The Duke's Wicked Wife (Wicked Secrets)

by Elizabeth Bright

  “Is that so terrible, to care for the suffering of others? To want to relieve their pain in some way?” she asked.

  “To relieve suffering is a good thing, I will not argue otherwise. But there is far too much of it, and when one cares too deeply, one is prone to making foolish errors. Such as departing in a summer storm when it would be better to stay safely home. That is how one ends up dead in a ditch, you know.”

  She looked at him with soft blue eyes that held far too much compassion in their depths. With a swish of wool, she turned away abruptly and took a seat on a carved oak bench. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  He blinked. No, he most certainly would not. He had never spoken to anyone of what had happened that day. Why would he? It was a very serious thing, and he detested serious things.

  “Sebastian,” she said softly.

  It was the first time she had ever called him by his name.

  He frowned sternly.

  And then he told her all about it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You have heard that my parents died in a carriage accident more than ten years ago, yes?” he asked.

  Eliza nodded, her chest tight. She had been only a child herself when it happened, and living far from London. But she had heard the sad story whispered in ballrooms by scheming mamas delighted that the tragedy had resulted in a young, marriageable duke.

  Wessex nodded, too, mimicking her unconsciously. “But that is the end, and a story should start at the beginning. My mother was a passionate woman of deep feeling. As I said, she cared, truly cared, about everyone and everything. The highest prince, the lowliest snail—nothing was beneath her attention and sympathy. She brought baskets of food and gifts to the tenants every week and sat with them when they were sick, which drove my father mad with worry. A lady couldn’t withstand their illnesses, he said. He was proved wrong time and again, however. Thrice she became very ill herself, but she didn’t succumb. My mother was indomitable.”

  Every word was spoken with rueful affection. However unhappily his story would end, his love for her was obvious.

  “She sounds lovely,” Eliza said gently.

  He smiled wryly. “She was exhausting. We loved her, of course. No one could help but love Grace Sinclair. And my father was of a similar mind, though he possessed a sturdier temperament. They were well-matched.”

  Eliza ached to reach for him, to smooth the worry from his brow—so out of place in his dear face. But she kept her hands clasped firmly in her lap. “I am sure they were very happy together.”

  He nodded. “I was home from Oxford for the summer holiday when they died. I had expected to find her in excellent health, for summers were generally very pleasant for her. The true danger for her always lay in winter, when the cold made misery so much more acute. But influenza had struck our village, and she had worn herself to the bone. She was a shell of herself when I arrived home. Too thin, and she hadn’t slept in three days. She wanted to take a basket and sit with a sick family. My father argued against it, for she was exhausted, but she was determined. I offered to go, but my father refused, as he did not want to expose me to the illness. I was relieved. It looked like rain, and my mother could never be convinced to take the coach instead of the cart. I should have insisted on joining them. A better son would have.”

  Eliza shook her head mutely, unable to form words to make it better, easier, for him. “Sebastian, no.”

  He played idly with a strawberry leaf. “When they did not come home that evening, we went in search of them. We found them at the bottom of the ravine. The horse was still alive but in no condition to stay that way. I shot it and ended its misery. My parents were already dead.”

  Her throat tightened painfully, but she forced the words out anyway. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Wessex tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I know that. There was no fault here. Even knowing what I know now—that they died—I don’t know if I could have prevented it. If I had joined them, would they have lived? Or would we all have died? Maybe the cart wouldn’t have gone over the cliff, but we would have gotten influenza and died from fever. There are too many questions without answers. I do not blame the villagers. I do not blame my mother or my father. I do not blame myself. What would be the point?”

  Eliza merely looked at him, not knowing what to say. He was correct, and she could not blame him, either. Yet somehow she sensed that it weighed upon him all the more heavily, precisely because there was no one to blame.

  “And yet, you are angry,” she said gently. “Despite that there is no one to blame, you are angry.”

  “Of course I am angry, Eliza. Did they spare a thought for their son before hying off to save the poor and unfortunate? Did they never consider what would become of me, so recently changed from boy to man, if their lives were ended? No, they did not. And I must say, it was a shock. I never saw it coming.” He paused, shook his head, and then repeated, “I never saw it coming.”

  Eliza flinched, remembering her stepmother’s cries and the sudden silence that followed. “No one ever does.”

  His lips twisted in an odd grimace-smile. “Pain and suffering had always been things that happened to other people, not to me. Never to me. I had never known want. Every whim had always been granted. I can’t recall even a single moment of sadness from my childhood. But I was no longer a child. I was a man, and far too old to have felt pain for the first time. It was, as I said, a shock. I didn’t speak for months, and I barely touched my food. I became, as my mother had, a shell of myself. It was as though I had died with them. I often wished I had.”

  There was nothing else for her to do but open her arms to him. She had no words that could heal him, but her touch might give him comfort.

  “Don’t,” he said, even as he moved into her embrace. “Don’t comfort me. I am ridiculous. I was a grown man acting like a child. The pain of loss surprised me then, but I know better now. I will always see it coming.”

  She stroked his hair and wished she had kept her glove off. “Hush. It was an accident. You can’t prevent accidents.”

