by Royal, Emily
Perhaps life at Molineux Manor wouldn’t be so bleak after all.
Chapter Twelve
Dexter waved at the carriage as it disappeared round the corner. His sister Delilah—now Duchess Molineux—was on her way to a new life in Scotland. Away from him.
Though Dexter had wanted a large wedding for her, Lilah’s husband had insisted on a quiet affair. It was probably for the best, given how close Lilah was to her confinement. And it meant that he was spared the good wishes of guests he neither liked nor cared about. Why should he be congenial when he felt far from it? Weddings presented an opportunity to display marital bliss—not only that of the happy couple but of the guests who stood proudly together in perfectly formed pairs.
And the last thing Dexter needed was a reminder of the marital bliss he was never going to have.
Not that he’d envisaged such a state—at least not with Elizabeth.
But with Margaret…
Beneath the rather shabby exterior of the woman he’d been tricked into marrying lay a sweet girl with kind eyes.
And a delectable little body which had responded to his caresses as if she’d been made for him. Though he was skilled enough to elicit moans of pleasure in all manner of women, the cries of passion in his quiet little wife had taken him unawares. Like the finest wines, they had ruined his taste for any other woman.
It wasn’t only honor that prevented him from seeking relief in the arms of others. It was her.
He missed her.
His breeches tightened at the memory of her, splayed before him on the bed, thighs parted.
A hand touched his arm, and he jumped.
“You seem out of sorts, brother.”
Dorothea looked at him, her brow creased into a frown.
“Aren’t you happy for Delilah?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“And you should be.” She set her mouth into a thin line. “After all, her child won’t be born a bastard.”
A spike of anger rippled through him at Thea’s crude expression and the memory of the shame in his wife’s eyes as she’d taken that name upon herself.
“Am I right in thinking we should also be wishing you joy?” Thea asked.
News traveled fast.
“How did you find out?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “What I want to know is why you kept it a secret.”
“My life is nobody’s business but my own,” he growled.
“Yet, you think you’ve the right to dictate my life,” she replied. “According to you, I’m too old to find a husband, yet you, who are older than I am, are content to marry the bastard daughter of the man who tormented our family when we were children!”
“It’s not as simple as that,” he said.
“I’m told you won a wife in a game of cards,” Thea said. “Perhaps I should enter a gaming hell and present myself as a prize.”
“I see Anne Pelham has been gossiping again.”
She snorted. “All of London’s gossiping about it. I don’t understand why you didn’t invite any of us, and why you banished your bride within two days of the wedding. You’ve always said that as a family, we should stick together.”
“I married while you were in Bath with Lilah,” Dexter said. “And our brother wouldn’t have agreed to come.”
“But you didn’t even see fit to tell us!” she said. “Are you ashamed of her? Or of us? Is that why you bought me a house of my own? Not out of love, but of shame?”
“I’m not ashamed of anyone,” he said. “But it’s better if she remains in the country.”
“For her, or for you?”
“Both.”
“I suppose I should have expected it,” Thea said, “given that you didn’t invite Daisy today.”
He looked at her, and she flinched as if she knew she’d stepped too far.
“I sent Daisy an invitation,” he said. “She didn’t respond.”
“Why should she?” Thea asked. “Imagine how she’d feel—the sister who disgraced the family name, being forced to congratulate the sister who married a title.”
“Lilah’s happy.”
“Not because she’s a duchess,” Thea said. “You’re the only one of us who believes that a title would make you happy. How must it feel to be so disappointed?”
“I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will,” she said. “I don’t know who I pity the most. You, or your wife.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Perhaps spinsterhood isn’t the worst state a woman can find herself in.”
Ah, there it was. Beneath the skin of the obedient sister lay the resentment of a woman too old for marriage.
He sighed. “I can set about finding a husband for you, Thea.”
“What, advertise me for sale to any man who’d take a woman nearing thirty?” she asked. “No, thank you, I’d rather look for myself. At least now I have a home of my own, so I’ll be spared your oppression.”
She flinched as if she expected an outburst of anger, but what was the point in arguing with Dorothea if she spoke the truth? He led her back inside, to the morning room, where Charles was already clearing the crockery.
Dorothea was right. Dexter had failed. Not only in securing suitable matches for them all, but in keeping his family together. Daisy lived in obscurity, refusing to see him, and Delilah had barely spoken to him today. And Dorothea exuded unhappiness.
As for Devon…
A solitary man sat beside the fireplace, his face almost entirely concealed by a black silk mask, a half-full glass of brandy in his right hand. He acknowledged Dexter’s presence with a grunt, then resumed his attention on the fireplace, the light from the flames reflecting in his eyes.
At least Devon had made an appearance today.
“I’m glad you came, brother,” Dexter said.
Devon curled his lip into a sneer, the action revealing part of his scar.
“I came for Lilah. Not for you.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard,” Dexter said. “I’m lately married, also.”
Dexter sipped his brandy. “What do I care? Yet another woman to scream at the sight of me.”
“You’re unlikely to meet her.”
