He’d left the next day without seeing her smile again. Sometimes, at night, sitting outside his tent in Kenya, he’d thought of her face across the tea table, soft with desire for that one fleeting moment, and he’d wondered what his life might have been like if he’d negotiated a different sort of deal, if he hadn’t been so desperate to accept the one she’d offered.
Now, as he stared at the wrought-iron table and remembered that day, he reminded himself that he had the chance now he hadn’t taken then. He’d changed over the years, and so had she. However devastated she might have been as a girl of eighteen, six years was surely long enough to get over a broken heart.
There was passion inside his wife. He’d sensed it the night they met, and he’d seen it that day on the terrace. Brief glimpses, perhaps, but he knew enough about women to know he hadn’t imagined it. He just had to figure out how to ignite that passion so that it burned for him.
Time was his ally. Despite her defiant declaration, it would be impossible for Edie to avoid him every hour of every day for the rest of their lives. They would be living in the same house, eating at the same table, reading in the same library, having tea at that same wrought-iron table. Bit by bit, if he was patient, he would capture her attention, break down her resistance, and light her fire.
It was just, he told himself, a matter of time.
“SHE’S DONE WHAT?” He looked up from the plate of kidneys and bacon Wellesley had just placed before him, the butler’s answer to his inquiry about Edie’s whereabouts sufficiently astonishing that breakfast was forgotten. “She’s gone to London?”
“She has, Your Grace. She departed on the early train at half past eight this morning.”
He glanced at the clock, verifying that the train had gone nearly an hour ago. “Did she say anything? Offer a reason for going? Leave instructions what’s to be done with Joanna? Where is Joanna, by the way? And what about the governess?”
“The duchess had a cable from Mrs. Simmons yesterday evening just before dinner. It seems that the governess disembarked the train at King’s Lynn, but forwarded Miss Jewell’s things on to Willowbank and will be returning by tomorrow’s train. The duchess, however, chose to have Miss Jewell accompany her to town, and she left a letter for Mrs. Simmons with further instructions.”
“I see.” If avoiding him was Edie’s strategy, she was doing a fine job of it so far. She’d had dinner in her room and remained there for the entire evening, and now, she was off to town. If she intended to make a habit of dealing with him by continually running away, his goal of a true marriage between them would be tedious business. “Did Her Grace give a reason for going or say how long she would be gone?”
“No, Your Grace. She simply said she fancied a trip to town. However, this may help to elucidate matters.” Wellesley pulled a folded slip of writing paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Stuart. “From Miss Jewell. She asked me to give it to you as she was leaving.”
“Ah.” The letter was not sealed, simply folded in thirds, leading Stuart to conclude it had been composed in a hurry. Unfolding it, he scanned the few lines and found his guess confirmed.
We’re off to London. She says she’s seeing Mr. Keating on business, which doesn’t usually take long, but this time, she’s taking Snuffles, so it could be a while. Mrs. Simmons is to follow us in a day or two and take me from London down to Kent. You’ve got to come save me. I’ll send word to your club where we’re staying when I know. No time for more. Joanna.
Stuart had a suspicion of just what business Edie intended to discuss with Keating, and if he was right, everything was about to get far more complicated. Grimly, he refolded the letter, put it in his pocket, and picked up his knife and fork as he considered what his next move should be.
“Wellesley, who or what is Snuffles?” he asked as he resumed eating his breakfast.
“That would be Her Grace’s dog, sir.”
He didn’t even know Edie had a pet. Another of the many things he didn’t know about the woman he had married. “When did she acquire a dog?”
“Oh, it must be about four years ago now, Your Grace. She found it—by the side of the road, if memory serves. It had been injured. A puppy, it was, just a little bit of a thing.”
“Ah.” Joanna had assured him Edie had a soft spot for wounded creatures, and here was some evidence of the fact. “Mixed-breed stray, I imagine?”
