Granted, he’d improvised his way into spending the coming ten days with her at Highclyffe, which was certainly preferable to chasing her hither and yon. At Highclyffe, there was privacy, and shared memories together—a few anyway. But he only had ten days, and he knew he would need to use every single minute to his best advantage. But as he stared out the carriage window and pondered what his strategy for those precious days ought to be, he found himself rather at a loss.
Looking back, he appreciated with some chagrin that his luck with the fair sex had made him quite cocky as a young man. That is, before one determined girl with cool green eyes and an even cooler heart had come along and shredded his rather high opinion of himself and his appeal. No, his experience with other women had never been of much use in dealing with Edie, and he doubted it would be enough to win her over now. If he was going to seduce her, he’d need far more than the shallow tactics he’d employed with women in his salad days.
The hansom cab jerked to a halt, and he came out of these speculations to find himself in front of White’s. He exited the cab, grimacing as he did so, for thanks to all the time he’d been spending in hansom cabs and trains, his leg hurt like the devil, and he wished he’d walked the mile from the Savoy to White’s. Still, it was nothing a second whisky and soda wouldn’t alleviate.
He paid off the driver and went into the bar of the club, where he acquired a drink, hooked his walking stick over the arm of a comfortable leather chair, and sat down. Propping his right leg onto a footstool, he settled back to sip his whisky and contemplate what his next move ought to be.
Glancing around, he wondered what his fellow peers would think of his dilemma. Few, he suspected, would understand. Some would ask why he didn’t just enter his wife’s bedchamber, remind her of her duty, ignore her objections, and get on with producing the required heir. Others would regard it all as hard lines and advise him to find a mistress and let the dukedom fall to his brother. To his mind, the former had never been an option, and the latter was no option now.
This situation certainly wasn’t turning out as he’d envisioned during the journey home. His imaginings about what making a real marriage with Edie would be like had been based on the idea that she’d be over that other chap by now, and though that had seemed to be an accurate assumption on his part, it had also made no difference whatsoever. He cut no ice with Edie, he never had. Perhaps he never would.
That thought had barely gone through his mind before he shoved it out again. Contemplating failure was pointless, and he refused to do it. Instead, he concentrated on the one task before him, the only one he needed to worry about right now. He had ten days to persuade her to kiss him. If he could do that, he’d have all the time he needed to win her over properly.
Ten days to a kiss. How easy such a game would have seemed to him before he met her. But with Edie, it seemed rather on par with his ability to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. She wasn’t the sort to be paid a few compliments, plied with champagne, and carried upstairs, a fact for which he supposed he ought to be grateful since his days of carrying a woman anywhere were over. A bit of champagne wouldn’t hurt, of course, and might enable her to let down her guard a bit, but he needed more than that. He needed to ignite her desire. But how?
“Stuart?”
He turned to find the Marquess of Trubridge at his elbow, along with another gentleman he’d never seen before. Stuart set aside his drink and reached for his stick.
“Don’t stand up,” Nicholas said, as Stuart moved to rise. “It’s all right.”
Stuart ignored that. “Nick,” he greeted as he slid his leg off the footstool, grasped his stick, and rose to shake hands. “God, man, how long has it been?”
“Two years at least,” Nicholas answered as he accepted the handshake and gestured with the glass of whisky in his other hand to the lanky, brown-haired man beside him. “Are you acquainted with Dr. Edmund Cahill?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Then may I present him to you? Doctor, this is Stuart James Kendrick, the Duke of Margrave. He’s an old friend of mine from Eton days.”
“And from carousing around Paris together on occasion, so I’ve heard,” the doctor put in, smiling.
“Is it my reputation that precedes me?” Stuart asked Nicholas. “Or yours?”
“Yours,” his friend answered at once. “My carousing days are over.”
Stuart lifted his walking stick. “As are mine, I’m afraid. Please join me,” he added at once, before the usual awkward pause over his injured leg could occur.