“Stuffed her away in the country, have you?” Devon asked. “So you can fuck that Alderley woman with a clear conscience?”
A splintering crash made him jump. Charles dropped to the floor, mumbling an apology while he cleared up shards of crockery from the floor. Dorothea shot Dexter an angry look, then rushed to help the footman.
“If you must know, I have no intention of seeing Elizabeth again,” Dexter said.
“You think me a fool?” Devon asked. “You’ve been obsessed with that harlot almost as soon as you were old enough to realize what your cock was for.”
Brandy always brought Devon’s temper to the fore. Any other man and Dexter would have called him out—or at least planted a shiner on his face. But Devon had experienced enough in his twenty-five years to be unfazed by physical threats.
“I hardly think you’re in a position to lecture me on obsession, Dev,” Dexter said. “Tell me, what has the Lady Atalanta been up to today? Does she know you creep after her in the shadows?”
Devon jumped to his feet and flung the brandy glass at the door.
“For heaven’s sake!” Dorothea cried. “If you two are going to fight like dogs, do it outside—or better still, down at the docks where I believe such activities take place.”
“Forgive me, Thea,” Devon said. He shot an angry look at Dexter. “I find the company here oppressive. Shall I escort you home?”
“With pleasure,” Thea said.
“Aren’t you accompanying me tonight?” Dexter asked. “Dinner with the Pelhams.”
“I’ve had enough for one day,” Thea said.
“How so?”
“Like it or not, Dexter, none of us have been able to live up to your expectations,” she said. “You value Delilah only because she’s married a title. In your eyes, the rest of
us have let you down, and I’ve had my fill of being reminded of it today.”
She swept out of the room on Devon’s arm.
Dexter stood at the window, watching them walk down the street, while Charles continued to clear away the shards of glass and crockery. The poor man had only been in Dexter’s employ for a fortnight. What must he think of them—the notorious Harts who didn’t belong in society?
Dorothea was wise enough to understand the root of Dexter’s ill-temper, but in one aspect, she was wrong. It was Dexter who’d let his siblings down—not the other way round.
And he’d also let his wife down.
Chapter Thirteen
“So, Mr. Hart, what transgressions did your wife commit to warrant her banishment, so soon after your marriage?”
Mrs. Pelham sliced through her beef as if thrusting a sword into the belly of an opponent while focusing her steady gaze on Dexter.
Not only was he subject to criticism from his family—but also his friends.
“Anne, my love!” her husband warned.
“Forgive me, Harold,” she said sweetly. She picked up her wineglass. “To my friend, Delilah,” she said. “May she be one of the few women in the world fortunate enough to be valued and cherished by her husband.”
Pelham rolled his eyes but said nothing. Doubtless, he hoped his wife would leave it at that. But Anne Pelham was an insistent little thing.
“I paid a call on your wife a fortnight ago,” she continued. Her tone was light, but the determined set of her mouth told Dexter another assault was forthcoming.
“Oh, did you?” he asked, his voice just as carefree. He reached for his wine and took a sip. “An excellent claret, Pelham,” he said. “But I suppose, when you deal in the stuff, you develop a more discerning palate.”
“Thank you,” his host said.
“And do you keep the best of your imports for yourself, Pelham? I can imagine many of your clients are unable to discern a fine French wine from something more mediocre.”
Anne gave a little huff, betraying her exasperation at Dexter’s attempt to change the subject.
“I was told your wife was not at home,” she continued. Her husband shot her a warning look, which she ignored. “But she was. I saw her watching me from the parlor window. Had you told her not to admit me?”
“No,” Dexter replied.
“Or had you refused her permission to receive visitors?”
“Of course not!”
“Perhaps she felt ashamed,” she continued. “After all, she’s guilty of the crime of being the wrong Alderley sister.”
“Anne, please!” Pelham admonished. “This is hardly the subject for the dinner table. Hart’s here to mark the occasion of Delilah’s marriage, not be criticized for his.”
“Forgive me.” She resumed her attention to her meal.
But she’d struck a nerve. The day after Margaret had left for the country, Dexter had found Mrs. Pelham’s card in the parlor. Charles had been forthcoming enough to explain that when Mrs. Pelham had come calling, he’d ‘happened upon the mistress hiding behind the curtain.’
The meal concluded, the gentlemen rose to take their port in Pelham’s study, while Mrs. Pelham retired with a glass of Madeira to the drawing room.
Pelham picked up a decanter containing a straw-colored liquid.
“I thought it was fitting to have a glass of whisky in honor of your new brother-in-law,” he said.
Dexter could hardly refuse, though he loathed the stuff.
Pelham handed him a glass, and he wrinkled his nose at the smell, which evoked a memory—a sting on his palm, and his wife’s eyes, full of compassion as she knelt before him and tended to his injury.
The wound still itched, but it had faded to a pale scar.
He took a mouthful of whisky and almost choked as it rasped against his throat.
“Not to your taste, Hart?” Pelham laughed. “Your new brother-in-law will be most offended.”
“I doubt it,” Dexter replied, “given that my bank’s his biggest creditor.”
