With a murmured greeting for the servant, Justina proceeded ahead of her husband and then stopped. The soaring foyer with its sweeping ceilings featured a mural better suited to one of those Renaissance cathedrals. At the center hung a crystal chandelier lit with candles. Her mouth fell open at the extravagance of the ducal residence. She forced her lips together and snapped her attention downward to where an older woman stood in wait; her gaze averted. A little niggling of homesickness pebbled in her belly.
“Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Benedict. She is the head housekeeper,” Nick said at her back, and Justina jumped.
The woman of middling years came forward and sank into a deferential curtsy. “Your Grace,” she greeted in austere tones far befitting a crusty member of the peerage.
“How do you do?” Justina said with a forced smile. How very different this household was to her former one, in every way. From the grand opulence that exuded ducal wealth and power, to the stern-faced servants hovering in the wings.
“This arrived earlier, Your Grace,” the butler murmured. A footman came forward with a silver tray and a single letter atop.
Nick narrowed his gaze on the thick ivory velum and then with quick movements, grabbed it and stuffed it inside his jacket.
“And Mr. Stannis arrived a short while ago. I took the liberty of showing him to your office, as requested.”
Her husband nodded curtly and then glanced briefly at her. “I’ve matters to discuss with my solicitor.”
He would see to business on their wedding day? Of course, it was silly to believe there was anything romantic in the rushed affair brought about by her ruin two days earlier. Even sillier to hope for the romance they’d known in the gardens. “Of course,” she said belatedly, when he continued to stare at her with an inscrutable gaze.
Her husband gathered her hands in his and a familiar thrill ran through her at the heat of his touch. “Mrs. Benedict will show you abovestairs until I’ve concluded my business.” He drew her knuckles to his mouth and dragged a slow kiss along the skin where her wrist met her hand. Her pulse thundered hard under his lips. “And then I will come to you.” His was a husky pledge that sent her heart tripling its beat and brought about a giddy nervousness.
And God help her, with his servants staring on, she should be scandalized by his promise and his lingering caress. Breathless, she managed a juddering nod.
Nick released her and she mourned the absence of his touch. Then with a purely male grin that held a promise for more, her husband stalked off. She stared after him a long while, until his retreating form disappeared down the long corridor.
“Your Grace?” the housekeeper urged. “Please, allow me to show you to your rooms.” Without waiting to see if Justina followed, the expressionless woman started down the hall. She made it only three steps before noting Justina remained fixed in the foyer.
The last thing she cared to do was spend her morning sitting in wait for Nick to conclude his business, nervous with what would come. Why hadn’t she had this conversation with her sister or her mother before? After Phoebe had wed? Any time? Because I never imagined I would be married so quickly and certainly not with half of my family missing from those nuptials. “Thank you, Mrs. Benedict, but I will explore a bit while His Grace holds his meeting.”
The other woman frowned. “His Grace asked I escort you to your rooms, Your Grace.” There was a determined glint in Mrs. Benedict’s brown eyes better suited to a military commander leading his men on a charge.
“I’m not quite ready to retire.” She mustered her most warming smile, but the mask of the stern-faced woman didn’t crack in the slightest.
The servant remained rooted to the floor. “It is my duty to escort you to your chambers, Your Grace.”
Justina hesitated. She’d not go toe-to-toe with the head of her new household, particularly when the woman sought to avoid displeasing her employer. Restoring her smile, she inclined her head and, wordlessly, the servant started through the halls, this time with Justina trailing behind. The tread of their footfalls was muted in the plush carpet. How vastly different than her family’s now stained and threadbare carpets, most long ripped up, leaving only hardwood.
“Here we are, Your Grace,” Mrs. Benedict murmured, bringing them to stop outside a room. She pushed the door open.
Justina stepped inside and the air left her on a slow exhale as she took in the extravagant wealth on display. Her husband’s vast fortune shone in the porcelain vases atop mahogany Chippendale furniture. The thick gold, satin coverlet and matching brocade curtains were befitting royalty. Then, her husband, with his ancient title, was now a smidgeon below those exalted positions.
The servant spoke, recalling her attention. “Is there anything you require, Your Grace?”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “That is all.”
The woman dropped a curtsy and then retreated. As soon as she’d closed the door behind her, Justina did a circle around her room. Silence rang loud in the expansive space.
She counted the passing moments, long after the surly housekeeper left. This was her new home and she’d not be shut away because a servant sought to please her employer. As a married woman, there was no longer a need for the furtive sneaking.
A slow smile formed on her lips.
Chapter 15
His man-of-affairs, Stannis, occupied the leather winged back chair opposite him. Ruthless. Accomplished. And dedicated, Stannis had served in his role with him since Nick had amassed a small fortune. Where Chilton had raised his reservations for his plans and intentions for the Barrett family, Stannis had demonstrated a ruthless ease for carrying out the destruction of that respective family.
“Sign here, Your Grace,” said the man of middling years as he shoved a page across Nick’s desk.
Nick stared through the lenses of his spectacles, his gaze lingered on the name inked in black so long, the letters blurred together. This afternoon represented every last goal he had dreamed of and at last attained. With stiff movements, he dipped his pen in the crystal inkwell and scratched his name to the page.
