A Duchess in Name

by Amanda Weaver

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You told him what?” Genevieve had been arranging the pillows behind Victoria’s head as she related her visit to the library the night before, but she stood up straight, hands on her hips, at Victoria’s pronouncement.

  “I told him I wanted to divorce.”

  “Are you mad? Dukes don’t get divorced.”

  “I’m sure it’s possible, especially under our circumstances. If there was ever a case to be made for a marriage occurring under false pretenses, this would be it. My father might even be criminally liable for what he’s done.”

  “He separated a fool from his money. It was a moral wrong but not a criminal one. Now will you please rest? I’m immensely grateful your fever has finally broken, but you still look more dead than alive.”

  “I can’t rest until I make things right. That’s what I told Andrew.”

  “And what did he say?”

  She scowled, trying to remember his response. In truth, the whole scene was rather hazy, more dream than reality. The gist of it was there, but the details were indistinct and everything faded to black at a certain point, so she had no idea what they’d decided.

  “I don’t recall, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “I think what he wants matters a great deal.”

  “It’s only because he’s so worried about his family. Louisa and Emma and the estate. But he’ll keep my fortune, I’m sure of it. He’ll see it’s for the best.”

  “And what will you do then? A woman can get a divorce, but that doesn’t mean she can carry on as before. You’ll be turned out of polite society.”

  “What does that matter? I’ll go back to America.”

  “You haven’t lived there since you were a child.”

  “All the better for starting over. I’ll demand a small settlement from my father. It’s the least he can do. And I’ll set myself up in America.”

  “London gossip easily reaches New York.”

  “Then I won’t stay in New York. It’s a big country. I’ll go west until no one cares who I am or what’s happened. Maybe I’ll even go as far as California.”

  “Do you think this will make you happy?”

  She swallowed around a sudden swell of emotion. All she seemed to do these days was cry. “At first? No, not at all. I’m quite certain it will make me miserable. But he deserves better than this life he was forced into. And so do I. I deserve a chance to try for it anyway.”

  Genevieve was silent for a moment. “You do deserve better. I don’t train any of my girls to expect happiness, but I always hope for it. You deserve happiness more than anyone I know, darling. But I’m not certain you’ll find it this way.”

  She was fairly sure she wouldn’t, at least in the short term. Leaving Andrew would break her heart, but it was the right thing to do. If she didn’t love him, it would be different. But she did love him. That had always been the problem. She’d always cared too much, even when he’d been walking away from her.

  “You should know, the mistress seems a thing of the past,” Genevieve continued. “He swears it’s been over for some time, since before your reconciliation this summer. Perhaps he really is committed to you.”

  “For now. Until something else draws him away. And why should he stay? This wasn’t the life he wanted. He was tricked into it. I’ve been blaming him all this time for abandoning me, when, in truth, he doesn’t owe me a thing. I owe him. And I mean to pay the debt by setting him free.”

  “Promise me you won’t take any action until you’re fully recovered. You heard the doctor. It was partly due to your emotional distress that you became so ill. Give yourself time to recover before deciding how to proceed.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Genevieve paused. “He’s been terrorizing the downstairs staff, waiting to come up to see you.”

  Victoria shook her head. “Don’t let him in. I can’t see him yet. It’s too much.”

  “You’ll have to talk at some point. Truly talk.”

  “I know. But not yet.”

  “All right. Only for today, I’ll tell him you’re sleeping.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now don’t make a liar of me. Close your eyes and rest.”

  When Lady Grantham closed Victoria’s door, Andrew was waiting for her in the hall. He’d been persuaded by Mrs. Palmer to eat something and clean up, but he still looked like a madman.

  “How is she?”

  “Much improved, Your Grace, but still very weak.”

  He made a move for the door. “I have to see her.”

  Lady Grantham held up a hand to stop him. “She’s asleep now and she needs to rest.” Her eyes dropped to the floor and she cleared her throat. “And she asked not to see you today.”

  Cursing softly under his breath, he raked a hand through his hair, the hundredth time in as many minutes. “She’s my wife.”

  “She’s very upset right now.”

  “Did she tell you she wants a divorce?” The word tasted foul in his mouth. He hated uttering it, as if doing so would make it more real. Something that could actually come to pass.

  “She did.”

  “How can she consider such a thing?”

  “What she discovered, all of it, was extremely distressing to her. Not just the mistress. Her father’s actions have hurt her deeply. She feels a responsibility to put things right.”

  “This isn’t the way. I don’t want this. Doesn’t she see, this won’t make anything right? Only hopelessly wrong.”

  Lady Grantham met his gaze. The flinty coldness from the day before was gone, replaced with something that looked a bit like sympathy.

  She reached out to touch his sleeve. “She’s still so ill. Give her a little time to recover and she may see things differently.”

  He grasped her hand firmly. “I’ll make her change her mind. I swear it.”

