The Duke's Wicked Wife (Wicked Secrets)

by Elizabeth Bright

  A great weight had lifted from her shoulders. Sebastian knew her secret—knew, and forgave her. And though she had much to do to repair the damage it had done to their marriage, last night’s lovemaking made her confident that all was not lost.

  It took her a moment to realize Sebastian was not home. She frowned, puzzled, before giving a shrug of her shoulders. He had not said he would be out when she had kissed him goodbye that morning, but she knew him to be easily bored and habitually in search of companionship. Likely he had gone to White’s to meet with Colonel Kent.

  Well, no matter. There was always work to be done.

  She left the door open to her study so that she might hear Sebastian when he returned. Alice had developed an intense craving for strawberries, and Eliza thought Sebastian would be pleased to hear that his greenhouse was of use to her. With a sigh of contentment, she settled into the Chippendale chair in her study.

  She picked up her pen and was soon engrossed in her work. Two hours passed quickly before she laid aside her writing and looked again to the open door. The sound of booted footsteps on marble echoed in the distance—Sebastian must have arrived. She tilted her head and held her breath, straining to hear his voice. But she heard nothing more and leaned back, disappointed.

  The anticipation caught her by surprise. If someone had told her even six months ago that she would await her husband with such eagerness—and that her husband would be Wessex—she would have thought them mad. Yet here she was, doing just that.

  She was happy.

  It was not the life she had so often dreamed of. Had that dream come to fruition, she might even at this moment have found herself in a similar position—at a desk, her words on the paper before her, satisfied of spirit, and yes, happy. She had no doubt that she would have been very happy at Hyacinth Cottage with Riya.

  Sebastian would likely have been married by now to either Lady Louisa, Lady Abigail, or Lady Jane. She would have seen him only in passing during events of the Season, not as a friend who sought her out. Eliza shuddered at the thought. How awful that would be!

  Thank God, thank God, for that wonderful damning kiss that had altered the course of their lives and entwined them together. She would have been happy at Hyacinth Cottage—there were so many ways to be happy, after all—but love was a deep, soul-stirring joy she had never dreamed of.

  It was a bittersweet gladness, for love did not blind her to what she had lost. She could not claim her life was entirely her own now. They belonged to each other as much as to themselves. She was his and he was hers, to face life together hand in hand.

  Neither did love completely eradicate her fears of the future. She did not want to die, and she was not silly enough to believe that love could save her from a fate that cursed so many women. If there had been a way to prevent that risk without vacating Sebastian’s bed altogether, she would have seized it desperately with both hands. Alas, there was no such method, and living with Sebastian had made celibacy entirely unappealing.

  No, love had not assuaged her fears, but it had made them more bearable, somehow. If death did claim her, then at least she would have these days with Sebastian first. And for now, anyway, she could put the worry away for another month.

  Eliza stood to light another lamp. The room had grown darker with the setting of the sun—what little there was of it.

  Where was he?

  She rang for a footman. Johns entered almost immediately, as though he had been expecting her call.

  “Where is His Grace?” she asked. “Did he leave any word for me regarding his whereabouts?”

  “He left this morning for Perivale, my lady. I believe he left a letter saying as much.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Perivale? But why? Has something happened?”

  “There is a letter—”

  “Give it to me.”

  “I believe he left it in your chamber, my lady.”

  She spun on her toes, bunching her skirts in her fist as she dashed up the stairs. There, on the crisp white linens of her bed, was a folded paper. She seized it and a small pearl dropped in her hand, which she instantly recognized as the button to her favorite pair of gloves. One that had been missing for months now. Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she turned her attention to the more urgent matter of his letter.

  Dearest Sigrid,

  I ruined your gloves when I stole your button, and I ruined your life when I took a kiss. I return both to you now. The button and your life, that is, not the kiss. The kiss is mine and I shall treasure it always.

  I shall remain at Perivale Hall until arrangements can be made to open Hyacinth Cottage.

  Yours,

  Sebastian

  She stared in consternation at the words, so neatly written out. He had forgone his usual habit of carelessly scribbled half words, as though he feared that his regular style risked too much in the way of miscommunication. He needn’t have bothered. His meaning was perfectly clear, regardless of spelling.

  He had left her.

  The coward.

  She clenched the pearl button in her fist. “Johns!” she bellowed.

  He appeared before his name had left her lips. “Yes, my lady.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Not half an hour after you, my lady.”

  She hesitated. Perivale Hall was a few hours’ journey from London. Likely he had arrived just as night fell. Even if she left now, she would not arrive until after midnight. The roads were good, but travel was always dangerous at night. He greatly deserved a tongue-lashing, but she would not risk life and limb to deliver it.

  “Have the carriage ready in the morning,” she said. “We will leave after breakfast.”

  Johns looked greatly relieved. “For Perivale Hall, my lady?”

  “Yes— No.” An idea, a wonderfully brilliant idea, occurred to her. “For Hyacinth Cottage.”

  Sebastian would get everything he deserved, she would see to that.

  But he must suffer first.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sebastian spent the first night alone lying on the floor next to his bed at Perivale Hall, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t say why he had chosen this uncomfortable position, only that the bed seemed loathsome, somehow, and reminded him of Eliza, despite the fact that she had never shared this particular one with him.