Silent, Stannis accepted the document and sprinkled drying powder on the fresh ink. Nick stared at that casual act as he set aside the sheet and withdrew another page. “This will call in the debt purchased from Lord Hertford,” Stannis explained, pushing another page across Nick’s desk.
He quickly scrawled his name. They continued through a stack of documents, with the official claims now made for Waters to make good on his debt.
Time had run out for the Marquess of Rutland’s father-in-law, the hand on the proverbial clock being nudged along with Nick’s clever machinations. The Barretts were effectively ruined. The man had long since pissed away his inheritance. His reckless gambling habits had left the viscount, his wife, his son, and his daughter with nothing more than their entailed properties.
He had seen to it that not a single merchant or bank would extend a shilling to the reprobate for the remainder of his days. Yes, today represented a victory.
And yet, how very hollow it felt.
His solicitor organized the neat stacks of ivory velum, placing them inside the brown leather folios. “It is done, Your Grace,” the gentleman said in coolly emotionless tones.
“It is done,” Nick murmured.
“I’ve drafted the letter, enumerating the expectations for the viscount’s debt.” Stannis withdrew a parchment and handed it over to him.
Flexing his jaw, he worked his gaze over the page. The moment Stannis delivered the official documents and notes bearing Nick’s signatures and demands, his plans for the family would, at last, be clear. And revenge would be his.
Revenge which had sustained him for so very long.
“When would you have me deliver the note, Your Grace?”
The muscles of his stomach tightened. Goddamn, Justina Barrett had soured it all. Nay, Justina Tallings. She belonged to him now…in name, and this evening, she would become his wife in every
sense of the word. He battled back guilt with the truth that through their match she would be spared the terror and uncertainty of her family’s financial ruin. She’d never know the fear of debtors coming to collect. Or watching her every last possession marched out of the house and sold off. Only these items would go as payment to her father’s sins. Nick’s own father had labored through life, dedicating himself to his factory—and lost.
But he could not send the blood demands to the Barretts. Not yet. Soon. He pressed his eyes closed. Would Rutland have been this weak? Would he have waited? Had he waited with Nick’s own father? He silently cursed. “Deliver it.”
The man showed no outward reaction to that pronouncement. His face a cool mask, Stannis sketched a bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.” Gathering his belongings, he filled his arms and then took his leave.
Nick stared at the closed door for a long while. It had begun. Destroying the Barretts today would be no different if he destroyed them tomorrow or a fortnight. The end result was destined to be the same. And then my wife will forever hate me. His gut clenched as his eyes fell to the missive that had arrived earlier.
The damning scrap enumerated his lies and marked his connection to the woman who wanted Rutland to fall as badly as Nick himself.
My dearest love,
I’ve learned the silly chit enjoys poetry. Fill her ears with those pretty words you once spoke of and all the while dream of the wicked ones I’ve whispered in your ear.
Ever Yours,
M
Despite their parting, the baroness still uncovered information on Justina and sent it along to him. Nearly a fortnight after he’d severed their arrangement and still she persisted. Self-loathing burned like acid on his tongue at ever having involved one such as her in his plans.
Then, she’d been the one to bring him to this very moment. If it hadn’t been for the baroness, he would have never known the precise whereabouts of Lord Rutland. She’d allowed him to set his plan into motion without the other man rushing to London and coming to the aid of his family.
Now, where did that leave Justina? At one time, her role had been clear to him. She’d been just another prong in a multi-faceted attack on Lord Rutland. As Chilton had correctly put forward, Nick couldn’t ruin a young lady. To have done so, would have made him no different than the bastard who’d destroyed his own sister’s innocence.
He dropped his gaze to the note, again. Could Justina truly remain unscathed when his plan became clear to all? When her father and brother found themselves in the countryside working their entailed properties because nothing else remained?
Nick growled. Goddamn this niggling of guilt that grew whenever he thought of the inevitable outcome. Filled with a restlessness, he yanked open his drawer and stuffed the note from the baroness inside. He closed it with a firm click and pressed the intricate lock that kept it sealed. Climbing to his feet, he started from his office and set out for his wife’s chambers.
He made his way through the corridors. The distant ancestors memorialized in oil paintings glared down their ducal noses at him. He passed the library and then stopped, retracing his footsteps to the entrance of the room. Justina stood in the center of the library, her head tipped back, as she gazed at the floor-length shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. He used her distraction to study her. A reverent awe lined her features and, God help him, as she crossed over and rescued a book from a nearby shelf, Nick felt a wave of jealousy for the hunger in her eyes as she caressed and studied that tome.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he called.
His wife gasped and the book tumbled to the floor at her feet, the thin Aubusson carpet doing little to muffle the faint thud. She stooped down in a rustle of satin skirts and retrieved the volume. “It is,” she agreed.
Pulling the door closed, Nick leaned against it. “As a boy, I would have traded years off my life for such an accumulation of literature.” He’d devoured books the way a person drew breath. “Which title has you engrossed?” he asked, as he loosened his cravat and removed the scrap.
She followed his casual movements.
