She studied his expression to see if he was merely humoring her. Satisfied, she explained. "What happens here, between married men and women is outrageous. Here in London, a lady may take a lover and, if she is discreet, still remain respectable. That would never happen in Annapolis." She looked at the stern, implacable face of the man she loved. "For me, marriage means one man, forever."
He looked down at the still beauty of her face, her eyes brimming with emotion. Where could he find the words to dispel her fears?
"Tess," he said gently. "I'm thirty years old. It would be a remarkable thing if you were the first woman I'd taken to bed." He turned her face so that she looked directly at him. "You are, however, the only woman I have ever asked to marry me. Our marriage, unlike most of the ton, is a love match." He kissed her nose. "What I'm trying to tell you, my heart, is that for me, marriage means only you."
Tess was unprepared for the surging relief that left her weak. She clung to him as if he were her only strength in the world. When his mouth claimed hers and his hands moved over her breasts, she responded with a passion he had never known before.
"You are everything I've ever wanted," he murmured, his voice shaken. "There isn't a man in London, or the entire world for that matter, who wouldn't give up everything to be here in my place."
She smiled against his throat. Burrowing her head in his shoulder, she slept.
Chapter 18
As the weeks went by and news of Wellington's losses in Europe became public, Tess noticed a change in her husband. She couldn't be sure exactly when it began, but she knew James was avoiding her. His days were spent at Westminster or closeted in his study and she had no idea where he spent his nights. He came and went at odd hours and it was obvious, when they did meet, that he had been drinking. Something serious was troubling him. When she asked him to confide in her, he brushed her questions aside, accusing her of an overly active imagination. Hurt, she withdrew behind a curtain of silence, closing off all further communication.
Tess wasn't the only one who noticed a change in the duke of Langley. Lord Castlereagh was also worried. The tight, angry look that had been on James's face, after he returned from Spain and before his marriage, was back again. The foreign minister thought he knew what the problem was, but it had to be brought out in the open. He arranged a meeting with the Prime Minister.
"Why must we meet here, of all places?" Liverpool tightened both hands around his walking stick and looked around with obvious distaste. "Does Devereaux want every prizefighter in the nation to witness our conversation?"
Castlereagh grinned. "I should think you would be grateful that James was capable of frequenting Cribb's Parlor once again."
The Prime Minister smiled one of his rare smiles. "He did have a punishing right, didn't he? I'll wager James had the advantage of some of the best prizefighters in England." The smile faded. "But that was before Badajos. What is he up to, Castlereagh?"
"I'm as much in the dark as you are."
Liverpool lifted his quizzing glass to his eye. "I say, isn't that Tom Cribb? Where in the devil is James?" He grabbed the sleeve of Castlereagh's coat. "The crowd is bound to get ugly. Is he mad, suggesting that we meet here?"
His words were drowned out by catcalls and whistles from the crowd. Tom Cribb, accompanied by his seconds, waved and threw his hat. Then he stepped into the ring. The crowd cheered.
A young man in top form and stripped to the waist, joined his opponent. Taller than Cribb, he had the lean grace of a seasoned cavalryman. Cribb, with his pugilist's frame, looked awkward in comparison. Castlereagh caught his breath. Accompanying him into the ring was James Devereaux.
"What the—?" Liverpool stood, but Castlereagh detained him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, my friend. Let us wait this one out."
"What does he have to prove?" The Prime Minister asked in amazement.
"More than either of us know, m'lord," answered Castlereagh. "Perhaps James believes that he has nothing left of himself."
Both men breathed a sigh of relief as James spoke earnestly to the young amateur and stepped back outside of the ring.
The fight began in earnest. The younger man hit Cribb in the chin with his right and the champion went down. He was up again on the count of three, and after a fierce struggle threw his opponent to the ground. Now, the newcomer was up and threw a flush hit to Cribb's mouth. The crowd roared. Blood flowed from his cut lip. Both bodies gleamed with sweat. Liverpool closed his eyes in resignation and waited for the inevitable outcome.