“Oh, no, sir. It was one of the terrier pups from the home farm, but Mr. Mulvaney wanted to drown it, for it was badly injured, and he didn’t think it would ever be a proper ratter. Well, Her Grace wouldn’t hear of that, and took it upon herself to care for it.”
He smiled. “The duchess has a soft heart, I’ve been told.”
“She does, sir. Not that you’d know it sometimes. Raked Travis over the coals a month ago good and proper, then dismissed him with no letter of character.”
“Travis?” He frowned, not recalling the name. “Who is Travis?”
“Second under-gardener. A new man, hired not long after you left.”
Stuart noted in some amusement that to Wellesley, and to most English minds, having only five years of employment was considered being “new.”
“What did Travis do that impelled the duchess to sack him?” he asked, curious.
“The second housemaid,” he said in a low voice filled with significance. “It was rather a dustup. Mrs. Gates was inclined to dismiss her, and she consulted the Dowager Duchess, who was here at the time. The Dowager agreed that the housemaid needed to go, but the duchess got wind of it, and she wasn’t having it.” Wellesley leaned closer in a confidential manner and murmured, “She countermanded the Dowager Duchess.”
“I’d have liked to see Mama’s reaction to that,” Stuart said, grinning around a forkful of eggs. “Go on.”
“The duchess kept Ellen on, but dismissed Travis. The duchess,” he added with a look of apology, “doesn’t always understand the way things are.”
“Quite so.” Stuart suppressed his smile with an effort. “Things are different in America, I imagine.”
“I daresay.” Those two words made short shrift of how things were done in America. “The Dowager Duchess attempted to explain to the duchess that dismissing the male servant whilst keeping the female servant wasn’t quite the way things were done in an English household.”
“And what did Her Grace say to that?”
Wellesley gave a dignified sniff. “She said, ‘It might be an English household, but it is run by an American.’ ”
Again, Stuart had to suppress a smile. “Poor Mama. That ruffled her feathers, I’ll wager.”
“It would not be my place to say, sir. But the Dowager Duchess no longer stays long when she visits Highclyffe. The duchess, as I’m sure you know, has her own unique way of doing things. Still,” he added, his face brightening a bit, “now that you are home, I’m sure things will soon be returning to the proper way.”
“I doubt it,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve never been one for the propers, Wellesley. You ought to know that by now.” His breakfast finished, Stuart set down his knife and fork. “When is the next train to London, do you know?”
“Half past eleven, sir,” the butler answered at once. “But it doesn’t go straight on, I’m afraid. You’ll have to change at Cambridge.”
“Your efficiency never ceases to amaze me, Wellesley.” He pulled out his pocket watch and verified that he had plenty of time. “Have Edward pack a suitcase, will you? I’m taking that train.”
“One suitcase? So you will not be staying in London long, then?”
“No, and neither will Her Grace.” He returned his watch to his pocket, tossed aside his napkin, and stood up. “Not if I have my way about it.”
Chapter 6
EDIE STARED IN dismay at the rotund, gray-haired little man on the other side of the large oak
desk. “So I’ve no grounds? None at all? Not even . . .” She paused, her face growing hot. “Not even nonconsummation?”
“I’m afraid not. I know of no cases where a lawful marriage has been successfully set aside for that reason. Not in the past few centuries, anyway.”
Edie reminded herself that she shouldn’t be surprised by this information. Stuart himself had told her the very same thing before they married. But somehow, in coming here, she’d hoped Stuart had been mistaken. “You said to your knowledge there hasn’t been a successful case. Could you have missed one?”
“Some court decisions do escape my notice,” the lawyer admitted. “I would be happy to research the matter more deeply if you wish, though I am not at all optimistic about the chance of finding case law in support of an annulment.”
“I understand. Do it anyway. What about . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “What about divorce?”
