The Duke's Wicked Wife (Wicked Secrets)

by Elizabeth Bright

  Eliza blinked. Any sign of interest? What did he mean— Oh! She burst into laughter. “Colonel Kent has never looked twice at me.”

  “A man would have to be dead not to look at you. Even I know that, though I am your brother. You are a beautiful girl, Eliza. How you have managed to remain unmarried after two London Seasons is a mystery.”

  Eliza studied her tea rather than disappoint her brother with the truth. For it had not been easy to remain unmarried when it seemed all of London was determined to match her with this gentleman or that. It was, in fact, hard work to convince a man that she had no interest in becoming his wife. So often they believed she was mistaken, or that her feelings didn’t matter anyway.

  It helped that her brother held high standards for her future husband—a great many would-be suitors were known to gamble on occasion or drink to even the smallest excess, and thus deemed ineligible. It also helped that John loved her. He would not force her into a marriage she did not want.

  But no matter. Let her brother hope how he wished, so long as he allowed her to attend Wessex’s house party.

  Where she would most certainly not find a husband.

  Chapter Five

  Perivale Hall was awash in autumn splendor, which pleased Sebastian greatly. Against the burnished gold of the oak and beech trees, the women would shine like precious jewels. It would all be as lovely as a Marguerite Gérard painting, of which several hung throughout his home. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the mellow sunlight as he watched the caravan of carriages roll ever closer. His future duchess—his future wife—was in one of them. Quite exciting, that.

  “Ready to face your doom, are you?” Eastwood asked pleasantly. He stood with his brother slightly to Sebastian’s left. They had arrived yesterday afternoon with their wives and Lady Freesia, and since that very moment Eastwood had not lost a single opportunity to tease Sebastian.

  “An odd thing to say, considering that you have preferred to spend nearly every evening at home since your marriage,” Sebastian remarked. “You were very cross last week when I insisted you take dinner at White’s with Kent and me.”

  “Ah, but I am married to Adelaide, and that makes a great deal of difference. You will not be so fortunate, as there is only one Adelaide, and she is mine.”

  There was a supreme note of satisfaction in his tone that made Sebastian grin. She deserved all her happiness. And—although he would allow his fingernails to be pulled out one by one before admitting it out loud—he occasionally thought it possible that Eastwood did, as well.

  But that wasn’t to say he didn’t deserve a bit of suffering alongside. The brothers came from a long history of fratricide—or coincidence, although Sebastian thought it doubtful that five generations of second sons could really be so unfortunate as to lose their elder brothers before they had time to spawn heirs. Abingdon and Eastwood had been separated at a young age by parents hoping to avoid a similar fate for their sons. Cruel, certainly, but it had worked, for Eastwood had never attempted to murder his brother—although his enemies had.

  The first carriage drew to a halt. Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back, watching as the footman bounded from his seat next to the driver and rushed to open the door. Would it be Lady Jane Tavistock, Lady Louisa Evans, or Lady Abigail Ainsworth? Would she—

  The door opened, and Colonel Kent appeared.

  Ah. Well, that was disappointing. But no matter. Kent had his uses, even if he would make a terrible duchess.

  “Your Grace.” Kent bowed. His gaze flicked to Abingdon as he rose. He nodded stiffly in greeting.

  “Welcome. Mrs. Pettigrew will show you to your room,” Sebastian said, indicating his housekeeper. “Or, if you are in want of refreshment after your journey, you may join Lady Freesia and the other ladies in the drawing room.” He felt more than saw two identical pairs of icy blue eyes narrow in his direction. So untrusting, those two were. A sign of their good sense, really, as he was, in fact, up to something. What fun was a house party without a scheme?

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I shall do that.” Kent bowed again and followed Mrs. Pettigrew inside.

  “Who are we to expect next, I wonder?” Eastwood mused. “Never say Montrose.”

  “Do you really believe I would invite Mrs. Eastwood’s jilted fiancé here?” Sebastian chided. “I may enjoy watching you squirm, but I respect her far too greatly for that. The lords Sutton and Devand have been invited, however.”