At the end of the agreed-upon six rounds, both men were still up. The crowd went wild. At no time in Tom Cribb's illustrious career had an amateur lasted the distance against him. With a wide grin on his face, the challenger threw his arms around James who was now in the ring again and lifted him into the air. The bystanders cheered.
Again, Liverpool breathed a sigh of relief and stretched out his aching fingers. He hadn't realized his hands had been clenched the entire time.
Moments later, Devereaux joined Castlereagh and the Prime Minister at a small table in the corner of the tavern. His hair and face were damp as if he had just come out of the rain. He looked young and gay and unusually proud of himself.
"Well done, James," Castlereagh said, his eyes shining with excitement. "I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."
"Whatever possessed you, lad?" Liverpool surveyed the younger man's face.
Devereaux's smile flashed white in the dim tavern light. "I may no longer be able to spar myself, but I can help others who wish to take up the sport. I haven't felt so alive since I left Spain." He looked from Liverpool to Castlereagh. "Why are you here, gentlemen?"
The Prime Minister drew a deep breath. "It has to do with Spain and the rest of Europe," he explained. "Wellington's plan is terrifying the Whigs. We need your help in Vienna, James. It is vital that we convince the European powers to remain in Portugal with the general. As soon as the American problem is settled, our troops will relieve them."
"I've sold out," Devereaux replied, his eyes hard as stone. He lifted his glass to his lips and swallowed a long draught. "And what is more to the point, I believe you already know what I think of your foreign policy."
"Damn it, James," Liverpool's fist slammed down on the table. "I need you. England needs you. Why must you be so stubborn?" He looked from Devereaux to the tall, thin man sitting quietly by his side. "Help me, Castlereagh. You have more influence than I."
The foreign minister rubbed his chin thoughtfully before speaking. "I don't think James can be persuaded this time, m'lord. He hasn't forgiven us for allying ourselves with the rest of Europe."
"Do you mean to tell me he is sulking because he didn't get his way?" Liverpool's horrified expression would have been comical had the matter not been so serious.
Castlereagh grinned. "Exactly."
"My thanks, gentlemen," interrupted Devereaux, "for maligning my character and misinterpreting my motives."
"What is it then?" asked Castlereagh. "Why do you refuse to leave England?"
"My reasons are my own," the wooden expression on the duke's face hardened still further.
"That isn't good enough, m'lord," the Prime Minister's blustery voice softened. "I need time to replace you. Wellington won't accept just anyone. He trusts you. If you're bluffing, I need to know it now. Lay your cards on the table, James. Perhaps we can work something out."
Devereaux dropped his eyes and stared down at the mug of ale on the table. A year ago he had agreed to be Wellington's messenger. The general would retreat to Portugal to await the end of the American conflict. At this very moment, English troops, now stationed in France, were being deployed across the Atlantic to join Admiral Cochrane. After securing the United States, the full power of the British military would concentrate on winning the war in Europe.
Originally, he had supported the plan. But that was before Tess. He had tried, for her sake, to find a peaceful solution to t
he war in America, without compromising his obligation to Wellington. He had been unsuccessful. She wouldn't blame him for that. She would, however, never forgive him for supporting this betrayal of her country.
He looked up to face the foreign secretary and the Prime Minister. Castlereagh and Liverpool, the two most powerful political figures in the country, perhaps even in all of Europe, men who had it in their power to ordain the course of history. He couldn't help them. And all because of a woman. Irrational resentment swept through him.
His voice was tight and angry. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I can do nothing for you. Contrary to what you may believe, my reasons have nothing to do with England's alliance with Russia and Austria. I still maintain that autocratic powers who care little for their own people have nothing of value to offer us. But that has nothing to do with my decision. My excuse is a personal one." Pushing back his chair, he stood up. Without saying good-bye, he crossed the room and walked out the door.
