The Duke's Wicked Wife

by Elizabeth Bright

  “Riya,” he said again, and his voice was softer now. “Āmāra kācha thēkē pāliẏē gēlēna kēna?”

  Why did you run from me?

  Oh, dear.

  Chapter Nine

  It said something about the stranger’s character that he had forced his way onto a duke’s property rather than doing as he was told. The trouble was, Sebastian didn’t know whether that something was good or bad, because only foreign sounds fell from the man’s lips.

  As Miss Mukherjee, who undoubtedly understood every word, remained oddly silent, he turned questioningly to Nick, who had spent time in India.

  But Nick shook his head. “I don’t speak their languages. Colin Smith acted as my interpreter.”

  Ah. Mr. Smith was an adventurer and had arrived in England this past summer. He had stayed long enough to discover a Roman treasure before hying off for Egypt, with Lady Claire—the daughter of a marquess—in tow.

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes and studied the intruder. He did not seem inclined to harm Miss Mukherjee at the moment, and the flush of her countenance suggested she was more abashed than afraid, like a child who had snuck a jam tart before supper. The man wore a garment draped loosely about his legs and a long shirt that hung to his knees. Both garments were plain and white, but Sebastian could see that they were constructed of the finest silk and that the stitches were done by an elegant hand.

  Whoever this man was, he had money.

  Sebastian was inclined to call that a point in his favor. At the very least, he could afford his own fare back to India, if Miss Mukherjee requested.

  The question, then, was whether Miss Mukherjee did indeed request it.

  “Miss Mukherjee,” Sebastian said, interrupting the growing cacophony of voices. They all turned as one to look at him. “Shall I ask him to stay, or ensure that he leaves?”

  She blinked. “Of course he must stay.” She said this reluctantly, as though trying to convince herself of the fact.

  She turned and said a few hurried words in what he assumed was Bengali, to which the man gave a short nod and looked at Sebastian.

  “Duke Wessex,” she said, “this is Ramtanyu Vidyasagar. He is an old friend. Our families know each other well.”

  “Mr. Vidyasagar.” Sebastian said his name slowly to ensure its correctness. The letters might not be ordered in an English way, but they still created sounds his tongue knew. “You are welcome to stay.”

  “Duke Wessex.” Vidyasagar also spoke slowly and correctly, his eyes wary.

  Sebastian nodded. He gave an order to the footman, who immediately strode off in the direction of the house. “Your room will be prepared, where you may reside while Miss Mukherjee determines what is to be done with you. Make no mistake, if at any time she wishes you gone, your removal will be immediate.”

  Miss Mukherjee hesitated a moment, a strange expression crossing her face, then translated. Vidyasagar arched his dark brows and smiled slightly, nodding his agreement.

  “Dhan’yabāda,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Miss Mukherjee translated.

  When the footman reappeared, indicating the room was ready, Miss Mukherjee went, as well, no doubt to act as translator, but she did so willingly. Surely, if she felt herself to be in danger she would have said so. Still, Sebastian quietly made the footman understand that her protection was in his hands.

  “Well!” Lady Abingdon looked about the orchard as though trying to make sense of what had just happened. “That was interesting.”

  Far more interesting to Sebastian was the way in which Miss Benton was studying him. Was that approval he found in her gaze? Well, there was a first time for everything…although he couldn’t for the life of him think how he had earned it.

  He took a cautious step closer. “Your basket is nearly full. May I assist you?” Foolishness! She would refuse him and send him off to Lady Jane, Lady Abigail, or Lady Louisa, as she had done before.

  But to his surprise, she handed the basket to him with a small smile. “You may.”

  He shifted the basket to one elbow and offered his other arm to her. Together, they ambled to a tree that hadn’t yet been relieved of its bounty.

  She twisted an apple off its stem and studied it. “That was well done of you.”