“I was not really looking at any one title, but rather thinking of my library,” she explained, wandering over to a shelf. She trailed her long fingertips over the lettering and, by hell, if he didn’t wish to be one of those damned books so he could be the recipient of her tender caress.
“Ah,” he murmured, stretching out that syllable. He stuffed his cravat inside his jacket. “But this is your library,” he reminded her. Feeling her gaze on his every movement, he strode with languid steps toward her.
She fiddled with her skirts and when she spoke, her words brought him to a halt. “It is peculiar,” she said softly, running her palm along the edge of a book. “For months, I have watched creditors enter my home and remove volume after volume that they deemed valuable.”
Nick stiffened, as guilt scrabbled with his conscience. He didn’t want this story from her. He didn’t want to see the sadness in her eyes as she recounted a tale that he’d written, like some kind of master poet of evil.
Alas this was to be a penance of sorts. Her lips tipped up in a sad smile. With her long, elegant fingers, she plucked a volume from the shelf and fanned the pages. “Each time they would come, I would stare out the parlor window, waiting while they entered, and wondered…”
I do not truly wish to know what thoughts have paraded through her head on those days I carried out my plans of revenge. “What did you wonder?” he asked quietly, a glutton for self-torture, with her unaware, owning his role in her hurt. And hating himself for her having become a pawn to be used.
Justina dropped her gaze to the title and trailed her fingertips over the gold lettering. “Which books did each auctioneer see of value? It became a game of sorts for me. One that allowed me to move beyond the humiliation and sadness of their visits. First, Shakespeare’s works were packed off and I held my breath, until others came and then it was my gothic novels.” A humorless laugh fanned her lips. “What use would they have for my novels and, yet, take them they did.”
Nay. Take them, he had. He’d believed it impossible to feel anything beyond the jaded hatred for her brother-in-law. Had convinced himself that the ends justified the proverbial means, only to bear witness to the effects of his actions against Rutland. “I am sorry, Justina,” he said quietly. For so much. She’d deserved far more than he or Tennyson. A man who’d come to her of honesty and who had not tricked her from their first meeting with lies and orchestrated exchanges.
She smiled, reassuringly. “So much good came from it, though. With each book taken away, I was forced to expand my mind…to look at new works I would have never plucked from the shelf, unless I’d had no choice but to.”
He brushed his knuckles down her cheek, lingering his gaze on the skin he caressed. “How have you remained so hopeful amidst such darkness?” How, when he had been destroyed by it?
Her eyelashes danced wildly as she leaned into his touch. “It is always easy to hope. It is far more difficult to give in to the darkness of life. For then, where would we be?”
Precisely where he already was.
“It has not all been bad,” she said softly. She sought to reassure him? When her own existence had been as miserable as his own, in ways? He was humbled by her strength. “My brother-in-law has seen that I and my mother are not destitute.”
Her brother-in-law. That hated shadow that stood between them.
“He is so good and, yet, he’d allow your belongings to be carted off?” He was unable to keep the vitriolic loathing from his question.
Justina wrinkled her brow. “I don’t—”
“He allowed your family to suffer. Allowed your father to sell and scheme so that he was beholden to,” me, “creditors.”
“The only reason I have what I do is because of Edmund,” she spoke with such an impassioned defense, Nick gritted his teeth. “He’s given me pin money. Funded my wardrobe. When he is in London, he manages to in
timidate my father enough to be less reckless.” With that, for the first time, she dented the image he had accepted of the man who’d stalked down his hallways, all those years ago. Forced him to see the marquess in a way that was at odds with all he’d come to know, believe, or accept. Her gaze held his. “You do not know it, but my father is a drunkard, Nick. He is a gambler and a whoremonger. His behaviors are a disease that not even a fear of my brother-in-law will stop. Edmund knows that.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “As such, he cannot simply turn over a small fortune when it will only be quickly squandered.”
“You are too forgiving,” he said quietly. Would she be equally so when she discovered his role in her family’s ruin? Tell her. It is time to tell her all. Even as it means she’ll likely hate me. But mayhap she might understand what drove him. I am deluding myself. He opened his mouth but Justina lifted her palms up, waving that book in her hand.
“Why should I hold Edmund to blame for my father’s vices? I would never dare hold you responsible.” She filed the book on the shelf and smiled at him. “As I said, some good came of it.”
He cocked his head. Of her miserable state and uncertain future?
She layered her back against the shelving and looked up at him. “If it hadn’t been for my books being sold off, I’d not have discovered The Circulating Library. And if I hadn’t been there a fortnight earlier, then we’d not have met.”
Nick lifted a hand and propped it over her head. “We were destined to meet.” Those words came, born of a truth that had brought them together. He’d been so driven in his plans to embroil her in his scheming, he’d have not rested until she, the ultimate pawn, was his.
And in the very greatest irony the Bard himself could not have penned on his pages, Nick had made her his for reasons that had nothing to do with punishing her. In the end, only he could be punished. As her father discovered his true plans and Rutland inevitably returned, this ease between him and Justina, this inexplicable draw would unravel like the seams of a frayed garment. I will tell her. Eventually. Soon.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 132