The other two pulled chairs closer to his. Stuart shoved aside his footstool, ignoring the protests of the other two, and insisted a table be moved to the center of the group.
“I’ve read about some of your adventures in Africa from the newspapers, Your Grace,” Cahill told him once they were all comfortably settled and the drinks had been brought. “Quite a feat, navigating that stretch of the eastern Congo.”
“Not to mention finding a new species of butterfly,” Nicholas added. “God, I shall always envy you the scientific research you’ve done.”
“Most people only care about the hunting exploits,” Stuart told him wryly. “They want to hear about the elephants and the lions, not the butterflies.”
“Well, you’re among scientific-minded men at the moment,” Cahill said. “We understand the importance of insect life to the natural order. On the other hand,” he added, grinning beneath his thick brown mustache, “lions do seem much more exciting.”
“And dangerous from what I understand,” Nicholas murmured. “Sorry about the leg, old chap,” he added, taking a sip from his glass.
Stuart frowned at those words, for it wasn’t like Nick to thrust forward an awkward topic. “As I told you when I wrote, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. Safari and exploration work can be hazardous, and I always went into the bush half-expecting something of the sort. And I came out of it rather lucky.” He thought of Jones and took another swallow of whisky. It burned his throat. “At least I didn’t die.”
“Hear, hear,” Nick approved, lifting his glass to confirm that sentiment before he also took a drink. “But what about your leg? Still painful?”
“A bit stiff, but I can manage.”
“A muscular injury?” Cahill inquired in a voice so bland that Stuart was instantly suspicious.
“Forgive his curiosity,” Nicholas put in. “It’s professional. Dr. Cahill’s got a practice in Harley Street, and his specialty is injuries to the muscles.”
“Indeed?” Stuart muttered, glaring at his old friend. “What a coincidence that the pair of you happened to be here this afternoon at the same time as I.”
“Not a coincidence at all, actually,” Nicholas countered, grinning, oblivious to Stuart’s accusing stare. “I heard you were in town and staying here at the club when I arrived, and I immediately dispatched a note to Cahill here, begging him to abandon his other patients for the rest of the afternoon and join me. We’ve been lounging here about half an hour or so, waiting for you to stroll in.”
“Missed me that much have you, Nick? I wish I could say the same, but I never miss interfering, irritating friends who decide they know what’s best for me.”
“Cahill did wonders for my shoulder after Pongo shot me,” Nicholas went on, impervious to insults. “The man’s a marvel.”
“You flatter me, my lord,” Cahill murmured, shifting in his chair, looking a bit embarrassed by the marquess’s praise and this clearly unwelcome interference in his friend’s medical condition.
Nicholas, however, waved aside the doctor’s embarrassment as easily as he had Stuart’s irritation. “The thing is, Cahill, Margrave’s in pain. He won’t discuss it,” he added, overriding Stuart’s strenuous denial. “Can you do anything for him?”
“No, he can’t,” Stuart said before the doctor could answer. “I’ve c
onsulted two doctors already. The scar tissue is extensive, the pain has to be lived with, and there’s an end.”
Cahill gave a cough. “That’s not necessarily true. There are therapeutic techniques that can be employed to ease pain and increase your mobility.”
“What techniques? Soaking myself in mineral waters? One of my doctors recommended that, and though I tried the spas at Evian on my way home, it accomplished little except to ease the pain for a few hours.” He lifted his glass. “If that’s all I’m to get for my trouble, I’d rather soak in whisky.”
“Drinking is hardly an adequate remedy,” Nicholas objected.
“Well, I did consider cocaine and laudanum.” Stuart took another swallow, savoring the gratifying burn. “But whisky tastes better.”
“For God’s sake, man, if you’re in pain, becoming a dipsomaniac is hardly a solution. Something else must be done.”
“I’m not a dipsomaniac.” He took another swallow from his glass and grimaced. “Not yet, anyway. And even if I were, it’s not your business.”