  It took him a moment to realize she was talking to him and not the apple. “What was? Please be very specific and provide as many details as possible. I do so many things well that I am not sure to what you refer.”

  She gave him a withering look before stretching her arm to reach a higher apple. The sunlight filtering through the tree branches dappled the white skin of her cheek and throat in a ruby glow. If she had been anyone but Miss Eliza Benton, and he had been anyone except himself, and if they had been anywhere but his orchard surrounded by their friends…

  Well. It did not do to contemplate ifs. He pushed the image into the dark hole, where it joined other contraband, such as the way her voice trembled when he almost made her laugh and the exact blue of her eyes when she was sleepy after a night of dancing. And the feel of her warm body against him scarcely an hour ago.

  “You asked Miss Mukherjee for her opinion and allowed her to make the decision. It was good of you to be concerned for her welfare,” Miss Benton said.

  “Not at all.” A small brown leaf floated down from the tree, landing on his sleeve. He brushed it off. “It was not concern for her welfare, but for my own. Miss Mukherjee was the only person who knew what the devil was going on. For all I knew, the man was a thief or a murderer, and I should not like to be robbed or murdered. It was only natural that I sought her guidance.”

  Miss Benton regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You care for her. I don’t know why you deny it.”

  “I like her well enough,” Sebastian conceded. “But you must understand, Miss Benton, that I like everyone well enough. I have yet to meet a person I truly despise or whom I truly love.”

  “You can’t mean that! What of Lord Abingdon, who has been like a brother to you for many years? What of—” She looked away with a sudden flush in her cheeks.

  What name had she silenced on her lips? He paused a moment, waiting, but she said no more, and so he continued.

  “What I mean to say is that love and hate are all-encompassing emotions, but I allow neither to encompass all of me. Of course I don’t wish to see Miss Mukherjee injured. But my first concern was of my own welfare, and if she benefits from that, then it is a happy coincidence. I hold myself in the highest regard, Miss Benton, and I have yet to meet a person worth my life. Or even my comfort.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, as though to ascertain his sincerity. “I pity your future wife,” she murmured finally.

  “Do you?” He was of the opinion that any woman would be delighted to be his duchess—present company excepted, of course. Which was fortuitous, since he had no intention of marrying Miss Benton. “I think she will be quite content. What will it matter if I put my comfort above hers? She is free to do the same. I daresay most marriages follow the same principle.”

  Miss Benton laughed, but bitterness mingled with mirth. “Blind, like all men. A woman can never put her own comfort first.”

  Sebastian contemplated the heightened color of her cheeks and the annoyed flash in her eyes. Miss Benton was a hairsbreadth away from true anger. A wise man would agree with whatever foolishness she’d uttered or—better still—say nothing at all.

  “I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you are one of those unnatural women who spurn the very idea of a husband and children. I had wondered, on occasion, why a woman of your attributes had not yet married.”

  No, he was not wise. But he could not help himself. Something drove him onward. He needed to hear her say it, that it wasn’t only him in particular she did not wish to marry, but all men in general. It was inconceivable that the censure should be his alone.


  The fire in her eyes licked brighter. He fought the urge to flee. Christ, but he was a fool for goading her. Nothing good ever came of an angry woman.

  “When a man blithely declares his intent to marry for the sole purpose of begetting an heir, with neither thought nor qualm that the begetting could very well kill his wife, it does not inspire me to join him in holy matrimony.”

  “The begetting of children is necessary.” Why did he keep pressing her? He knew not, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Women die, and that is unfortunate. You would ask that mankind cease to multiply and disappear from the earth.”

  “I do not. I ask only that you care. My mother died in childbirth, as did my stepmother. Unless I spend my life as a spinster, I fear I will follow in their footsteps.”

  “Ah,” he said softly.

  And there it was. Miss Benton had no intention of marrying any man, much less him. He was safe.

  Safe? The thought startled him. Why should it matter to him at all whether Miss Benton refused to marry? It should not. It should certainly not make him feel safe.