  “Pain and love are two sides of the same coin. To prevent the former, one merely forgoes the latter. Easily done, Sigrid.”

  And with that, he pulled free of her embrace.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eliza had never thought herself to be the sort of woman who lost sleep over a man, so it was with great consternation that she found herself at the ungodly hour of half past midnight, eyes peeled open and staring unseeing at the darkened ceiling, thinking of a man.

  And not just any man.

  Wessex.

  Aye, there was a sting most sharp.

  After throwing those awful words like a gauntlet, the duke had announced he was feeling peckish and would enjoy a sandwich and a tart. Eliza had not known how to respond to such an abrupt change in conversation, so she had merely nodded and allowed him to take her back to the house. No one had said a word about their lengthy disappearance, no doubt because they all had secrets of their own to protect.

  But now, several hours and far too many musical recitals later, his words were keeping her from sleep.

  And when she wasn’t thinking about his words, she was thinking about that moment when they had stood close enough for their arms to brush, and the muscles of his arm had jumped like a frightened animal.

  Her skin hummed with the memory, as though she could still feel him there. She kicked her legs restlessly under the heavy weight of the blanket as her brain churned.

  In all honesty, she couldn’t say which was worse—that he had infected her mind, or that he had infected her body. Both were appalling and entirely inconvenient.

  Well, she wasn’t going to put up with this nonsense. She would put him out of her mind and body the same way she solved all her problems—through walking. She tossed back the blanket, grabbed her wrapper, an
d wiggled her feet into her bedroom slippers. After a moment of fumbling to find and light a candle, she crept stealthily from her room.

  Force of habit turned her toward the kitchen. As a child, she had suffered from nightmares and often found herself there keeping the kitchen maids and cook company rather than burdening her relatives further.

  She moved past the long line of closed doors along the hallway. Despite the hour, all was not quiet. From behind closed doors came sounds of bed linens rustling and sometimes inelegant snores.

  And then she heard a muffled squeak that was much closer. She paused, lifting the candle high, and looked about. “Who’s there?” she asked quietly.

  For a moment all was still, and then Lady Freesia, wearing a pretty lilac wrapper and enormously rumpled hair, stepped into the light. “It is only me. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Eliza considered the likelihood of that statement. She hoped for the sake of all the gentlemen present that it was true, for Lady Freesia was here under the watchful guardianship of two brothers, one of whom was known to be somewhat violent when the mood struck. She imagined the mood would strike very hard, indeed, if Lady Freesia was discovered in a man’s bedroom.

  “Why are you awake?” Lady Freesia asked pointedly.

  “I couldn’t sleep, either, and thought I might find a bite to eat in the kitchen,” she said, dodging the question.

  “Ah.” Lady Freesia tilted her head. “I could do with a sandwich or tart. Shall we, then?”

  They were turning toward the stairs when a door opened and a head popped out. “Eliza! I thought I heard your voice. What are you doing?”

  “Couldn’t you sleep, either, Riya? We’re going to the kitchen to see what we can scrounge up.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  The three linked arms to better share the candlelight and silently went downstairs. A long hallway led to the back of the house, where the kitchen was situated. The glow from the candlelight flickered on oil paintings of rolling hills and dukes past, and then on something that was not a painting and very much alive. A shadowy form jumped and became two.

  They halted.

  “Lady Abigail! Lady Louisa! Whatever are you doing here?” Lady Freesia asked, as though she, herself, was not also there, awake, instead of abed.

  Eliza gave her friend a sidelong glance.

  “We haven’t yet gone upstairs,” Lady Louisa confessed. “We were playing cards and forgot the time.”

  “You forgot the time,” Lady Abigail said laughingly. “I always keep late hours.”

  “Well, no matter,” Lady Freesia said. “We are on our way to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Would you care to join us?”

  The ladies looked at each other and nodded.

  The quintet continued to the kitchen. Once inside, they located a lantern and lit it. Eliza shivered, rubbing her arms for warmth as she peered around. There was a long oak table with several chairs on either side, near the back of the room. A stove and series of cylinders took up one wall. There was a sink and several cabinets, as well.

  “Does… Does anyone know how to start the fire?” Lady Louisa ventured.

  “I can.” Riya contemplated the contraption. After a moment of puzzled investigation, she stood back, hands on hips. “No, it seems I can’t, after all. I’ve never seen its like.”

  “Well, no matter,” Lady Abigail said cheerfully. “If we cannot make a pot of tea, we can at least slice bread. And here is some butter.” She worked as she spoke, carving thick slices from the crusty loaf.

  “I’ve found some honey,” Lady Freesia said, waving the pot triumphantly.

  Riya slathered the bread with butter and Lady Freesia topped them off with thick drizzles of golden-brown honey. The ladies each took a slice and gathered around the table.

  Eliza surveyed their work with admiration. “Prinny himself could not ask for a more delicious midnight refreshment.”

  “How fortunate that we all happened to be awake to keep one another company,” Lady Louisa said.

  Gazes met somewhat shyly and guiltily around the table.

  “Have you noticed,” Lady Freesia said, “that our married friends are happily sleeping right now?”

