“Don’t you miss the light?” she asked, letting the drape fall back into place to glance at Wycliffe over her shoulder.
“I grew accustomed to the dark a long time ago,” he said, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk.
Hannah thought of the room she’d discovered in the forbidden east wing. The one without windows and the strange metal hooks in the ceiling. A shiver went down her spine. “How long did they keep you in there?”
She could tell by the narrowing of his eyes that he knew exactly what she was talking about, and he wasn’t pleased with the question.
“Long enough,” he said shortly.
“How long?” she pressed.
“Two years.”
“Two years!” Her horrified gaze flew to his as she whirled around. “You were only a child. That must have been–”
“Barbaric? Cruel? Inhumane?” His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “It was all that and more. But in the end I walked again. I wasn’t a cripple. Or at least not a complete cripple. And that was all my father cared about.”
“He sounds like he was a horrible man,” Hannah whispered, unable to imagine her own father condemning her to such a fate. Lord Fairchild may have been absentminded and incapable of managing a budget, but he loved his family with all of his heart and he would never purposefully bring any harm to them. No wonder Wycliffe was capable of such callousness. He’d learned it at his sire’s knee.
“My father was a duke,” Wycliffe said, as if that explained everything.
“So are you,” Hannah pointed out. And as cold and abrasive as he’d been towards her, she refused to believe he would ever lock an innocent child away in a windowless room and force them to endure all manner of horrific treatments.
“Not by choice, or by practice. Why do you think I live all the way out here?”
“Because you don’t like anyone?” she guessed.
“I like you.” The unexpected admission caught them both by surprise. His face turning a dull ruddy color, Wycliffe made an awkward show of straightening a pile of letters. “What do you want?” he said without looking at her. “Why have you come in here?”
“My sister.” As if pulled by an invisible thread, Hannah slowly started to walk towards him, her soft-soled shoes sinking silently into the worn carpet. “Why would you allow her to stay here? I know how much you dislike visitors.”
“She is your sister,” he muttered. “I know how important family is to you.”
Three more steps and she would be at the desk.
One…
“How do you know that?” she asked.
Two…
He folded a letter into a tiny square. Unfolded it. Folded it again. “Because you were willing to marry a complete stranger to save them. There are not many daughters who would think to do that. Even fewer who would actually follow through with it.”
Three…
“Look at me, Evan.” She spoke so softly that she didn’t think he heard her until, with obvious reluctance, he lifted his chin. A lock of hair tumbled into his eyes. With an irritated shake of his head, he tossed it back.
“What?” he said roughly. “What the bloody hell do you want?”
Reaching across the desk, she placed her hand on top of his, fingers fitting perfectly between the grooves of his knuckles. “I want a husband who loves me. I want a marriage that means something. I want a partner, not a business arrangement.”
Midnight blue eyes searching hers, he swallowed hard. “Hannah, I–”
“Why is there a sobbing woman in the parlor?” Barging into the study without bothering to knock, Colebrook stopped short at the sight of Hannah and Wycliffe leaning towards one another over the desk. “Oh. Bloody hell. I didn’t…that is to say, I should have…”
“Knocked?” Wycliffe said icily, his gaze still on Hannah. “Get out, Colebrook.”
“Of course. Right away.” The blond duke started to back out the door. “Er, if someone could tell me who that woman is–”
“Get out,” Wycliffe snarled.
“Aye,” Colebrook said hastily. “I’ll just, ah…go about my business and you two…er…carry on doing whatever it was you were, ah, doing. Cheerio.”
“You were saying?” Hannah said quietly once they were once again alone.
“Nothing.” Sliding his hand out from beneath hers, Wycliffe took a step back as an all too familiar shadow flickered over his face. “It was nothing.”
“Wait.” Desperate not to lose the softness she’d glimpsed on his face before Colebrook – damn him! – had interrupted them, Hannah hurried around the edge of the desk and grabbed onto his arm, fingers squeezing tight. “Please look at me. I know you feel something for me. I felt it the first time we kissed and again in the stables. Maybe it’s not love, but it could be. It could be, and I–”
“Please release my arm, Miss Fairchild.”
“Wait! If you would just listen to me and what’s in your heart, then I know–”
“You’re the one who has not listened,” he said icily. “I told you what this marriage would be before we ever walked down the aisle, and you agreed to it. I thought you were a woman of your word.”
“I am. I am, but if you would just–”
“Release my arm,” he repeated between gritted teeth, “and kindly remove yourself from my study. I have work to do.”
Hannah wanted her husband, but she would not beg for him. Gray eyes bright with tears she refused to let fall, she left the study – and any remaining hope she might have had that Wycliffe was capable of changing – behind.
Chapter Ten
“I say, do you need a handkerchief? Although at the rate you’re going, might I suggest a towel. Mayhap two.”
Choking back a sob, Cadence looked up through bleary eyes to see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway. His blond hair was swept back from his face to reveal a distinguished forehead, thick brows several shades darker than his hair, clear blue eyes, a straight nose, and a full, sensual mouth that was curved in a faintly mocking grin.