Mr. Keating rubbed his nose and sat back with a sigh. “Even less likely to be granted, I’m afraid. As to grounds, you might make a case for adultery—if it’s true, of course, and if you could provide names, dates, et cetera. But while adultery is sufficient grounds for a man, it is not the same for women. A wife needs two causes to divorce her husband. You would need something else along with adultery.”
Her dismay deepened into desperation. “Desertion? Could that be considered a secondary cause?”
“But the duke has come back, so there has been no desertion. In the eyes of the law, he has simply returned from an extended trip abroad. And since he wishes to reconcile . . .” Mr. Keating shook his head. “You’ve no chance there, I’m afraid.”
“Could he be persuaded to divorce me?”
“Your Grace . . .” The lawyer’s voice trailed off into a sigh. He waited, but as she continued to look at him steadily, he went on, “If he chose to, yes, he could bring a suit, but there would still have to be grounds. Adultery, for example.”
“Is there nothing I can do?” Her voice sounded terribly faint to her own ears, even within the hushed confines of Mr. Keating’s paneled office walls. “Nothing at all?”
The lawyer gave her an unhappy look across the desk. “I realize the duke’s reappearance in your life after so long must be a shock, but that shock will pass. Since he wishes to reconcile, I suggest you allow him to do so.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, forcing the words out past the fear that felt like a stone in her chest.
“Many marriages are difficult, and often unhappy, but divorce is never a satisfactory solution. It is a messy, protracted, disgraceful business. Even if you had sufficient grounds, it would take you years to successfully break your marriage tie, and both your names would be dragged through the mud. And afterward, your position in society would be destroyed, your title stripped from you, and your reputation disgraced.”
“So I would be ruined by a man, not once in my life, but twice,” she muttered bitterly.
“I am afraid so.”
“What about an American divorce?”
“You might be able to obtain a divorce in several of the American states, but the resulting destruction of your reputation would be the same, and such a divorce would never be valid in any part of the British Empire.”
She looked away from the compassion in the lawyer’s face. “I see.”
“Is there no way that you and His Grace could work things out?”
I want children.
Edie’s hands clenched around the handbag in her lap so tightly her fingers began to ache. “There is no possibility of that, Mr. Keating. What if I leave him? Can he force me back? Can he force me to . . . to . . .” She paused, for she could not articulate her deepest fear. She simply could not. She could only stare helplessly at the lawyer, her face growing hot, her panic growing deeper.
Thankfully, Mr. Keating understood her question without further elucidation. “That’s a nebulous area of law, I’m afraid. As your husband, he has certain rights.” The lawyer gave a cough. “Rights of a conjugal nature.”
A roar began in Edie’s ears. The smooth leather back of her chair suddenly felt like the hard stone wall of a summerhouse. She heard the rending of delicate muslin drawers, and the sound of her own sobs. The scent of Frederick’s bourbon-laced breath and eau de cologne hit her nostrils, and bile rose in her throat.
She lurched to her feet, and the room began to spin. Her handbag fell to the floor with a thud as she grasped for the edge of the desk to steady herself.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Keating jumped up. “Are you all right?” He circled the desk to come to her aid, but when he put a hand beneath her elbow, she pulled away.
“Of course,” Edie lied, stepping out from the confined space between her chair and the lawyer’s desk. “I just felt a bit light-headed for a moment,” she said as she walked toward the window. “I’m perfectly well now, but I feel the need to move about a bit. It helps me think. Please, do sit down.”
Mr. Keating picked up her handbag for her and put it on the desk, then he returned to his seat as Edie stood by the window. It was a hot August day in London, which meant the air wasn’t at its most pleasant, but she didn’t mind that, for the odors of the city smothered those of bourbon and cologne. She stood there for several moments, taking slow, deep breaths.
“I can’t live with my husband,” she said at last, and turned from the window. “How can I prevent it?”
“The only sure way is a legal separation of bed and board. Financial freedom is not a factor in your case, of course, but a legal separation would enable you to live apart without the censure of society.”