  Lady Abigail grinned wickedly. “Oh, I doubt very much that they’re sleeping.”

  Lady Louisa turned bright pink. “Abigail!”

  “Oh, darling, you know it’s true. You’ve seen the way they look at each other. So disgustingly in love.” Lady Abigail wrinkled her nose comically. “I suppose we would be fortunate to find the same for ourselves.”

  Lady Louisa tossed her brown curls. “Oh, I do not aim so high as love. A wealthy duke is good enough for me.”

  The ladies tittered appreciatively.

  Eliza went very still, her bread hovering an inch from her lips. Slowly she put it down again and turned to pin Lady Louisa with a cold stare. “You do not mean to suggest that you would marry Wessex for his title?”

  “On the contrary, that is exactly what I mean to suggest. I was raised to be a duchess, to manage large households and advance my husband’s interests, whatever they may be. Is he not searching for just such a wife? Does he not also have requirements about parentage? To be sure, he is handsome, amiable, and charming—admirable qualities in a husband—but the same can be said of many men in England. All else being equal, why should I not aim for a duke? Ought I to settle for a mere mister?”

  Lady Abigail looked aghast. “Oh, Louisa, no! What of love?”

  Lady Louisa flushed and lowered her eyes. When she raised them again her expression had hardened. “Love so often proves to be at odds with one’s well-being, I have found.”

  It was an eminently practical viewpoint, and one Eliza had espoused many times herself. Wessex, too, seemed entirely uninterested in love. Had he not claimed that the point of a duchess was to beget an heir? Yet she shook her head in patent disbelief. “You say that as though men like Wessex are as common as squirrels. All things being equal? You won’t find his equal in London. You don’t know—you can’t possibly understand—” She stopped abruptly, aware of four pairs of feminine eyes trained on her with sudden interest.

  Lady Louisa tilted her head. “I could not help but notice that when we were playing hide-and-seek, you proved to be exceedingly well hidden. You are very good at the game, Miss Benton. Every bit as good as the duke. We could not find either of you for near half an hour.”

  Eliza saw no malice in the other woman’s face, but there was a good deal of mistrust. She opened her mouth to protest her innocence and then closed it again. Could she say in all truthfulness that nothing had happened? Something had.

  Lady Abigail made an unladylike snort. “Honestly, Louisa, you have all the subtlety of a jousting pole when a knitting needle would get the job done.”

  “A lance,” Riya murmured. When they all looked at her, she said, “I found Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in the duke’s library.”

  “Are you enjoying it?” Lady Freesia asked. She propped her chin on her palm.

  “Well. It begins on New Year’s Day, at a house party at King Arthur’s Camelot. The Green Knight appears and issues a challenge—someone may strike him once with an ax and the Green Knight will return the blow in a year and a day. Sir Gawain accepts the challenge and chops off his head. The Green Knight picks up his head and reminds him to expect the same in exactly a year and a day. Deliciously gruesome, is it not?”

  “All the best house parties are,” Lady Freesia agreed.

  It was an admirable attempt to turn the conversation, and Eliza gave her friends a small smile of gratitude. Alas, Lady Louisa was not so easily waylaid.

  “Of course I did not intend to imply that either you or the duke had behaved in an untoward manner during our little game,” she said.

  Eliza arched a brow. “Yes, you did.”

  That gave Lady Louisa p
ause. She studied her silently, her own expression carefully blank. Eliza met her gaze evenly.

  “Very well, I did,” Lady Louisa conceded. “But not in a judgmental way, you understand. I accuse you only of taking an opportunity I wanted for myself. It is no easy task to land a duke, and I commend any woman who manages to do so.”

  She looked at Eliza expectantly.

  Eliza said nothing.

  Lady Louisa sighed. “May I ask if there is an understanding between you and the duke, Miss Benton?”

  No was the proper, honest answer, but her mutinous mouth refused to form the sound. She stared at Lady Louisa resentfully. The presumptuousness of the woman, demanding an explanation of her friendship! She had no right. Wessex did not belong to Lady Louisa, not yet. He was—

  Eliza drew her spine straight. “There is no understanding. Our lives are intertwined because his friends are married to my friends, so naturally that makes us often together. There is friendship between us. Nothing more.”

  “Ah. But that will change after you are both married.” Lady Louisa lifted her shoulders in a pragmatic shrug. “Marriage leaves little time for such things.”

  Eliza sat very still, absorbing the sting of her words. Such things. As though friendship was nothing more than a child’s entertainment to bide time until life began in earnest, easily cast aside.

  “I have seen,” she said slowly, “how marriage can make two people very lonely. It would be easy to allow oneself to be consumed by the daily toil of married life, but when one makes an effort, friendships need not dissolve. My friends have not neglected me after their marriages, nor I them. Physical distance is a greater impediment to friendship than marriage, and thus it is likely that my friendship with Wessex will naturally lessen, for I will not be in London next Season.”

  Lady Louisa considered that with a tilt of her head. At last she raised her honeyed bread in a toast. “Well, then, Miss Benton. I wish you every happiness, wherever you shall be.”