  “Lord Sutton and Lord Devand, you say?” Abingdon asked after a pause. “I had not realized they were friends of yours. They are said to have influence with Lord Sidmouth, the home secretary, aren’t they?”

  Sebastian gave his friend an annoyed look. “How the devil should I know? You know I don’t care a fig for politics.”

  “True, as you care for nothing at all,” Eastwood said. “But you must admit, Sutton and Devand are not your usual choice of cohort. Why did you not ask Lord Bevershire? He’s an amusing fellow, and he always enjoys an opportunity to flirt with Miss Benton.”

  “Harass Miss Benton, you mean. I couldn’t allow that to happen under my own roof.”

  “You harass Miss Benton,” Eastwood said pointedly.

  “I most certainly do not,” Sebastian said in offended tones. “I annoy. I tease. But I do not harass.”

  Eastwood gave him a bemused sidelong glance. “What is the difference?”

  “Miss Benton’s willingness to tolerate such behavior is the difference, of course. She is happy to allow me to annoy her, because it gives her an excuse to say something cutting back. She does not feel the same about Bevershire. I don’t know why, and neither do I care. Why is irrelevant. She does not like it. Ergo, he is not here.”

  Eastwood opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saying, “That actually makes a good deal of sense I hadn’t thought you capable of.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Sebastian assured him.

  The second carriage stopped. Sebastian squinted into the distance. Unless he was mistaken, Miss Benton’s carriage was now third in the queue. Impatience swelled. There was something he wanted to tell her, he was sure, although exactly what eluded him. He turned his attention back to the current carriage, where the footman was helping Lady Louisa down.

  “Welcome to Perivale, my lady.” Sebastian bowed. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Lady Louisa smiled, revealing a darling dimple in each cheek. “It was delightfully dull, which is exactly what one wishes for a carriage ride. I had Lady Anonymous to keep me company.”

  Was she his future duchess? Lady Louisa was a delightfully plump girl with golden brown curls and sweet brown eyes. Entirely beddable, in his opinion. Since Miss Benton vouched for her character, she must be neither insipid nor cruel. Her father, the Marquess of Granby, was solvent and respectable. She would make a very comfortable wife, he thought. But before he could contemplate the matter further, Mrs. Pettigrew had whisked the lady inside.

  Lord Sutton emerged from the next carriage. Sebastian greeted him somewhat distractedly, for Miss Benton’s carriage had arrived at almost the same moment. Mrs. Roberts, the aunt, exited first, and was soon followed by her niece. The sunlight created a halo around Miss Benton’s golden head, so that she looked more like an angel descending the Kingdom of Heaven rather than a slightly shrewish lady exiting a carriage.

  Next to him, Lord Sutton gave a low whistle. “She makes a man forget how to breathe, doesn’t she. ”

  An absurd notion. Miss Benton was without question the most gorgeous woman in all England, but Sebastian was in no danger of forgetting life-sustaining functions such as breathing. In fact, he had quite a lot of air in his lungs, and it seemed impossibly urgent that he use every bit of that air to tell Miss Benton…something. He still couldn’t remember what. But no matter. That had never stopped him from talking before.


  He stepped forward as Miss Mukherjee appeared. Hopefully Lord Sutton had recovered his senses, for Miss Mukherjee was nearly as beautiful as Miss Benton, and a lack of air could not be good for one’s brain when one was already something of an idiot.

  “Mrs. Roberts. Miss Benton. Miss Mukherjee.” Sebastian bowed to each lady in turn. “I am delighted you came.”

  “And we are delighted to be here, Your Grace,” Miss Benton replied.

  He opened his mouth to continue their conversation, but she was already turning away from him toward Abingdon.

  “Where is Lady Abingdon?” she asked eagerly.

  Abingdon smiled as he always did at the mention of his wife. “She is in the drawing room, having tea with her sister and Lady Freesia.”

  “Shall I take you to her?” Sebastian asked.