"What the devil was that all about?" Liverpool asked.
Lord Castlereagh stared at the door for several moments without answering. Finally he spoke. "I think his lordship finds himself in somewhat of a dilemma. For a long time, he has managed to keep his position on the fence. Now he must make his choice."
"Go on," the Prime Minister demanded.
"His wife is an American."
Liverpool exploded. "What has that got to do with anything? She is now married to an English duke. A woman's loyalties should be to her husband."
Castlereagh thought of his own intelligent, opinionated wife, and grinned. "You don't know the duchess very well, do you, my lord?"
"I don't know her at all," Liverpool roared. "But I'll be damned if I will allow her to dictate the affairs of British government."
The dark eyes narrowed with laughter. "By all means," replied Castlereagh. "Be sure to tell her that. And please, invite me to watch when you do."
The scowl on the Prime Minister's face faded to a reluctant grin. He stood up and pushed in his chair. "Do you think I can't handle a slip of a woman?" he demanded. "Is that it?"
"I admire your resolution, sir," Castlereagh answered with a straight face. "You are an example to us all."
* * *
Devereaux intended to walk the twelve blocks to Grosvenor Square but the pain in his leg wouldn't allow it. Cursing, he waved down a hackney and proceeded to castigate himself for putting his weak limb through such punishment. He needed an outlet for his anger. Wherever he looked, there was none.
When he arrived at the door of his own home, he was almost relieved to find Lord William Fitzpatrick helping Tess from her carriage. Lamplight shone down on her fair hair. She looked up at Fitzpatrick and smiled. James did not miss the tender look on the man's face as he responded. Rage, primitive and uncontrollable, surged through him.
"May I ask where you've been with my wife?" The words were spoken softly, but the meaning was clear.
The obvious hostility in his voice startled Tess. She studied his face. He couldn't be drunk. He had spoken quite clearly. His movements were perfectly normal but there was a terrifying purpose in his eyes.
"William and I have been driving in the park, James," she said. "You said you would take me, but since you weren't here and William was, I went with him instead."
"Have I been ignoring you, my love?" The irony in his tone was laced with anger.
William moved protectively nearer to Tess. James's fists clenched.
Tess stared at him, her forehead creased in a frown. "Why don't we go inside," she suggested. "I'm cold and it's getting late."
"An excellent idea." James moved to the door. "Good night, Fitzpatrick."
"Would you like company, Tess?" William's face was set with anger.
Devereaux's words cracked like a whip. "You aren't welcome here, m'lord. Don't meddle in my affairs and keep away from my wife."
Tess looked at them both in exasperation. "Please go, William," she begged. "This isn't the place for a scene."
"I'm not leaving you now," William insisted stubbornly. "He's obviously drunk."
"Please," she pleaded. "I'll be all right."
Reluctantly, William stepped away and walked down the street. Devereaux rang the bell and waited, in controlled rage, for Tess to precede him into the house.
"I think I'll dine upstairs tonight, James," she said, after handing her coat to Litton. "I'm very tired."
"Do as you please," answered James, turning away. "Litton," he called out. "Bring a bottle of port to my study."
"James!" Tess's alarmed voice stopped him. "Won't you tell me what is disturbing you?"
His shoulders slumped and he turned back to answer her. Her heart went out to him.
His face was haggard and his eyes burned with anger, but his voice was completely flat when he spoke. "I gave my word to a man I respect more than anyone else on earth. Now, I'm forced to break it, because the woman I love more than life itself, refuses to understand that I am an Englishman. Not even for you, my love, can I change my loyalties."
Her eyes were the color of liquid silver. She lifted her chin and met his glance, contempt etched in every feature of her lovely face.
"Does keeping your word mean blockading Annapolis, m'lord? Does it mean soldiers burning our farms and frightening our people so that it is no longer safe to walk the streets of our cities? Does it mean British control of our ports and British flags flying over our government buildings?" Her voice cracked. "You made a promise to me as well, James. Do what you must, but never expect me to give you permission to end the existence of my country."
