“Yes, Your Grace,” Whitney said solemnly.
The duke marched up the steps like a soldier going into battle, leaving his wife and servants behind him. With no more than a flick of his hand, Whitney began issuing orders to the various footmen who had quietly appeared shortly after the coach arrived.
Whitney then turned to her, sympathy in his green, kind eyes. “It is the duke’s habit to seek solitude shortly after arriving.”
“Is it truly?”
“Yes, Your Grace. After his brother left for America and he lost his parents to influenza, he’s never been quite the same.”
“In what way?”
Whitney shook his head. “It is not my place to explain the duke or his actions, but I simply wanted to reassure you that it is not unusual for him to want time alone.”
Normally she would agree, but immediately following his wedding? When his new bride stood at the threshold?
“How often has he brought a wife home?” she asked testily. “And left her on the steps like so much discarded baggage?”
“He is a complex man, Your Grace.”
“He is likely to find his wife is equally complex.”
“May I show you to your quarters?” Whitney asked.
She took a deep breath. She had no business turning her anger on Whitney when she wanted to lash out at her husband. It made no sense for him to abandon her.
She couldn’t help but believe that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Robert sat in a plush, ornate burgundy chair facing the bed where his mother had once slept. Just as he had disappointingly discovered in the town house in London, he could find little evidence of her here now: her scent no longer lingered, her laughter no longer echoed, the soft lullabies she’d once sung to him were silent. No clothes remained for him to touch. It was as though she’d never been, yet memories of her had sustained him during his years of isolation.
He had well and truly belonged more to her than to his father. She’d been the one who guided him, counseled him, advised him. His father’s influence had been there as well, but it was his mother he had always strived to please. His mother who had smiled at the wildflowers he’d picked and given her—smiled as though they’d come from the most elaborate of gardens. It was his mother for whom he’d drawn pictures. His mother whose approval he had always sought and found.
How could he now move another woman into this room? How could he himself take up residence in his father’s bedchamber? To do so would truly acknowledge that they were no longer alive.
For eight years he’d prayed he was but living in a nightmare, that he would escape from it and discover his parents were still living. But the nightmare merely continued beyond the walls of Pentonville.
He had little doubt that John had already made their father’s bedchamber his own. Perhaps Robert would find comfort and strength by sleeping in the bed where his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and all who had come before him had once slept. There was tradition there. Good, strong men who had served king, queen, and country. Men of destiny. Men of duty. Men of loyalty.
He had been raised within their shadows, while John apparently had been raised beyond their influence.
With a sigh, Robert dropped his head back, closed his eyes. He was exhausted, pretending to be his brother’s version of himself. It was insane.
He should go to the Lord High Chancellor, declare his right to the dukedom—but how to prove that he was in fact Robert? It would be one brother’s word against another.
It was a worry for tomorrow, when he was refreshed.
His wife was safely ensconced in another wing of the manor, and he could find all sorts of reasons to avoid her, and he must do so at all costs. She enchanted him with her stories and her smiles and her wretched innocence that he could so easily destroy with the truth. He had to avoid the one person who might know John well enough to reveal Robert’s charade—which wasn’t really a charade.
In truth, he was Robert Hawthorne, Duke of Killingsworth. But to her, he would be an impostor, because he was not the man she loved, the man she’d promised to marry.
And that, too, was a worry for tomorrow.
For tonight he wanted nothing more than to sleep again in a comfortable bed, surrounded by warmth and familiarity.
Tonight the true Duke of Killingsworth was home.
Chapter 9
Torie stood before the window, the heavy velvet drapes drawn aside so she could gaze out on the night while servants puttered about putting away her things. It was a lovely room, a bit musty from lack of use, but still lovely.
The burgundy wallpaper was decorated with tiny white flowers. Burgundy seemed to be the preferred color in the manor, along with a dark hunter’s green. And gold and silver and white. The ceilings she’d viewed on the journey to her bedchamber very nearly took her breath away. Each was a series of squares. In the wide hallway leading to the bedchambers, each square had held a carved ivory cameo. In this room, angels surrounded by various flowers or relaxing in gardens were painted on each square.
A thick burgundy velvet comforter covered the bed, and the velvet canopy had been pulled aside. With chairs, tables, and a fainting couch, this bedchamber was designed to make a female guest feel welcome.
Unfortunately the fire lit in the marble fireplace did nothing to diminish the chill surrounding Torie’s heart. Had Robert simply been toying with her all day, appeasing her by asking for stories of her youth? What maniacal game was he playing? To kiss her with such wild abandon, only to relinquish her beyond his sight once they arrived?
What had she done wrong? Why was he casting her aside?
“We’re finished, Your Grace,” Charity said quietly. “Would you like me to help prepare you for bed?”
Trying to hold on to her pride, she faced her maid of only a few years. The girl’s eyes contained sadness. Pity, even. How mortifying that all would know that her husband didn’t want her.
“Not yet,” she said kindly, smiling warmly, pretending she wasn’t mystified by her husband’s actions.
