that. He wore a dressing gown, belted at the waist, and a worried expression marred the masculine beauty of his face.
It was God’s idea of a cruel jest, she thought again, giving a man with a black heart the looks of an angel.
“Whatever is the matter? It’s not like you to miss dinner.” He started across the chamber, but she held up a staying hand.
“Don’t come any nearer to me.”
He stopped, a look of surprise replacing the distress. “What’s wrong, my love?”
“I’m not your love.” She took a deep, bracing breath, attempting to muster up the strength she would need to go to battle with him. The duke’s revelation had left her shaken and weak.
“What are you on about?” He started forward again.
She retreated, eyeing him warily. “The duke told me the real reason you’re here at Carrington House. I wonder that you sent me to meet him without fearing that he would. Perhaps you believed he would uphold your deceits for you, but it seems yours is a mutual enmity. He told me he threatened to cut you off if you didn’t get me with child. That you’re here with me out of obedience to him. I know that everything has been a lie.”
Her voice broke on the last sentence, but she refused to cry before him. She clenched her fists at her sides, feeling dreadfully impotent. He tried to come to her, take her in his arms, but she pushed at his chest, refusing to be embraced. His face said everything she needed to know. It was true. All of it. He’d deceived her over and over again. I promise. I love you. Dear God, and he’d never meant a single word. The anguish was almost too much for her to bear.
“Victoria, I can explain.” He held up a placating hand.
“No you can’t. I don’t want to hear any more of your falsehoods.”
“I came here for the wrong reasons,” he said, gripping her arms to force her into stillness. “But I stayed for the right ones. I love you, more than I ever thought possible.”
“You only love your own selfish gain,” she snapped. “Unhand me.”
“Calm down, love,” he commanded. “By God, you’ve got to listen to reason.”
Victoria tore herself from his grasp. “No. I won’t listen to you. Get out now, or I’ll scream and bring all the servants down upon us.”
“You wouldn’t.” He reached for her again, this time taking her icy hands in his. “I should have told you myself, and for that I apologize. Surely one misunderstanding can’t erase all that’s happened between us.”
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding, Pembroke.” She searched his gaze, trying to comprehend. “You deceived me from the first moment you came here. You said you were here because you’d been remiss as a husband. You said you missed me. I even asked you if you were here because the duke cut you off, and you denied it.”
“What was I meant to say, Victoria? It’s true that the duke cut me off. It’s true that I returned here with the intention of bedding you and going back to London at the first opportunity. I had no choice when I wed you. I had no choice when I returned here. At least, that’s what I bloody well thought, and I resented you for it. But I see now that I’ve always had a choice. My choice is you.”
“Your choice is my marriage settlement. It always has been, and it always will be.” She balled her fists into her skirts to keep him from seeing how badly they shook. “There was one reason for your return, and it was so you could keep living your wastrel life. God, I can’t believe how foolish I was to believe you after everything.”
His grip on her tightened. “I don’t give a damn about my old life. All of this, all of what we’ve shared, has been real, Victoria. This last fortnight has been the best of my life. Don’t toss it away now over this, I beg you.”
“It’s you who has tossed it away.” Bitterness laced her voice. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel the depth of pain slicing through her now. He had promised not to hurt her again, but he had, and worse than ever before. “I trusted you, did everything a proper wife ought to. I ran your household, loved you, believed you when you told me Signora Rosignoli’s arrival was a mistake. Even when I caught her in your arms, I still allowed you to persuade me it was all innocent. What a fool I was. Did you go to her after we made love?”
“Good Christ, of course not,” he denied. “You’re the only woman I want in my bed and you know it.”
“No.” She shook her head, tears streaming shamelessly down her cheeks. “I don’t know anything any longer, for everything I thought I knew was a farce.”
He released her, seemingly defeated. “I haven’t been a good husband to you. I’m sorry. Sorrier than you know. I don’t blame you if you hate me, Victoria. All I ask is that you not leave me. I can’t bear that.”