  “But will you make her happy?”

  “I want to make her the happiest woman alive. That’s all I want.”

  Lady Grantham smiled slightly. “Good. She deserves nothing less, Your Grace.”

  He smiled, too. “I think you might begin calling me ‘Andrew,’ under the circumstances.”

  “Then I must be Genevieve to you, as I am to Victoria.”

  “Thank you, Genevieve.”

  “Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything. It’s you who must do the work here.”

  “I know it well. And I intend to.”

  * * *

  By afternoon of the following day, Andrew had walked every square foot of the lower rooms of Briarwood Manor half a dozen times. He’d examined the pictures hanging in the drawing room, the plate on the sideboard in the dining room and read the titles on each spine in the library. It was the only thing keeping him from charging up the stairs and into Victoria’s bedroom.

  The crisis had passed and she was improving rapidly. She’d come down to breakfast this morning and he’d sat with her, making sure she ate. They’d been polite, even friendly. But with Genevieve present, there’d been no opportunity for private conversation, and in her current state, he wouldn’t rush her, no matter how much he wanted to. He needed to plead his case, but not yet, when she was still so fragile.

  He busied himself for half an hour writing to Louisa and Emma to let them know about Victoria’s illness but assuring them she would be well. He didn’t hint at the rest of their troubles. Hopefully, there would never be a need for them to know those details.

  After that, he received Mr. March to catch up on the morning’s work, but it was next to impossible to keep his mind focused on business. Once March was gone, he was back to measuring the downstairs with his footsteps, waiting for the next time she might feel strong enough to talk to him.

  When h
e heard carriage wheels on the gravel outside, his nerves, already stretched tight with anxiety, threatened to snap. The last thing he had patience for on this day was politely receiving visitors. Once Wilson opened the door and the shrill voice of that visitor rang out through the entryway, his impatience curdled into rage.

  Mrs. Hyacinth Carson.

  “I’ve come to see my daughter, the Duchess of Waring,” she announced to the footman. “Take me to her at once.”

  “Yes, ma’am. This way,” the footman said, but Andrew stepped forward into the entry hall before Hyacinth could cross the threshold.

  “That won’t be necessary, Wilson. I’ll see to Mrs. Carson myself.”

  Hyacinth transformed at the sight of him, her expression morphing into a parody of worry and grief.

  “Oh, Your Grace, I came as soon as I heard of my daughter’s illness, although I thought it odd I heard news of it from that crafty little Grace Godwyn and not from you. But no matter. I’m sure my telegram simply went astray. How is my darling girl?”

  He drew himself up to his full height and stared her down, staying silent so long, even the brash, fearless Hyacinth Carson began to grow uneasy.

  “That darling girl was on the verge of death. She was so upset when she discovered the scheme her own parents concocted to marry her off to an unwilling stranger, she lacked the strength to fight off a life-threatening infection.”

  Hyacinth Carson went a shade beyond pale, something more akin to chalky. Her eyes widened and she gave a queer little stuttering laugh. “Why, whatever do you mean, Your Grace?”

  “I mean Victoria discovered for herself what I’ve known since the night before our wedding. That your husband lured my father into investing in a business he’d secretly purchased for the sole purpose of running it into the ground and ruining our family. The goal—his and yours—was to force me into marriage with your daughter. As you can imagine, Victoria took exception to the means employed to gain my hand.”

  Hyacinth blinked and recovered her equilibrium. Her shrill voice returned, along with the haughtily lifted chin. “Whatever Phillip may have done, you can’t think I had any part in it. I’m just his wife. What do I know about railroads and investments?”

  He smiled maliciously. “I never said it was a railroad.”

  Again, the blood drained from her face as she struggled for something to say.

  “Really,” he went on, “a man of Carson’s famed business acumen could have gone through a bit more trouble to make his sham business look legitimate. It only took me a moment to smell a rat. I don’t know how Victoria discovered what he did, but the knowledge has pushed her to her limits.”

  Hyacinth fluttered her hands nervously. “She always was overly fastidious about these sorts of things. Let me speak to her for a moment and I’m sure I can settle her right down, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, she does have an extremely fine sense of right and wrong. Heaven knows where she learned it. Certainly not from her parents.”

  “Your Grace, I can see you’re very upset, or you would never say such things.”

  “You think that if you like, but you’re wrong. The lie? The swindle? I’m not mad, at least not on my own behalf. I’ve been fortunate enough to marry the best woman I’ve ever known, and I mean to see she’s made happy for the rest of her days. So of course, that means I forbid you to see her.”

  “You forbid it?” She gaped at him for a moment. “But I’m her mother.”

  “Alley cats are better mothers. I should know. I have a poor excuse for one, as well. And yes, I forbid it. She’s suffered enough at your hands to last a lifetime. When she is fully recovered, if she wishes to see you, she can summon you herself. Until then, get out of my house and leave my wife alone.”