  “But you must stay and greet your guests, Your Grace. Lord Abingdon won’t mind taking me, will you, my lord?”

  “Not at all.”

  Abingdon offered his arm to Miss Benton and Lord Sutton offered his arm to Mrs. Roberts. Eastwood turned to Miss Mukherjee, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. He took her refusal with good grace. Sebastian had noticed that before. Miss Mukherjee would often acquiesce to an arm to avoid drawing attention to herself, but she would prefer not to.

  Sebastian placed a hand on his waistcoat as he watched them enter the house. He felt for the hard bead through the yellow silk fabric and pushed at it with his fingertips, moving it around his pocket. It was Miss Benton’s. He had transferred it to his pocket each day, and each day he had told himself that he really ought to give it back. But she never seemed to feel its absence, she never questioned him on where, exactly, he had placed the button. He took offense on behalf of the button, absurd though it was. If she didn’t want the damn button, well then, she shouldn’t have it.

  And of course Miss Benton was eager to see her dear friend, Lady Abingdon. Sebastian had no feelings on the matter.

  Although perchance it would have annoyed a different sort of man to be so quickly cast aside in favor of a friend she saw fairly often, given that they both resided in London. Not Sebastian, of course, for he expected no less of Miss Benton. But a different sort of man might care about such things. The sort of man who might also notice that she had barely spared him a glance, so eager was she to depart his presence.

  He pushed at the bead again.

  It was only that he had wanted to tell her…something…and now he could not. The disappointment was familiar, somehow, as though he had been in this moment before, wanting to speak but finding himself watching her retreating backside before he could recall the words. It seemed to him he had been in this moment many, many times before. As though he had spent years with this moment.

  Unsettling, troubling thought. Sebastian did not like it. So he did what he did with all unpleasant things and pushed the feeling into the dark hole where it couldn’t bother him.

  He turned to the next carriage with an easy smile.

  Chapter Six

  Eliza entered the drawing room with the strange feeling that she was entering a garden in bloom. The carpet underfoot was the pale green of springtime grass, and the sofas and chairs were all richly embroidered with pink, red, and yellow roses. One wall was entirely windows; the facing wall was entirely ivy, so thick and plush that it seemed rooted in the wall itself. On a third wall the ivy arched in an elegant bower above a tree nearly the height of a full-grown man. Eliza stepped closer to investigate but was waylaid by her friends.

  “Eliza!” Alice greeted her with outstretched arms.

  “Alice! It has been too long.”

  They clasped hands, beaming at each other. Despite that Alice currently resided in London with her husband, Eliza had not seen much of her in the last two months. Lord Abingdon was not yet seated in the House of Lords; however, he was often in London to garner support for bills and causes. Of late he had joined with three other lords of similar convictions to find candidates for the Commons. Thus Alice had been much engaged with serving as hostess at teas and dinners.

  “Sit down, darlings,” Adelaide said. “Alice will pour the tea and we’ll have a nice chat. Riya, won’t you sit next to me here? There is plenty of room on the sofa, if Lady Freesia will scoot just a little.”

  Lady Freesia smiled and made space on the striped sofa. Riya sat between them, and Eliza made herself comfortable on the green velvet settee next to Alice.

  “One sugar and a dash of milk?” Alice asked as she prepared Eliza’s dish.

  Eliza nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  “See how elegantly she pours,” Adelaide said, her tone teasing. “My sister has had to spend a great many hours thusly. She is much improved from six weeks ago, when she spilled tea all over Lady Trenton.”

  Alice stuck her tongue out at her twin. “If Lady Trenton does not wish to be doused in tea, then she must learn to choose her words more carefully. It is so difficult to keep one’s hands steady when one is shaking with rage.” She smiled serenely. “But see now, I am in excellent humor, and there is your tea, my dear, with not a single drop spilled. Riya, how do you take your tea?”

  “With a splash of goodwill and two of milk,” Riya said, her dark eyes sparkling with humor. “And might I say how exceptionally lovely you look today?”

  Alice threw back her head in laughter. “You needn’t worry over spilled tea, for you are never less than delightful.”