She stared at him, refusing to make a promise she couldn’t keep, unlike him. Leaving him was exactly what she must do for her own sake. “Please vacate my chamber. I don’t want you here.”
“Very well.” He offered her an abbreviated bow. “I won’t linger where I’m not wanted. But listen to what I’ve said. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him, watching as he walked away, leaving her well and truly alone.
* * *
Early the next morning, it came to Pembroke’s attention that there was a vast assemblage of trunks being loaded onto his carriage. Still shaken from his confrontation with Victoria the night before, he stalked out into the grayish dawn light to determine what was in the works.
Footmen tramped in and out of the house bearing wieldy valises. His wife was overseeing the packing along with Mrs. Morton. Victoria was dressed to perfection, as usual, wearing a plum-and-black silk dress buttoned up to the neck, adorned with dyed lace and jet beads. His little American had blossomed into a true beauty to rival any English lady, and he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserved her, just as petite souris had never been a fitting description of her. She was fierce and kind and giving and trusting. All of the bloody things he wasn’t.
Her gaze caught his. She didn’t bother to offer any deference. Instead, she excused herself from the housekeeper and crunched to him across the stone drive. Her dashing hat made her seem taller. He affixed his stare to the plume of ostrich feathers pointing to the heavens. Christ. This couldn’t be what he thought it was.
“I’m leaving you, Pembroke.”
Or perhaps it could be after all. Bloody hell.
The wind blew ever so gently. Orris root. Her mere scent affected him. His jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to hers. Her expression was tight, her lips drawn into the imperious frown he knew so well. She was leaving him. Forever. His gut clenched, as if he’d just woken from a bout of all-night whisky drinking and he needed to cast up his accounts.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m returning to New York.”
New York was an ocean away. He couldn’t speak as the implications of her announcement became clear to him. She didn’t plan on coming back to England. She no longer wanted to be his wife. Jesus, the thought left him cold.
“Then you shall be free to live life without the encumbrance of a wife,” she said, interrupting his troubled musings. “Your family will, of course, keep everything. I’m only taking my trousseau. You may inspect the trunks if you like.”
He didn’t want to inspect the bloody trunks. He wanted to have them hauled back into his home, damn it. “What a
re you on about, Victoria? You cannot simply run off to New York.”
“Of course I can.” Her voice was quiet, tinged with an emotion he couldn’t define. “You don’t want me anyway, and you never have.”
“Damn you, that’s not true.” He realized that in his agitation, he was nearly hollering at her, and lowered his tone. “Not precisely. Initially, it was different between us. I’ll own I resented you and treated you worse than a dockside doxy. But I’ve come to admire you. I cannot change what’s happened in the past, but I can make the future what it ought to be. I want to be a true husband to you, Victoria.”
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I’ve realized that you are nothing but a liar, ready to spin whatever tale gets you what you want in the moment. Even your own father says as much. But I’m no longer your fool. You wouldn’t even begin to know how to be a true husband.”
He knew he’d lost the right to her respect. The man he’d been wouldn’t have noticed the loss. In truth, the man he’d become was rather disgusted with the man he’d been, so embittered by his past that he’d been willing to use and hurt anyone to exact revenge. He didn’t blame his wife for her poor opinion of him. He’d earned it.
“I’ve never claimed to be a good man. But I do love you.”
She stilled. He held his breath, hoping his feelings would mean something to her. “Do not speak of love to me ever again,” she all but spat, dashing his optimism. “You know nothing of it.”
“You don’t belong in New York.” He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling utterly impotent as he never had before. “You belong at my side, as my wife.”
“I don’t want to be your wife any longer, Pembroke.” She tilted her chin, her expression taking on the stubbornness he’d come to expect from her. “I want to go back to my true home, and this time I won’t be dissuaded.”
Deuce it, why wouldn’t she listen to reason? They shared a deep passion together. He loved her. She’d said she loved him too. That had to mean something to her. Christ, but he’d bollixed this up.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 40