Charity furrowed her brow more deeply. “Shall I fetch you something to eat?”
“No, thank you. I think I’m going to take a stroll.”
“But it’s dark.”
“I’ll ask Whitney to locate a lantern I can use.”
“I thought I heard thunder earlier.”
“I’ll be fine, Charity. And like my husband, I need a bit of time alone.”
Robert felt like a ghost, ambling through the family wing, opening a door, going inside a room, inhaling sharply the familiar scents, touching an heirloom, a statuette, a bauble, searching, searching for what he’d possessed before. His brother had taken far more from him than he’d realized. Not just the years that could never be recaptured, but the memories, moments spent in this house with his family.
Of course, he’d not had an opportunity to attend his parents’ funeral. Tomorrow he would visit the family mausoleum. Offer his respects. It would be a moment of self-indulgence, taking the time to grieve. He wasn’t certain that he’d truly accepted that his parents were gone. When he was in London, it had seemed that they were merely at Hawthorne House. Now it seemed as though they were merely in London.
Perhaps that was the reason he’d felt the need to hurry home. He’d thought to find them. But they weren’t here. He could chase all over the world, and he’d never again see them.
He brought his journey to an end at the bedchamber that had once belonged to him. He wasn’t quite ready to move into his father’s bedchamber, but if John had already moved into that room, how would Robert explain his sleeping in his old room?
For nostalgia’s sake. Simple enough. Whitney wouldn’t question him. No servant would question him. After all, he was lord of the manor. Their positions were dependent on their ability to keep their master’s behavior private.
He had his hand on the doorknob when he heard the light patter of feet on the stairs. The steps echoed with a cad
ence that brought back memories, and he knew whom he would see emerge at the landing.
Whitney appeared, just as Robert had known he would. A bit slower, a little breathless, but his feet still carried the quick, determined step as always.
“Your Grace, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you should know that the duchess has yet to return.”
Robert combed his fingers through his hair, still surprised to find it so much shorter. Then he angled his head slightly as though he thought the action might help him decipher Whitney’s statement. “I’m sorry, Whitney. I don’t understand. Return from where?”
“The duchess went out over an hour ago. She said she wished to take a walk around the grounds.”
“At night?” He looked at the large windows that allowed sunlight and moonlight to spill into the end of the hallway. Lightning flashed, and he knew thunder would soon rumble. “It’s raining,” he said, somewhat mystified.
“Yes, Your Grace. It wasn’t when the duchess departed, but I fear she might have become lost. She seemed distraught, distracted. She took a lantern, but little else.”
“A lantern? But if she was walking the grounds, there are lights…” He let his voice trail off. He shouldn’t be discussing or revealing his doubts regarding his wife’s actions with a servant. Even one as trusted as Whitney.
“Rouse the servants. Gather some more lanterns. Have some horses readied. We’ll need to go in search of her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Robert walked to the end of the hallway and looked out the window into the night. Was he responsible for his wife’s wandering off? Was his avoiding her, delegating her to a bedchamber in the other wing responsible?
Of course. She had to be devastated by his inattention. What wife wanted to be told that she wasn’t welcome in the family wing?
She’d married him in good faith, and he’d been so concerned with his own needs that he’d failed to consider hers. He could be the duke she deserved even if he couldn’t be the husband. He could be a friend, if not a lover.
He hurried down the wide, sweeping, marble-inlaid stairs. “Whitney!”
The butler appeared almost immediately after Robert reached the foyer. He was holding a coat and helped Robert put it on.
“Have my wife’s things moved into the duchess’s bedchamber.”
“Into your mother’s chamber?”
“My mother is gone, Whitney. We have a new Duchess of Killingsworth.”.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to having her things moved immediately. I assume you’ll be sleeping in your father’s bedchamber…as usual.”
He studied Whitney, trying to determine if the man was questioning him or offering him a hint as to what was normal for this household. Did he suspect that Robert didn’t know?
He couldn’t suspect. He was simply…
Robert was tired, weary. He didn’t want to try to guess others’ actions or put more weight behind the words than they deserved.
“Yes, Whitney. The Duke and Duchess of Killingsworth will sleep in their respective bedchambers.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Those who will help in the search are awaiting your arrival at the stables.”
“Thank you, Whitney.” He turned toward the door.
“It’s good to have you home, sir.”
He stopped and without looking back, because he feared the butler would see the truth of the situation in his eyes, he said quietly, “It’s good to be home.”
Then he rushed out into the storm.
There was no hope for it. Torie was completely lost.
She’d become so absorbed in her thoughts that she’d paid little attention to the road she was traveling—or the road she wasn’t traveling, more like it. That was the crux of the problem. She’d left the paved path, wandered into a forest, and now with dark clouds blocking the moon, she was hopelessly lost. To make matters worse, an unexpected storm had arrived, and she was soaked to the bone, the damp chill adding to her misery.