  “What did Lady Trenton say that put you in a temper, Alice?” Eliza asked.

  “Ah.” Alice lifted a small shoulder. “Abingdon hopes to have his brother seated in the Commons. Lady Trenton was enthusiastic and believed her husband would support the bid, for everyone loves a reformed rogue, you understand. But to show the true depth of his reformation, he must name the mother of his child born out of wedlock so that she may be properly scolded.”

  Eliza glanced at Adelaide—the erstwhile unwed mother, now the respectable Mrs. Eastwood, although very few knew the secret. “Well, that certainly explains the spilled tea,” she murmured over the rim of her dish.

  “I have no tolerance for such women,” Alice declared. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why any woman would be so eager to rip her sisters to shreds. One expects such nonsense from men, but a woman really ought to be better than that.”

  “She is miserable with her lot in life, that is all,” Eliza said. “It is intolerable to her that a woman might step out of line and yet still be happy. Such a woman must be brought to heel so that she might be miserable with the rest of her kind.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Alice protested. “If Lady Trenton is miserable then I shall feel remorse over the spilled tea, and I do so hate to feel remorse for my behavior. It is very uncomfortable to feel in the wrong. Fortunately, Abingdon thinks I am entirely in the right, darling husband that he is, and the tea was no less than she deserved.”

  “Does this mean Mr. Eastwood will attempt to take a Commons seat, despite Lady Trenton?” Riya asked.

  “It is likely he will try,” Adelaide said. “He is unbearable when he is not put to use, and we are loath for him to return to the army.”

  “But his success is uncertain, which necessitates our return to London after this house party.” Alice pouted over her tea. She much preferred the country to life in Town.

  “Riya and I will be there to keep you company,” Eliza said comfortingly.

  “That is true.” Alice brightened. “And I have heard rumors that we will have another Lady Anonymous novel to entertain us before spring. I am not overly fond of novels, you know, but I do enjoy hers immensely.”

  “Oh, I do hope so!” Adelaide said, clapping her hands. “I have read A Woman’s Place twice already.”

  Eliza gave her tea a brisk stir it did not need. She was never entirely comfortable when the subject of Lady Anonymous was raised. She knew herself t
o be a terrible liar; her guilt must be as plain as the nose on her face. When Lady Anonymous was praised, she felt the unaccountable urge to protest. Yet censure stabbed like a knife wound, and it took all her fortitude to refrain from returning the blow.

  She was spared further discourse on the merits of Lady Anonymous by the arrival of Wessex. He greeted the ladies and sauntered closer to the settee upon which Eliza sat. She shifted, spreading her wool skirt to take up more space. Alice gave her an amused glance before likewise arranging her own skirt. There was scarcely an inch between them now; certainly there was no room for a duke. But he only arched an eyebrow and changed direction to the fern gracing a table across from her.

  “About whom are we gossiping?” the duke asked. “Do tell.”

  “My husband and his campaign for a Commons seat,” Adelaide said. “Have you anything to say on the matter?”

  “Politics!” He gave her an aghast look. “No, indeed.”

  He reached a finger toward the fern—a plump, silky thing that spilled over its pot in a delightful tangle of greenery—and stroked the underside of a tendril in a languid glide. Eliza, watching him, felt her neck tingle in response, as though it was her nape the duke touched rather than the fern.

  “It is of no interest to you who fills the seat?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she had intended. “Whomever has the seat will vote on bills that affect every man, woman, and child—most of whom have no say in the matter, at all. That does not concern you?”

  “Should it?” he asked.

  Eliza drew in a long, deep breath—long enough and deep enough to give him a very large piece of her mind. But then she paused. The nonchalance in his voice was too studied, the glimmer in his eye too hopeful. Oh! He was baiting her again, the insufferable man-child. She gave an indignant huff and deliberately turned away from him.

  “Well,” the duke said after a moment’s silence, “though I have no interest in politics, of course Eastwood has my support. Anything for you, Mrs. Eastwood. My services are at your command.”