He was stunningly handsome and (if his smirk was any indication) he knew it. Was this the reclusive Duke of Wycliffe? The one whose hideousness was rumored to have cracked every mirror in his manor? Surely not. And yet, who else could it be?
Hastily wiping away her tears, Cadence pushed off the settee and bent her knees in a small, stiff curtsy. The journey here had been far longer and more arduous than she’d expected. In hindsight she probably would have done a great deal better to visit her aunt in Huffs Church, but when Benfield ripped her heart out of her chest and proceeded to stomp it into a thousand tiny little pieces the only person she’d wanted to see was Hannah.
“I apologize for my intrusion, Your Grace. Due to some…unforeseen circumstances” – that was one way to put it, being left humiliated and brokenhearted was another – “I needed to leave London.”
The duke’s gaze dropped to her belly. “In the family way, are you?” he said sympathetically. “I knew it the moment I saw you. Don’t worry, love. There are plenty of nice villagers who would be happy to raise a squalling brat. I can provide a list if you’d like.”
“What? No!” Flattening her hands over her stomach, she stared at Hannah’s husband in disbelief. “I’m not – that is to say, I am not pregnant,” she hissed, a blush overwhelming her cheeks. “And even if I were, I would not let my child be raised by strangers.”
Good heavens. Who had she told her sister to marry?
“No need to be sod dramatic, love. It is not as if they would eat the child.” The duke rolled his eyes. “It’s a perfectly practical solution to an unfortunate problem. But if you are not expecting–”
“I am not,” Cadence said firmly.
“–then you have nothing to worry about.”
Except, apparently, the fact that she looked pregnant. Which, in the grand scheme of things, was somewhere below Never Being Able to Show Her Face in London Again and above Losing Her Second Favorite Pair of Glov
es.
“Do you know where my sister is?” she asked.
The duke blinked. “Why the devil would I know where your sister is?”
Cadence frowned. “Why wouldn’t you know?”
“Because I don’t know who your sister is? Or who you are, for that matter.” He stepped further into the parlor, a rakish gleam entering his eyes. “Except for one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” Gaze intent on her mouth, he reached for a loose tendril of hair dangling down over her shoulder. Cadence slapped his hand away in shock.
“Your Grace!” she gasped. “You are married to my sister.”
“The devil I am.” Rearing back on his heels, the duke regarded her with a scowl. “Are you deaf or otherwise mentally impaired? I told you not two seconds ago that I didn’t know who the bloody hell your sister was.”
The poor man. Cadence knew the duke’s accident had left his body scarred, but she’d had no idea it had addled his mind.
“You should get some rest,” she said kindly. “When my uncle becomes confused he often takes a nap and feels much better afterwards. He also drinks a special tea, although I cannot recall the ingredients at the moment.”
The duke’s blue eyes flashed. “I am not confused. And I do not need a bloody nap or any of your damned witchcraft tea, for that matter.”
Cadence’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not witchcraft tea. And you should not use such vulgar language in the presence of a lady!”
“When I see one I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he sneered.
“Oh!” she gasped. “You are the most wretched, appalling, arrogant–”
“Finally, a woman who sees you for who you truly are.” A second man strolled into the parlor and all it took was one glance at the gruesome scar running down one side of his face for Cadence to realize her mistake.
“You’re not the Duke of Wycliffe,” she said accusingly, glaring at the blond-haired stranger who she’d confused for her sister’s husband.
“Bloody hell, I should hope not.” he said with a shudder.
“Miss Fairchild, might I introduce you to my temporary houseguest, the Duke of Colebrook. He is staying here while his estate undergoes renovations.”
“I would say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Cadence said icily. “But my mother always told me it was impolite to tell a lie.”
“Allow me to show you to your rooms, Miss Fairchild.” Mouth twitching with thinly concealed amusement, Wycliffe extended his arm. Sailing past Colebrook with her nose in the air, Cadence allowed her brother-in-law to escort her out of the parlor and up the stairs.
Unable to shake the feeling of eyes upon her, however, she paused at the top of the staircase and glanced back over her shoulder. There, in the middle of the foyer, stood Colebrook. When he saw her looking down at him he bent forward in a mocking bow and, without taking his burning gaze off of her, straightened and blew her a kiss.
“Just ignore him,” Wycliffe provided helpfully. “I do.”
Taking the duke’s advice, Cadence turned and followed him down the hall. But she couldn’t help but wonder what Colebrook’s kiss had meant…and when she would see him again.
To say that evening’s dinner was a frosty affair would have been a grave understatement.
Hannah glared at Wycliffe.
Wycliffe glared at Colebrook.
Colebrook glared at Cadence.
And Cadence, having finally sorted out who was who, glared right back at Colebrook.
Conversation, when it occurred, was kept to such benign topics as the weather and the pending autumn harvest. And no sooner had dessert been finished than everyone retreated to their separate bed chambers.