“I’m bloody well making it my business.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Cahill cut in. “If an actual doctor might be allowed a word? Mineral baths can help, but as His Grace already concluded, they are an inadequate remedy. As for cocaine and laudanum, I know many doctors dispense them without a thought, but to my mind, their addictive properties make them undesirable options. And while I’ve nothing against a good whisky, I might be able to suggest a more effective course of treatment.”
“Such as?” Nicholas asked, ignoring Stuart’s groan of aggravation.
“That depends.” He looked at Stuart. “Do you find walking provides relief, Your Grace?”
“Yes, actually,” he was forced to admit. “Walking helps.”
“Then exercises to stretch and elongate the muscles could offer significant improvement, particularly if combined with massage and warm mineral baths. But I should have to do a complete examination before I could recommend any specific treatments.”
Stuart’s attention was caught at last. “I believe you might be able to help me after all, Doctor,” he said, straightening in his chair. “I should like you to conduct an examination, but I haven’t much time. I’m off to Norfolk tomorrow, so our consultation would have to be this evening. Will that do?”
“Of course. We could adjourn to my surgery after we’ve finished here.”
“Excellent.” Stuart leaned back in his chair again, and although he could feel his optimism returning, he knew possible treatments for his leg had nothing to do with it.
Chapter 9
THAT EVENING AFTER dressing for dinner, Edie sat down with Joanna and impressed upon her the importance of discretion. At least, she tried. Her sister, however, failed to see why informing Stuart of their whereabouts while in London had been a breach of discretion.
“He’s your husband, isn’t he?” Joanna countered, seeming understandably bewildered. “Aren’t husbands and wives supposed to know each other’s whereabouts? What if something happens?”
“Stuart and I are not . . . we’re not like other husbands and wives. We’re separated, as you know.”
“But he’s home now, and he wants to make amends.” Joanna looked down, plucking at the counterpane of Edie’s bed where they were sitting. “And he’s terribly nice. Handsome, too. Don’t you like him?”
“Darling, it’s not that simple,” she said with a sigh.
“He obviously still likes you. You must have liked him, too, when you married him. Can’t you try to like him again?”
“Not in the way you mean,” she said, the admission tasting strangely bitter on her tongue. She thought of the romantic girl she’d been before Saratoga, and as she had done that night in the maze with Stuart, she wondered what might have been. “When I was younger, perhaps, before—” She broke off, remembering who she was talking to.
“Before what? Before Frederick Van Hausen came along?”
“You know about that? But you were only eight.”
Joanna seemed surprised. “Of course. I remember Daddy shouting the house down about how Van Hausen would have to marry you because he’d ruined your reputation.”
If only that were all he’d ruined. Edie looked across the room at her dressing table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Suddenly, a wave of longing swept over her that she hadn’t felt for years, a longing for the things Frederick had stolen from her.
“Is that what you mean, Edie?” Joanna’s voice broke in. “I remember Daddy’s saying we’d have to come to England to find you a husband because your reputation was ruined. Oh!”
The exclamation was sudden, and Edie tensed as she saw understanding dawning in Joanna’s eyes. “Is that why you married Stuart? To salvage your reputation?”
Edie relaxed. “Yes, partly,” she answered. “It wasn’t for love,” she added, and though she saw the hint of disappointment in Joanna’s face, she was glad that she was the only one who’d suffered from her shame and disgrace. She had that consolation, at least. “Not everyone marries for love, dearest,” she said gently.
“I know.”
“And love is no guarantee of a successful marriage anyway. Some marriages work out, and some don’t. Ours . . . didn’t.”
“But you could try, couldn’t you?”
Could she? Edie tried to set aside the panicky feeling that always came with such contemplations and pondered that question as objectively as she could, but as she considered what it would mean, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s too late for that.”
“But I don’t understand this at all!” Joanna burst out. “Too late? You talk as if you’re old, and you’re not. You’re only twenty-four.”