“And Alderley’s biggest,” Pelham said. He drained his glass and picked up the decanter. “Another?”
“Not unless you want me to expel the ragout on this rug.”
Pelham chuckled and poured himself a glass. “I don’t envy Alderley his next meeting with his banker, given that you’re now his son-in-law.”
“I doubt that old bastard will sully his hands by dealing with me,” Dexter replied. “He’ll send his steward, who, at least, seems a sensible fellow. He might avoid bankruptcy, provided Alderley keeps his spending in check.”
“Which will be a challenge given that the Honorable Elizabeth is still his responsibility,” Pelham laughed. “At least she’s not your responsibility. I wonder if Alderley realizes the mistake he made?”
“His mistake?”
“A by-blow’s cheaper to maintain than a legitimate daughter,” Pelham said. “Alderley sold you the wrong one.”
Dexter bristled at his friend’s casual reference to his wife’s circumstances. The poor girl couldn’t help her origins. He set his glass on the table with a smart thud. “Elizabeth would have been a disastrous wife, but she would have stepped into the role of hostess with ease.”
“She wouldn’t have gained you many friends,” Pelham said. “My Anne can’t stand her. And a man doesn’t just need a wife for society parties. He needs a companion. In that respect, at least, I must agree with Anne’s opinion that sending your wife away was a mistake.”
“It’s easy for you to judge,” Dexter said. “You married a viscount’s daughter.”
“So did you,” Pelham replied. “I don’t love Anne for her lineage. I love her because she’s generous and caring. She’ll do anything I ask of her. Not because she vowed obedience—but because she wants to. You may think you’re in need of no one, my friend, but have you never wondered what it might be like to place your trust—your heart—into the hands of another? The time may also come when you understand the fulfillment of being able to provide comfort to another, such that they might trust you completely.”
“Trust only leads to betrayal,” Dexter said.
“Only if you place your faith in the wrong person. My Anne didn’t trust me when we first married, but I have seen her grow to trust me completely over the years. You will never understand what a gift that is, my friend, until you’ve experienced it.”
Pelham made a dismissive gesture. “The qualities Elizabeth possesses—manners, fine speech, and ladylike deportment—can be taught. But do you know what can never be taught, no matter how hard you try?”
“What?” Dexter asked.
“Kindness,” Pelham replied. “Goodness. It’s either there or it’s not. If a woman’s soul is rotten to the core, there’s nothing to be done.”
“You don’t believe in redemption?”
Pelham shook his head. “Redemption is merely the process by which a man gains a greater understanding and appreciation of the world around him. He can only change if he wishes it.”
“What the devil are you trying to say, Pelham?” Dexter asked.
“That you shouldn’t judge your wife by whether she knows the exact position of a fork on a dining table. You should judge her by whether she has a good heart—by her innocence if you like.”
“My wife came to the marriage bed impure,” Dexter said.
“And? Anne was married before.”
“Married, yes,” Dexter said. “My wife was not.”
“And is she in love with the fellow?”
Dexter remembered the look of fear in his wife’s eyes.
“No,” he said. “I got the impression she’d rather forget.”
“Then forget it,” Pelham said. “You’re affronted because another man got there before you. You’ve hardly lived a chaste life.”
“Ye gods, Pelham, you sound like my wife.”
“What did she say when you confronted her about it?” Pelham asked.
Her res
ponse had been a tearful confession, followed by a plea that he not hurt her.
Pelham had spoken of trust. Dexter’s little wife, though frightened and anticipating pain, had given him her trust.
And a woman such as her—with no title, no fortune, no name—her trust was all she had to give.
Dexter lifted his gaze to see his friend looking directly at him, understanding in his eyes.
“Come on, my friend,” Pelham said. “I think we ought to join Anne before I do something unforgivable, such as unearth your conscience.”
As soon as they entered the drawing room, Anne Pelham rose from her seat.
“Coffee, Mr. Hart?”
“I can help myself, Mrs. Pelham,” he said. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”
She glanced at her husband. “Mr. Hart,” she said, “I didn’t mean to criticize you this evening. Though I hope you see me as a friend, I’ve no right to tell you how to behave in your marriage.”
“No,” he replied. “I value frankness above decorum, Mrs. Pelham. Too often, others seek to manipulate me by telling me what they believe I want to hear. I would prefer you to speak frankly, even if I don’t like what you have to say.”
She smiled. “Then, with your leave, may I suggest you refrain from neglecting your wife?”
“My wife is in the best place she can be,” Dexter replied. “The world believes I sent her away because I don’t care to have her with me, but the country is the kindest environment for her. London is populated by sharks, whereas Molineux Manor harbors much safer waters.”
She lifted the coffee pot and poured him a cup, dropping three sugar lumps in.
Just how he liked it. Some women were capable of silent observation, using their keen eye for others' benefit and comfort.
Like his wife. She had noticed his aversion to the sight of blood and had managed to soothe his fears without even mentioning them, thereby not only helping his hand to heal but also preserving his pride.