  And yet it did.

  He could imagine, with the cool detachment of a witness rather than a participant, what it would do to him to truly care. He was no monster. Of course he would mourn any wife for the appropriate time before finding her replacement. He would remember her fondly—he hoped—and even miss her upon occasion, the way one missed a dog or childhood nanny.

  But what if the wife were not Lady Jane, Lady Louisa, or Lady Abigail, but someone infinitely dearer? What if the wife had eyes of twilight and hair of spun moonshine, and a way of speaking that twisted a man up inside and made him feel? Her death would destroy him. Or perhaps there would be nothing left of him to destroy. Perhaps a lifetime of caring, of loving, would have already ripped his tender heart to shreds.

  His heart had been shredded once before, and he had no wish to repeat the experience. No, thank you. He wanted no part of that. His entire being recoiled at the very thought.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Do I ask for too much, Your Grace?”

  He gave her the truth.

  “Not at all, Miss Benton. So long as you do not ask it of me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Eliza watched with bemusement as the Duke of Wessex beat a hasty retreat, taking her basket with him. Drat the man. What was she to do now with the apple she had just picked? She took a bite. It made a satisfying crunch, only slightly less satisfying than the thunk it would have made had she thrown it against his very hard skull.

  Thank goodness Eliza harbored no illusions regarding Wessex’s character or lack thereof. If a woman looked into those dark eyes, rich and sinful as chocolate, and believed him to have the soul of a poet, well, the sooner she was disabused of that notion, the better. The duke’s soul was not the ocean. It was a puddle.

  Only… Her heart had beat a little faster when he had looked to Riya for guidance. It had seemed to matter to him whether she would be harmed—not only physically, but emotionally, as well—by this stranger’s unexpected appearance. Shall I allow him to stay or ensure that he leaves? he had asked. He hadn’t even requested an explanation; one word from Riya had been enough to satisfy him. Eliza had found herself wondering if, after all, the duke understood that a woman might have her own secrets deserving of protection.

  Alas, it had been a mirage.

  And she was disappointed, somehow. Despite that she knew better than to expect more of him, she nevertheless persisted in believing in the possibility. Far worse than her own disappointment was the memory of his parting words—that it was not too much to ask, but it was too much to ask of him. Why did he think so ill of himself? Did he truly believe his own heart was a useless lump of rock? No man was made of stone. Not even the Duke of Wessex.

  She tossed the apple aside. Her thoughts were better spent on a less infuriating subject, and besides, it was time to change for dinner. But first she must see how Riya fared with her long-lost friend.

  Eliza found Riya in her room, perched on the edge of the bed, her spine as straight as a fire poker and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She stared unseeingly at middle distance, as though deep in thought, and the slight pucker of her brows and purse of her lips implied that those thoughts were not entirely pleasant. It was the look of a woman wrestling with herself and losing badly.

  “Shall we plan a midnight escape?” Eliza asked, half seriously. “We can be in France before Mr. Vidyasagar realizes you are gone.”

  Riya brightened momentarily before her shoulders slumped with a sigh. “Having survived the Cape of Good Hope, I hardly think the Channel will pose much of a challenge for him. He will find me.”

  “To what end?”

  Riya tilted her head quizzically, as though the question had not yet occurred to her. “Pardon?”

  “To what end does he follow you to the farthest corners of the Earth?” Eliza sat next to her friend and clasped one of her hands in her own. “What does he want from you?”

  “To bring me home, of course.”

  “Yes, but why?” Eliza persisted. “It is no small thing to cross the ocean. He must have left a great deal behind, not to mention the cost. Did your brother ask him to fetch you home? Do you have a dowry so rich that it makes the risk of life and limb a worthwhile endeavor? Why does he pursue you so ardently? There must be a reason, and once we understand the reason, we can persuade Mr. Vidyasagar that there are better uses of his time.”