In command of herself once again, but still restless, Edie walked to the opposite end of the room, where a wall of shelves was lined with legal volumes and deed boxes. “Would we need to have the court validate such a separation?”
“No. Private deeds of separation are fairly common.”
“How quickly could you draw one up, Mr. Keating?”
“In a matter of days. But there are several things you must keep in mind, Your Grace. First, a private separation would probably be valid only as long as you remain chaste. If you were ever to take a lover, the duke could proclaim your adultery and invalidate the agreement.”
“That will not be an issue.”
“Quite so, quite so,” he hastened to say. “But Your Grace, I’m not certain you appreciate the loneliness that comes to separated wives—”
“My husband was gone for five years,” she interrupted. “I can assure you, I know what separation entails.”
Mr. Keating opened his mouth, looking as if to say more on the subject, but something in her expression must have told him to let it go. “Very well, but one other problem still remains.”
“What’s that?”
“He would have to agree. Without his consent, no legal separation is possible without a court proceeding. As we’ve discussed, no court is likely to rule in your favor without sufficient grounds.”
Edie sighed. “And just how am I to persuade him to consent?”
But even as she asked the question, Edie thought of the resolute gravity of Stuart’s face, and she feared there was no answer. Still, she had to try, for he wanted what she could not give.
“Draw up that separation agreement, Mr. Keating,” she said, striding to the desk to pick up her handbag. “I’ll persuade him to sign it,” she added as she turned away. “I don’t know how, but I will find a way.”
How she managed to speak with such surety, Edie didn’t know, but, thankfully, it was not Mr. Keating’s place to point out futilities. He nodded, and with that, she started for the door. Her stride was rapid, for she felt the need to move, to walk, to escape the chains she could feel tightening around her. Mr. Keating’s voice stopped her before she could depart.
“Your Grace?”
She paused to look over her shoulder a
t the man who had been in charge of her private legal affairs since her engagement. “Yes?”
“Are you sure this is what you really want?”
“What I want is to be free, Mr. Keating. Free to control my own life. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. This is as close as I shall be able to get, it seems.”
With that, she left, closing the door behind her.
UPON LEAVING MR. KEATING'S offices, Edie did not hail a hansom to return her to her hotel. She and Joanna were meeting her friend Lady Trubridge for tea, but that wasn’t for an hour, and Edie was glad.
Just now, she felt like a panicked bird fluttering around a closed room, banging at the windows and yet never able to find a way out, no matter how she tried. She needed time for that panic to pass. She needed time to think.
She crossed Trafalgar Square, walked up Northumberland Avenue, and started up the Embankment along the river. It was a hot afternoon, but she walked at a rapid clip, scarcely noticing the sultry air, the dank smell of the river, or the lack of any breeze.
The only thing she noticed was the desperation that clawed at her insides. Thousands of miles apart and six years away, but the shadow of Frederick Van Hausen seemed to hover right beside her. She quickened her steps along the Embankment, faster and faster, until she was practically running, even though she knew one could not outrun a memory. One could not outrun fear. At least, she’d never been able to.
She stopped at last beside Cleopatra’s Needle, panting, sweaty, her sides aching so badly in the tight confines of her corset that she simply could not go any farther without a rest. She glanced around, and when she spied a bench there overlooking the river, she sank onto it, wondering in despair what she was going to do.
She could not live with Stuart, or any man. Just the thought of it was almost more than she could bear. Other women felt arousal, welcomed lovemaking, wanted children. But inside of her, such desires were dead, killed by a brutal act and a brutish man, and though she’d scrubbed herself raw afterward, she’d been unable to wash it away. She’d told no one, but she’d been unable to prevent the gossip about her, though how it had started, she still didn’t know. They’d been seen going in, or coming out, or Frederick had bragged, or—oh, hell, what did it matter now? The damage was done, and it could never be undone.
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 8
