Disciplining the Duchess

by Annabel Joseph

  He moaned inwardly, or perhaps he moaned aloud, since his mother and Mrs. Lyndon looked up at him with curious glances. The footmen took forever to serve, or maybe time was taking forever now that Harmony wanted to leave him. Of all things, he had not expected her to give up.

  As soon as the last uniformed coattail swished out of the room, his mother turned on him.

  “Where is the duchess this evening?”

  Court picked up his spoon and hunched over the bisque. “She is unwell.”

  “Unwell or unhappy?” his mother persisted.

  He frowned into his soup. “Both, perhaps. Does it really matter?”

  Silence spun out across the table. The soup, though rich and flavorful, tasted like ashes in his mouth. His mother glared at him from beneath bunched eyebrows.

  “I did not think you a foolish man, Courtland.”

  He paused as Mrs. Lyndon’s spoon clattered onto her plate.

  Court blinked and began to eat again with renewed focus. It was bad enough for Harmony to think him silly, but his mother too?

  “Do you think you will fix her by breaking her?” she prodded when it became clear he would not engage her in this conversation.

  “It is none of your business.”

  “I have had letters of her father,” the dowager said. “I don’t know what to tell him anymore.”

  It was Court’s turn to fumble his spoon. He put it beside his plate and stared at his mother. “You have been in correspondence with Lord Morrow?”

  “Ladies will engage in letter writing,” she said with a subtle note of reproach. “It is one of the few pastimes allowed to us.”

  “One of the few,” Mrs. Lyndon parroted, with her eternal head bobbing.

  Blast. Of course the old women would know everything that had gone on the last pair of days, from his wife’s misbegotten letters to Court’s ignoble and jealous reaction.

  “Will you take her side?” he asked. “That is certainly a change.”

  “There can be no sides in this,” said his mother. “If we are to have our heir—”

  “Courtland will have its heir,” he snapped. “Courtland will continue on, if only from your heavy-handed insistence that nothing else matters.”

  The old woman’s eyes went wide as Mrs. Lyndon feigned a swoon. “Whatever do you mean by that exclamation?” asked the dowager.

  “I mean that—” The footmen entered with the main course of roast quail and vegetables, plunging all of them into tense silence. As soon as they left, Court dug into the small, tasty corpse, feeling destructive in the extreme. For long minutes there was only the sound of utensils clicking on bone.

  “Lord Morrow believes his daughter unhappy in marriage,” his mother finally said, eyeing the carnage on his dinner plate. “I have endeavored to convince him otherwise, but now I must say—”

  “What? That we are unhappy? Were you and father ever happy together? Was I a happy and joyful child?” He stabbed a fork in the air. “It is the Courtland legacy. Refined misery. Why should things change now?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Lyndon gasped.

  “Because,” his mother said, speaking over her friend. “I did not have a choice in your father. You had a choice. I thought, when you chose her, that you had made the correct choice. That you would find rare happiness in marriage. Now I am not so sure.”

  Court stared at the herb-seasoned haricots verts beside his quail, befuddled by his mother’s words. “You did not wish me to marry Harmony. You wept and sobbed. Don’t you remember? You took to your bed.”

  “It was a shock.”

  “What changed, that you will support her now?”

  His mother poked at the bones on her plate. “You changed, my son. For a short time, anyway. She made you happy…but not anymore?”

  She was fishing for information, practically pleading for it. What had gone wrong? If he could explain it to his mother and the gawking Mrs. Lyndon, he would not be so miserable himself. He rubbed his forehead and squelched the urge to run like a coward from the room.

  “I—I cannot say what has gone wrong,” he said. “She wants to leave.”

  His mother stiffened. “You cannot let her leave.”

  He shook his head, burning with shame. Guilt. “I thought we could have a good marriage. I wished for her happiness.” Make a wish… Why couldn’t he have made one damn wish for her? One wish for them?

  Why did she want to leave?

  “I wished for more children,” his mother said in the silence. “Not because you were not a perfect son, but because it was the way of the world. A man wants many sons for peace of mind. I often thought, as you suffered—”

  “I did not suffer, mother.”

  “As you suffered,” she insisted, “that if only I had been able to bear more children, you would have had a lighter burden. I prayed on my knees to conceive, thinking of your large, solemn gaze and all the weight of responsibility on your small back.”

  “Mother,” Court said, rubbing his eyes. “I beg you. Please.”

  “I also tried to be perfect for your father. It never mattered. He had no use for me and went about with hundreds of other women. Oh, I knew,” she added as Court turned to her in shock. “What could I do about it but grow old and bitter and nurse a vast emptiness in my heart? But you, my son. You and Harmony had love. I recognized it, though I was never fortunate enough to experience it. I was angry. Jealous. I wanted you to fail as your father and I failed, but that was the emptiness in my heart speaking.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Court said. He had no idea what this confession cost her, nor what to say in response.

  “The two of you had love,” she went on, “and you are destroying it. I tried to destroy it with my own treatment of your wife.” She shook her head, her face drawn with regret. “I thought you could fix her and she would still love you. Now I’m not so sure. But I am sure of one thing. It is more important to love and be loved.”