  “Oh.” She blinked rapidly. “Why did he come here? Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. He is one of my oldest and dearest friends. We grew up together in Bengal. It was always my mother’s wish that we would marry, but we had our own ideas about that. We often plotted together how we would avoid our families making the match.” She laughed softly and shook her head.

  “And then you fell in love with another man,” Eliza prodded gently.

  Riya nodded. “My family did not approve, of course. He was not of our caste. But I persuaded him to run away with me. We agreed to meet at midnight, but he was not there. My brother was there instead. They had offered him money to leave without me, and he… He took it.” Her voice shook with emotion—hurt, and not a small amount of rage. “My brother took me home and I was not to leave our house for a month. That might have been the end of it, had we not been seen. But we were, and soon everyone knew that I had tried to run away with a man. My brother told me I must marry Ramtanyu, for no one else would have me and I would be cast out.”

  Eliza squeezed her hand in sympathy. “Would that have been so very terrible, dear? He was your friend, at least.”

  “He would not have been a terrible husband,” Riya admitted, “but you don’t understand. His mother knew what had happened. She hated me. I can only imagine what my brother must have paid to convince her to agree to the match. I would have been treated like a dirty dog—made to scrub the floors and sometimes kicked. And poor Ram… I couldn’t do that to him. I wouldn’t do that to him. So I begged Deb to take me with him to Egypt. And now, here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Eliza echoed. “And so is Mr. Vidyasagar.”

  “I cannot imagine why! He should have been relieved when I ran away. To have such a wife, who had tried to elope with another man, would have ruined him. Why is he here, when to bring me home would be to his detriment? I simply cannot fathom.”

  Eliza looked at her beautiful friend with great amusement. “Can you not? You are lovely and kind, not to mention witty and brilliant with numbers. Why would he not pursue you?”

  Something akin to fear flashed in Riya’s eyes before she blinked it away with a laugh. “He does not love me, Eliza. He cares for me a great deal, as is only natural for an old friend. Yes, that must be it. He must have agreed to the marriage to spare my family the shame I had brought on them. And now he wants to see that I am alive and safe. Now that he has ascertained this for
himself, he will go home.”

  Eliza hesitated. “I suppose that is possible.”

  Possible, but not probable. Surely, a man would not cross an ocean merely to see if a woman is alive and well. Surely, he would want…something more.

  “I will speak to him,” Riya said cheerfully. “He will return to Bengal, assure my brother of my safety, and I will continue my life here.”

  “Is that what you want? To remain in England?” Eliza tried not to let a note of panic creep into her voice. She had gotten attached to her own dream of the future, where she and Riya resided together comfortably at Hyacinth Cottage. Without Riya, it would be a trifle lonely. She had other friends, and her brother—but they all had families of their own now, and less time for her.

  “I miss my home,” Riya admitted. “But happiness does not await me there. It is better for me to put all that behind me, and live my life now as it is, and not wait for what I wish it were.”

  “That is a very good stance to take,” Eliza said, relieved. “To accept what we have and allow ourselves to find happiness there instead of pining for what can never be.”

  Riya raised her brows. “Do you pine, Eliza?” she teased.

  “Oh, certainly not!” Eliza laughed. “I have everything I could possibly desire, or I will very soon. For what should I pine?”

  “I believe the question is not for what, but for whom,” Riya said.

  “I have myself,” Eliza said simply. “I am enough.”

  Riya studied her for a long moment. “Do you think you will always feel so? Will you never regret not having a family of your own?”

  The words brought a small prick of pain, like a needle that had gone too far through the cloth and found one’s finger. “No one can be so fortunate as to never feel a moment of regret for a path not journeyed. I cannot seem to reconcile the two: the life I would live as a wife and mother, and the life I would live as simply me. To have a family, I must lose myself, I fear—very possibly even my very life. There are many paths to happiness, and I have chosen mine.”