She was surrounded by trees, and her lantern shed so little light that she could see only a short distance in front of her. She pressed her back to a tree and slid to the ground, unable to hold back the tears. She’d never felt so uncared for, so unwanted, so miserable.
Whatever had become of the man who had laughed gaily with her? She’d apparently not known Killingsworth well, but she certainly felt as though she’d known him better before the wedding ceremony than after. Why had he banished her to a distant corner of the house? His actions made absolutely no sense.
This was to be their wedding trip, a time when they grew closer, consummated their marriage vows. Yet she instigated every conversation, every kiss, for that matter. She rambled on about her life, her dreams, her favorite color while he did nothing more than sit and watch her, as though she were a specimen in a jar.
All the doubts she’d experienced yesterday morning were once again with her, doubling, tripling. How could she fall in love with him if she wasn’t spending time with him? How was she to know him better if he did nothing but ask her questions and provide no answers? And how the devil could he be a proper husband if he was never around her?
Was she to meekly accept his treatment of her or rail against it?
His behavior was baffling. Not at all what she expected of a man who had sought her out. Not that it mattered. She’d probably expire there on the spot from cold and chills. Never knowing what it was to lie with a man for whom she felt great affection.
She wanted to live and be loved. And while she’d heard that the reality of marriage to a peer was more often than not disappointing, she’d held out hope that hers would be one of the few to be envied. She didn’t want to settle for complacent. She wanted excitement, emotion, passion.
She heard a distant sound like horse’s hooves splashing in the deepening puddles over the ground, and she saw lights bobbing in the night.
“Victoria!”
She recognized the voice. It belonged to her husband. She didn’t know why she was incredibly surprised that he’d come searching for her, but she was. And relieved. Maybe she meant something to him after all. Maybe he’d spoken true. He simply needed to be alone for a bit. But what odd timing. Immediately after your wedding. Those should be the moments when you didn’t want to be alone.
“Victoria!”
Whatever his reasons for his earlier behavior, he’d come after her now, and she was grateful for it. She struggled to her feet and raised the lantern high. “Here! I’m here!”
Then the rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, the clouds moved beyond the moon, and she saw the outline of the riders. She had no trouble at all distinguishing her husband from the others. It was simply the way he carried himself. A regal air. No one would ever mistake him for a peasant.
He dismounted quickly and strode up to her, removing his heavy coat as he approached. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I…I went for a walk and it started to rain and I got lost.”
He tossed his coat around her shoulders before he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her up against him where the warmth lingering in his coat and the warmth of his body began to chase away the chill in hers. He felt incredibly good, sturdy, and strong.
“I was so worried,” he said, his head bent, his lips near her ear. “You gave me such a fright.”
Although that hadn’t been her intention, she was a bit ashamed to realize that she was glad that she had. If he was worried, then he had to care.
“I’m sorry. I simply had to get away, to think. Robert, what have I done wrong? Why do you no longer want me?”
She felt his arms tighten around her, almost crushing her in the process.
“I do want you,” he rasped. “But if I’m not careful, I’ll hurt you.”
“I’m not so delicate that I can’t be touched.”
She heard a low growl, but she didn’t think it was a beast of the forest, rather she thought it was her husband.
He pulled back. “We need to
get you home, get you warm.”
He lifted her into his arms, walked over to his horse, and with the help of another man placed her on the saddle and mounted behind her. His arms came around her as he reached for the reins. The horse began walking, and she found herself leaning in to her husband.
“I’ve had your things moved to the family wing,” he said solemnly, “to the bedchamber next to mine.”
“But you don’t want me there.”
“You belong there. I was wrong to think other wise.”
“I know you don’t love me, Robert, but I always thought you at least liked me, that you were interested in more than my dowry.”
“We’ll talk when we reach the manor and your teeth are no longer clattering.”
His voice contained a bit of anger and chastisement, and she found herself grateful for that as well. As long as he exhibited some sort of emotion, all was not lost.
It was a gorgeous bedchamber. The one that belonged to the mistress of the manor. A fire was burning on the hearth. Behind a silk screen, in a copper tub, a heated bath had been prepared.
Her husband had carried her up the sweeping staircase as though she weighed nothing in his arms, in spite of her weak protests that she could walk. The truth was, nestled against him, she’d rather enjoyed being carried into this room.
He’d set her on the bed, their damp clothing serving as a magnet between them, each soaking up the other’s warmth. Leaving behind the scent of rain, he’d exited through the door on the opposite side of the room, a door that no doubt led into the changing room and from there into his bedchamber. She’d heard him call for Witherspoon right before the door shut securely behind him.
While her maid was preparing her, his valet was preparing him. Perhaps in a very short time, she would discover if her mother had judged the duke’s virility accurately—she would learn if he was quick or slow. And while her mother claimed that quickly was best, Torie couldn’t help but believe that going slowly might be more enjoyable. It might allow for a savoring much like her bath.
While her body had luxuriated in the hot water, she’d thought about how lovely it had been that morning to awaken in his arms. She wondered if he might stay with her after they made love, if she might fall asleep in those very arms.
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