To Hannah’s surprise, she slept rather well. Tucked beneath layers of blankets and warmed by a fire smoldering in the hearth, she did not wake until dawn. For a moment she considered trying to fall back asleep, but then with a shrug and a stretch she tossed back the covers and tip-toed across the icy floor to her wardrobe. If there was one benefit of being up with the sparrows, it was that everyone else – including her husband – was almost certain to still be in their beds. A good thing, as the only company she currently sought was that of herself and the horses.
Last night before bed she’d asked a scullery maid to set aside some of the carrots from the soup. When she opened her door she found them waiting for her as requested inside a small burlap sack. Tucking the sack under her arm she proceeded downstairs, careful to walk on her tiptoes so as not to rouse Cadence who was sleeping just across the hall.
Her husband’s valet, a perpetual early riser, greeted her in the foyer with a respectful bow. She’d not had the opportunity to exchange more than a few words with Peterson since coming to Wycliffe Manor, but she liked him for his loyalty and kind demeanor.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Going out for an early walk?” Peterson asked, taking note of the hooded cloak she’d thrown on directly over her nightdress. Scuffed leather boots peeked out from the satin hem and her hair was concealed beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet lined with soft ermine.
“Just to the stables. I’ve treats for the horses.” She lifted the carrot filled sack. “Do you know if they’ve been turned out for the day?”
“Not to my knowledge. Would you like me to see if His Grace is able to accompany you?”
“No,” Hannah said quickly. Too quickly she realized when a flicker of concern passed over Peterson’s usually stalwart countenance.
“Might I have permission to make a very personal observation, Your Grace?”
Hannah eyed Peterson warily. “I suppose.”
“I have known the duke for a very long time. You could almost say we grew up together, as my father served his until the day he died. And during all those years, I have never seen His Grace look at a woman the way he looks at you.”
“Oh.” A warm blush stole across Hannah’s cheeks. Biting her lip, she looked down at the floor. “Mr. Peterson, I am sorry to say but I think you are mistaken. My husband is not – that is to say, we’re not…he doesn’t love me,” she blurted out, and to her horror she felt the sharp sting of tears in the corners of her eyelids.
“Your Grace?” Visibly alarmed by her sudden display of emotion, Peterson took a step back. “Should I send for your lady’s maid?”
“No. No, I – I want to speak to you.” Sniffling, Hannah lifted her sleeve and blew loudly into it. “You said it yourself, you’ve known Wycliffe for a very long time. Perhaps longer than anyone else. Can you tell me why he is the way he is? Please,” she begged when the valet started to shake his head. “I want to understand. I need to understand. You’re the only one who can help me.”
Peterson was quiet for a long moment. So quiet that Hannah feared he was going to deny her request. But with a quiet sigh and a quick glance around to ensure they were alone, he leaned in close. “I don’t know all the details. I was not there when it happened, but I saw him directly after and the humiliation and devastation on his face is something I will never forget.” He took a deep breath before he continued grimly, “There was a young lady, at a ball. One that His Grace regarded quite favorably. He believed she regarded him the same way, but after they danced he discovered it had been nothing more than a bet.”
“A bet?” Hannah asked, auburn brows drawing together in confusion.
“Apparently the young lady, along with her friends, had placed a bet amongst themselves. The one who danced with His Grace the longest was the winner.”
“I – I still don’t understand.”
“No,” said Peterson. “I wouldn’t expect you to. These ladies, and I use the term loosely, saw the duke as nothing more than a freak. They made the bet to amuse themselves, not because they had any real interest in him. And in doing so they managed to reinforce all of the horrific things his father had said to him over the years. Things I will not repeat in polite company. Suffice it to say His Grace was left with the impression that no woman would ever be able to see past his sc
ars, or love him for who he was on the inside.” The valet straightened. “Does that answer your question, Your Grace?”
“Yes, I think it does.” Cruelty on top of cruelty, Hannah thought silently, her chest aching for the young boy who had suffered so much pain and the young man who had been mocked for it. No wonder her husband did not trust anyone. Those he loved had disappointed and hurt him at every turn when they should have been protecting him. “Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
“Do not give up on him, Your Grace,” the valet said earnestly. “He is a good man with a good heart.”
Hannah smiled sadly. “I know. What I don’t know is if my heart is strong enough to fix his.”
Chapter Eleven
“Peterson, have you seen my wife?” Evan had been looking for Hannah for nearly an hour. After a restless night spent tossing and turning and going over their last conversation again and again, he had finally reached a few conclusions. The principle among them being that he’d treated his wife poorly, and he needed to apologize. But after looking everywhere he could think of including her bedchamber, the library, even the dreaded east wing – he was no closer to finding her than when he’d started.
There was one thing he had discovered on his search, however.
Light.
It streamed into the manor from all directions, illuminating the freshly swept floors and polished wood trim and the new furniture in nearly every room. Or mayhap it was simply old furniture that had been uncovered and cleaned; either way, he felt as if he was walking through someone else’s house. Hannah’s house, to be more precise.
While he had been stomping about, grumpy as a bear and glowering at anyone and everyone who crossed his path, she had been pouring her heart and soul into Wycliffe Manor. His little wife had managed to turn the old, dusty heap of bad memories into something any duke would be proud to call home.
A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection Page 33