“It’s not a question of age.” It was a question of fear, shame, and pain. She knew that, and though she hated having those emotions hanging over her like a shadow, she had long ago accepted them. At least, as her life was now, they hid, lurking but bearable, in the shadows. If she and Stuart had a real marriage, he would want, expect, and perhaps even demand access to her body whenever he liked, and she would not be able to bear that. “I am content with my life as it is, and I don’t want to change it. I’m happy, and I hope . . .” She paused and took her sister’s hand. “I need to know that whatever happens, you’ll stand by my decisions and respect them. Please tell me that no matter what, you’re on my side.”
“You’re my sister!” Joanna said stoutly. “Of course I’m on your side!”
The next morning, however, even that contention was to be called into question.
When they arrived at Victoria Station, Stuart was already on the platform waiting for them, and the sight of his tall frame amid the swirling steam of the train reminded her forcibly of when she’d see him at Clyffeton Station two days ago and he’d turned her life upside down. With his tanned skin and carved walking stick, he still had that air of the exotic man from foreign places, but this time, he wasn’t surrounded by stacks of steamer trunks and cases of crocodile leather. The only thing at his feet was an enormous picnic basket, and the letters stamped on the wicker proclaimed that basket to be every bit as British as plum pudding and Queen Victoria.
“Fortnum and Mason?” Joanna cried with delight, having also noted the inked F&M monogram on the side. “Ooh, Edie, look. Fortnum and Mason!”
“Yes, Joanna, I see it,” she answered, looking at her husband. “Bribery, Stuart?”
“You call it bribery. I call it lunch.” He doffed his hat and bowed. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, and bent to give the dog a pat. “Hullo, old boy.”
Snuffles, however, was living up to his name by an avid inspection of the picnic basket, and he gave Stuart’s greeting nothing more than a halfhearted wag of his docked tail. When the dog nudged the lid with his nose to try to lift it, Stuart bent down, wrapped a hand around the terrier’s middle, and
lifted him up. “No,” he said firmly. “That is definitely not for you.”
“I’ll take him, Your Grace.” Reeves stepped forward and suited the action to the words. “Best if I board and settle him in his crate anyway.”
“You’ll need your ticket.” Stuart tucked his stick under his arm and rummaged in the breast pocket of his gray herringbone-tweed morning coat. He pulled out four tickets and handed the one for second class to the maid. “Your lunch is taken care of. I’ve arranged for that.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Reeves, that staunch, efficient grenadier of a lady’s maid, tipped her lips upward in what looked suspiciously like a smile. Edie couldn’t believe her eyes.
“What have you done to my maid?” she demanded in a fierce whisper the moment Reeves was far enough away not to hear it.
“Edie, really,” he murmured, giving her a look of reproof. “As a gentleman, I couldn’t possibly answer such an inappropriate question.” With that, he donned his hat, brushed a speck of lint from his coat, and pulled his stick from under his arm, then turned his attention to the girl who was now following Snuffles’s example and attempting to have a peek in the picnic hamper. “Joanna, no peeking.”
She straightened at once. “But I love Fortnum and Mason! It’s my favorite store in London. Edie’s, too.”
“Is it?” He glanced at Edie, a smile tipping the corners of his mouth. “Fancy that.”
That smile was far too self-assured for her peace of mind. “You seem quite pleased with yourself this morning,” she remarked.
“And that bothers you?” His smile widened into a grin. “Starting to worry already, are you?”
“I’m not worried, I’m amused,” she said with dignity, and nodded to the hamper at his feet. “Do you really think you can wheedle your way into my affections with that picnic basket?”
“No,” he answered at once. “Which is why it’s not for you. It’s for Joanna.”
The girl gave a cry of delight. “For me? Ooh, how lovely!”
Edie met the laughter in Stuart’s eyes with a wry look. “I can’t believe that you are bribing my sister to be your partner in crime.”
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 12