She turned and started up the stairs to her room. Halfway up, she heard heavy footsteps on the marble entry and the door slam.
James had gone out. Straightening to her full height, she bit her lip and walked the rest of the way to her room.
Dressed in a burgundy velvet robe with her hair hanging down her back, she sat by the fire and faced her fears. James was miserable. She had known it for some time. Part of it was her fault. She was afraid of losing him, but had no idea how to prevent it. His restlessness, his distracted air, and now the drinking, proved it. He was a man whose energies should be taken up with government affairs. Now, that he had married her, that was denied to him. Only two things mattered to Tess. The preservation of a way of life that was as necessary to her as breathing, and keeping her husband's love.
She closed her eyes and remembered the blissful feel of his arms closing around her. Sighing, she stood up and removed her robe. Climbing into bed, she pulled the covers over her. Where was James? she wondered. Images of Marjorie Weatherby's beautiful face flitted through her mind. She drifted into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 19
At dinner, the next night, Tess was very aware of her husband sitting across from her. He had promised to escort her to Lady Bridgewater's ball, but she knew that if Georgiana hadn't been going as well, he would have cried off.
It was the first time in several weeks that the entire family had gathered together. Devereaux was unusually charming and well mannered. His flowing conversation and witty anecdotes were as effective a screen as his former icy aloofness. Tess wanted to scream and throw her soup at him, anything to wipe the smug arrogance from his handsome face.
Her fingers curled around her fork in a desperate grip. "Perhaps you have something else you would rather do this evening, James," she suggested. The sweetness of her words was in direct contrast to the fury flashing from her winter-grey eyes.
"Nonsense," he replied. "There is nothing else I would rather do than escort the two loveliest ladies in London to a ball."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite." He smiled mockingly. "Come, Tess. First you complain that I ignore you and now you can hardly wait to be rid of me."
"James." Leonie's shocked voice interrupted them. "Tess merely asked you a question. What has come over you?"
His eyes glittered. "Nothing, Mother. Nothing at all."
Against her better
judgment, Tess attended the Bridgewater ball. Pain over her husband's coldness and anxiety over the war weakened her calm control. She was tense, strung tightly like the string of a bow, waiting for the exact moment when too much pressure was applied and she would snap.
Devereaux disappeared almost immediately into the card room. William Fitzpatrick watched him leave and crossed the room to stand by her side.
"Good lord, Tess, you look dreadful."
"Thank you, William. You can't imagine how cheerful that makes me feel."
"Do you have a headache?" he asked. "Let me find a carriage to take you home."
Touched by the concern in his voice, she smiled and placed her hand on his arm. "It's nothing, really. I'll be fine."
"Will you tell me what is bothering you? Perhaps I can help."
"No one can help."
They were interrupted by Lord Burrell. "How are you, Your Grace?" he bellowed. "You promised to ride in the park with me but every time I call, you aren't home. Is that any way to treat an old man?"
Tess truly liked him, but at that moment she was in no mood to listen to an aging war hero extol the glories of the British army. His loud voice grated on her sensitive nerves.
"I haven't been feeling well, m'lord." Her clear voice carried to others around them. "I'm concerned about the state of my country. I'm an American, or have you forgotten?"
Out of the corner of her eye she could see that James had come out of the card room. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest, watching her silently.
"My dear child," protested Lord Burrell. "I don't think of you as an American. You are the duchess of Langley." He glanced nervously around the room, looking for a chance to escape. "If you will excuse me," he said, backing away. "I must see our hostess."
Tess looked around at the glittering assembly, dismissing the haughty, jewel-laden ladies and elegant gentlemen in their knee breeches and black coats. Her gaze focused on her husband's lean, powerful figure. Something snapped inside of her. The smoldering fury of her rage erupted at last.
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