  “More important than what?”

  “Everything else.”

  Mrs. Lyndon heaved a quiet sob, swiping at tears, but his mother’s eyes were clear with the staunch spirit that defined her. “Courtland, I’m sorry for the ways I failed you. I wish things might have been different, but they weren’t. Your marriage to Harmony, like my misfortune in bearing children, is something which cannot be changed. But you can make the most of things as they are, as your father and I made the most of your qualities and talents. You have been a resplendent son,” said his mother with quiet affection. “I daresay if you give Harmony a chance to prove herself, she will make you a resplendent wife.”

  “But…I’ve been trying… I’ve been giving her chances,” he said in a choked voice.

  “You’ve been trying to force things, out of fear, or worry,” his mother said. “We did the same to you and I think you suffered greatly for it. The sins of the father should not be repeated by the son.”

  “What do I do?” he asked over the sound of Mrs. Lyndon’s sniffling. “I want her to be happy, but she won’t be happy…none of us will be happy if she’s not accepted by the ton.”

  “She is a very perceptive girl.” His mother nodded and put down her silverware. “I think with a little more time, and a little less pressure, she may discover her place in our world.” Her lips tightened into a small smile. “I have come to know your wife rather well over the course of my recuperation. I have some vague hope for her eventual success.”

  It was a resounding commendation coming from his mother. Court excused himself to the sounds of Mrs. Lyndon’s emotional exhalations. He went in search of his wife, to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, only to be brought up short by a stammering maid. He pushed past her into Harmony’s rooms. Her bed was empty, made up and smoothed over to perfection as if she hadn’t been frowning at him from there a short time ago.

  “What do you mean, she is not here?”

  Mrs. Redcliff wrung her hands and curtsied for the tenth time. “As I said, Your Grace, she wished to go home. She
will doubtless return when she has visited with her family.”

  “Doubtless,” he said. “But how will she reach them without horse or carriage?”

  The maidservant paled. “How else would she go?”

  Good God, not this business again. “How long ago did she leave?” He knew the grooms would not counteract his orders, even for a prettily begging duchess. “What did she wear? Did she take money?”

  “She took nothing, Your Grace,” said the maid, curtsying again, and then again. “She dressed as if to go calling and…” She curtsied again. “It was half an hour ago, perhaps. She took only her reticule and bonnet.”

  “Redcliff, if you curtsy again I will break your knees.” His heart pounded and his blood thundered in his ears. His wife, on foot at night in London! Heading for Brook Street, for God’s sake. “Tell me what color dress and cloak your mistress wore when she left.”

  “Deep purple with lavender lace and insets. And a striped bonnet, with her silk aubergine cloak.”

  “Come with me.”

  She curtsied once again and tried to pass it off as a temporary loss of balance. He ignored her and clipped down the stairs, taking up his hat and gloves in the entryway. His wife was going to be the death of him—if he didn’t kill her first. He turned back to the lady’s maid.

  “Pack Her Grace’s things and let the head housekeeper know we will be leaving tonight for Hertfordshire.” He turned to the butler as the man helped him into his cloak. “I want every man in the household on foot looking for Her Grace. Not just in the direction of Brook Street, but every direction from St. James. She cannot have gone far.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the man said with a bow.

  “Your— Your Grace?” The maid’s voice trembled. “Will I be accompanying Her Grace to the ducal seat?”

  Court didn’t have time for the maid’s fretting, not now. “You will remain here. If you are needed, you will be called for.”

  “But Your Grace—” she called after him as he swept from the main house.

  He waved a hand. “Your mistress will be returned to you in good order.”

  The butler shut the door on the maid’s deep and abject curtsy. These women would all be the death of him. He knew that for a fact above everything else.

  *** *** ***

  Harmony trudged along shadowy lamp-lit streets, pulling her cloak closer around her. If she did not have a talent for getting lost, if she were not so horribly impulsive, she would not be in such a muddle. She knew the streets around Brook Street innately, but these were not those streets. These streets were empty of life, cold and glittering with monumental edifices as grand as the Duke of Courtland’s.

  She did not belong here. One thing for certain, she would not go back even if she didn’t know her way forward. Brook Street was west so she would walk west and eventually reach it, and while her father would be angry at her for leaving her husband, hopefully he would not turn her away. If he did, then what?

  She couldn’t think about that now. She must walk faster. It was full dark and the risk of her behavior wasn’t unknown to her. She was precisely the immature and reckless person her husband reviled, and well she knew it. Why did she never think through things before she did them?

  She heard voices and felt panic. She should not be walking alone. Polite women did not do it, not in town and especially not at night. Two men walked toward her deep in conversation, and she did the only thing she could think to do. She hid against the shadow of a building and stood very still.

  The men continued by, unaware of her presence. They were not cutthroats or criminals, only gentlemen like Court, smartly turned out in their greatcoats and tall hats, their canes tapping the ground as they walked. She wondered if they were married, if they loved their wives. She made a small sound of misery and one of them turned. His eyes sought the source of the sound and she shrank back in the darkness. What if they addressed her? Should she run away? Walk in her own direction and ignore them?