  Hyacinth opened her mouth and closed it again. There was something grimly satisfying about putting the woman so spectacularly in her place, but mostly, he wanted her gone, out of his sight forever. In another moment, she gave him what he wanted. Deciding retreat would serve her better than fighting on, Hyacinth plastered a strained smile on her face.

  “Well. Since my daughter seems to be in such excellent care, I see I’m not needed at present and I know better than to get underfoot! Please do call on us in London when you reopen Waring House, Your Grace.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her with so much as a nod of his head. She didn’t deserve it. He stood with his feet braced wide and his arms crossed over his chest until Hyacinth had backed out onto the stone steps. With one hasty curtsy and a flutter of her gloved fingertips, she turned and scurried back into her waiting hack. He stood on the steps and watched until the carriage disappeared around a curve in the drive, to make sure she was well and truly gone.

  * * *

  At the top of the stairs, Victoria hovered in silence, her fingers curling around the banister. There had been voices, first Andrew’s and then—unbelievably—her mother’s. Her bare feet hadn’t made a sound as she crept down the hall and peered around the corner and down into the entry hall.

  There she’d watched as Andrew gave her mother a most spectacular set down. He’d caught Hyacinth in her own lies and had come roaring to her defense, like a knight protecting her from a dragon. Particularly apt. How odd to feel her heart turn over when he barred her own mother from the house. And what he said about her... He wasn’t angry about the betrayal, because it had led him to her. What a thing to say. It left her breathless. He sounded so sincere, and she wanted to believe it.

  It was so hard to know what was right and what was just her own selfish desire for him whispering in her ear. She could drive herself mad trying to figure it out, and she was still too tired for that. As she turned to make her way back to her bed, she could hear Andrew stalking around the ground floor, like he was still defending her and their lair from all invaders. It was a comforting thought, one she clung to as she climbed back into bed and let sleep claim her. With Andrew standing guard over their house, no one could hurt her.

  * * *

  “If you’re too tired, I can have dinner brought up here,” Genevieve said from the doorway.

  Victoria smiled at her in the mirror as Molly smoothed a few more tendrils into place.

  “Absolutely not. You’re leaving tomorrow. I’m coming down to the dining room for your last night.”

  “You look so much better, Vic,” Genevieve remarked after Molly withdrew, coming to stand behind her. “Your color is remarkably improved, and while you need a solid week of good meals, your face looks much less wasted.”

  “I feel much better. And don’t worry. Mrs. Fiske is determined to fatten me back up. I think there’s a cream sauce on every dish tonight.”

  Genevieve paused for a moment and squeezed her shoulders. “No matter what happens, whatever you decide to do, you’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. Just do what makes you happy.”

  “I wish I knew what that will be.”

  “You’ll figure it out soon enough, I think. And it’s probably a good thing I’m leaving tomorrow. You two need to talk without me underfoot.”

  Victoria dropped her eyes to the dressing table, her fingers running nervously along the edges of her silver hairbrush. “I know we do. And I promise, I’m almost ready to do it.”

  “Good. Because he deserves a chance to say his piece, as well.”

  “You sound as if you’re on his side.”

  “I’ll always be on your side, Vic. But I’m starting to suspect your husband might be, too. Now let’s go down before he wears a trough in the floor downstairs.”

  Genevieve linked her arm in hers as together they left for dinner. When they reached the top of the wide staircase, Andrew was, as Gen predicted, pacing the length of the entry hall. Every inch of him radiated a barely restrained tension. At the sound of their rustling skirts, his head snapped up and his eyes sought hers out. When they met
, his stormy expression cleared and the smile that spread across his face made her heart stumble. He strode to the foot of the stairs and sprinted up them two at a time, meeting her before she’d made it even four steps down.

  “Please,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “Allow me.”

  “I’ll assure you as I did Genevieve, I’m quite well.”

  “Hush,” he murmured with a smile. “I’m trying to be heroic.”

  “I heard you with my mother today. You already were.”

  He inhaled deeply, his expression something between sheepish and resolved. “I’m very sorry you had to hear that.”

  She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I’m not. Not at all. Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I could do for you.”

  The moment held between them. It was warm, private, and for the first time since she’d found out about his life in Italy, something like her old happiness flickered inside. It was only a spark. It wouldn’t grow into a flame unless she breathed life on it. She was still holding her breath, afraid to exhale.

  He looked away first, clearing his throat and offering his other arm to Genevieve. “Shall we?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Now you’ll write and let me know if you need anything at all.” Genevieve tugged her gloves into place. Behind her, Mr. Borne was supervising the securing of Genevieve’s trunk to the roof of the carriage. Andrew waited at the top of the steps, standing at a respectful distance so she and Gen could say a private farewell.

  “You know I never shirk from writing a letter.”

  “I’m counting on it.” Genevieve lifted the veil on her hat and leaned forward to embrace her.