  She held her breath until he turned around and continued to walk with his companion. By God, she could not do this, make her way through London at this hour in a direction she didn’t know. But she must. She had defied Court—again. If she slunk back to St. James he would take her to his father’s study—again.

  She must get home, she must find her way to safety. If she came to a frightening area of town she would change direction and avoid it. As soon as she saw a respectable person, she would inquire of Brook Street. Or hail a ride. Yes, that was the answer. She would hail a hansom cab when she came upon one and direct it to Brook Street. Foolishly, she had quit Court’s house without any money, but her father could pay the driver on her arrival.

  Once the gentlemen were well away, she set off to walk again, straining to perceive the sounds and lights of more populous streets. After some time, she began to suspect she was going the wrong way altogether. She turned in frustration. Had she been walking an hour? Two hours? Half the night? She felt suffocated by the still darkness, and then she heard the sound of hoof beats.

  “Harmony!”

  Her name sounded half-curse, half-prayer on her husband’s lips. He reined in a few paces from her and she wondered to herself, Should I face him or run?

  “If you run I will chase you,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “What in sorry hell are you about?”

  “I am going home. I am going to Brook Street.”

  His lips tightened and his eyes flashed angrily. “You cannot walk all that way.”

  “I most certainly can!”

  “You can’t,” he said, swinging off his horse and stalking to her, “because you are headed in the wrong direction. The complete opposite direction, if you must know.”

  “I wish you would not mock me!” The emotion that had built up for hours erupted in an outburst of tears.

  “And I wish you would not defy me.” He reached within his coat and produced a square of monogrammed silk, pressing it to her cheeks. “I told you you were not to go home. I told you not to dare attempt it. Why did you leave? Why?”

  She stared at him through a blurry haze of tears. “You don’t want me anyway. You said so.”

  “I did not.”

  “You said I was beyond redemption.”

  He flung out his hands. “You’ve done nothing to prove me wrong.”

  She turned her back on him and started walking. Why had he even come for her? She wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders. “I’m going home, right now, tonight. I don’t care what you think about it.”

  He made an agitated sound and grabbed her. “Curse you, Harmony. You are going the wrong damn way!” He turned her around and stabbed a finger in the opposite direction. “It’s that way to Brook Street. If you’re going to run away from home, at least do it correctly.”

  “I’m not running away from home. I’m running to home. My home where I can be myself, and do whatever I want.”

  He shook his head and tightened his hand on her elbow. “Nobody can do whatever they want. You can’t run away from your duties, your responsibilities. My entire household is searching for you.” He dragged her toward his horse. “Your home is with me now.”

  “I don’t want to go home with you,” she sobbed. She pushed at him, although he easily subdued her. “Anyway, you said you wouldn’t rescue me this time.”

  “I am not rescuing you,” he said, tossing her onto his stallion and mounting behind her. “I am rescuing us both.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Revelations

  They left London for Hertfordshire within the hour, with four grooms and one hastily-assembled baggage cart trailing behind. Court rode on the seat opposite her, smelling of horse as she smelled of night. They did not converse and he did not touch her, only sprawled out his legs and watched her from beneath his lashes. Harmony wrapped up in her cloak and stared out the window as they left the town behind.

  He was taking her to his country home, to Courtland Manor, perhaps to imprison her in its prodigious rock walls.
Well, she wasn’t sure if it had prodigious rock walls but she’d always pictured it that way. And it was unlikely he would imprison her. Surely gentlemen didn’t do that in this day and age.

  In truth, she had no idea what he was going to do to her. She just knew it would be bad.

  At some point she drowsed and they arrived in full black night to the welcome of a skeleton staff. The house—the palace—seemed a ghastly edifice, with vast walls and towers standing out against the moonlit sky. Inside, the corridors seemed to close upon her as she was turned over to a silent and stone-faced housekeeper.

  The woman took her to a large dressing room where Harmony bathed and wrapped up in a nightgown and dressing gown taken from her trunks. The housekeeper and two younger girls unpacked her other items, placing them in armoires and on shelves.

  “Please,” she said to them. “It is so late. You must leave that until the morning.”

  “Your things will wrinkle, Your Grace,” said the housekeeper with a quick curtsy. “If it pleases you, your sleeping chambers are just through that door.”

  Harmony did not feel like sleep but she passed through the wide, carved door and closed it behind her. The room was warm with a fire, and someone had set a tray of cakes and tea on a table near the fireplace. She stared at the tray, at the delicate china and gleaming silver, and dropped her head in her hands. What now? How badly was he going to punish her this time? Why was he making her wait until morning, so she had to dread it all night?

  “You may eat first or come to bed,” said a voice behind her. “It is your choice.”

  She turned to find her husband lying beneath her bedcovers, propped on one arm watching her. He didn’t appear to be wearing clothes.

  “Oh,” she said. She looked away and sat by the tray feeling the weight of his stare on her. She felt nervous, too breathless to eat or drink. She forced down some sips of tea anyway. Why was he here? Would he punish her now, or…? She stole a glance back at him. No, he was not here to punish her. Why did he want to lie with her tonight, after everything?