  All beds reminded him of Eliza now, if for no other reason than he simply wanted her in it. Chairs were likewise dangerous, as were carriages, libraries, and—it might as well be said—life in general.

  He awoke the next day in a great deal of pain, both in his back and his heart, and promptly medicated his injuries with a hefty amount of rum. And because he was a gentleman and not a sailor, he mixed his rum with tea. It was disgusting, but he persevered. By his third cup, he discovered that he almost liked tea.

  He spent the second day in the same state as the first. That was followed by wine on the third day, and brandy on the fourth. On the fifth day, Sinton declared there were no more spirits to be had in the whole of Surrey. Now that was a damned lie, but as Sebastian could not lift his head without casting his accounts, he let it pass.

  He therefore resentfully drank the tea Mrs. Pettigrew insisted on brewing and mulled the unfairness of his self-imposed banishment. The country was miserable in any season, but triply so in the dead of winter. No theater, no opera, no friends to come and call. If he couldn’t have Eliza, shouldn’t he at least get London?

  “Sinton,” Sebastian said. “Do you think Lady Wessex would prefer the country?”

  The valet looked perplexed. “Isn’t that what you have been going on about—” He cleared his throat. “That is, you mentioned a cottage she hoped to inhabit. I assume she will thus inhabit it, as you have taken leave of your senses.”

  The pounding in his head turned the valet’s words to gibberish. “Wha
t?”

  “I said I assume she will thus inhabit it, as to leave it unoccupied would be senseless.”

  “Oh.” Sebastian frowned. It had been unoccupied for several years, this was true. Who knew what state of disrepair it had fallen into? The ceiling might cave in on Eliza’s golden head. It was his duty as her husband to see that the cottage was safe—and appropriate—for his duchess. He stood unsteadily. The room spun. “Prepare the carriage.”

  Sinton paused. “If I may say so, Your Grace, a carriage is not the most comfortable place to convalesce from a week’s worth of drinking. A good night’s rest will put you to rights, and the cottage will still be a shambles tomorrow.”

  Sebastian nodded gingerly. “Tomorrow, then.”

  …

  Hyacinth Cottage was not what Sebastian expected. For one thing, it was not in shambles. The thatched roof had seen better days, but it was not caving in. The windows were large and looked to have been cleaned fairly recently. Spring was making its first shy attempt, and the dreary gray weather that had plagued London since Christmas had cleared, revealing pale blue skies that smiled sweetly down at the little cottage.

  Which was not so little, really. It looked to be a very comfortable size, especially if one did not intend to keep a large household. A woman who intended to spend her days in the pursuit of her art, with no husband to distract her and a dear friend to protect against loneliness, would be happy here. The thought drove him to unconsciously press a hand against his waist pocket, but he hadn’t even his talisman to comfort him.

  A window opened on the top floor, and Marie’s head appeared. It disappeared again almost immediately and reappeared a moment later in the window of the next room, which she likewise opened. The process was repeated twice more.

  Hmm. That was odd.

  It almost seemed as though the maid was taking advantage of the unusually warm weather to air the house in preparation for its owner.

  Unless the owner was already there.

  Sebastian tilted his head and contemplated the cottage. There were signs of life everywhere, from the swept cobblestone walk to the garden stripped of weeds. If Eliza was not already in residence, it was evident that she planned to be so soon.

  Well. She had certainly wasted no time missing her husband, had she?

  The door opened with a sudden swoosh of air, as though it had been shoved in great haste. And there—dear Lord, had she always been so beautiful?—was his wife.

  “Ah. There you are, Sebastian,” she said, as though she had been expecting him. “You are just in time for tea.”

  And with that one statement, Sebastian realized his wife was very, very angry.

  Chapter Forty

  Eliza looked at her husband and suddenly understood what it meant to drink in with one’s eyes. For that was what he did—he drank her in, as though he had spent months in the Sahara and she was an oasis of cool water. There were purple shadows under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that hinted at late, unhappy nights.

  Her heart squeezed remorsefully in her chest. Should she have come here to Hyacinth? Perhaps it would have been better to go straight to Perivale and have it out with him there. But then he wouldn’t know.

  “Have you been here long?” he asked with studied casualness as he followed her into the house.

  “Four days.”

  She heard him stumble behind her, but she did not turn.

  “Four days? You must have come straight here, only moments after reading my letter.”

  She whirled on him, unable to keep the frustrated howl from her voice. “You left me.”

  “It was for your own good, you know.”

  He said it with such compassion and gentleness that she was tempted to smack him in the back of his head in hopes that some sense was thus transmitted to his brain. Good God, he actually believed his own lies. The darling dunderhead.

  “Decided that all on your own, did you?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. “One might wonder why you did not consult with me, the person best able to advise you on matters pertaining to myself. But then you would have learned that you are wrong. You might even have been forced to face the truth, and heaven knows we couldn’t have that.”

  He eyed her warily. “Eliza, listen to me. It is better this way. You can have the life you always hoped for. Live here. Write your books. Be happy.”

  “Hmm.” She made a show of considering his words, looking about her with a pleased expression. “It is lovely here, I must say. I wasn’t sure it would live up to the picture in my head—it has been so long since I was here last, I was but a little girl, really—but it is everything I hoped it would be, although of course I wish Riya were here. I do miss her so.”

  “You… You miss her,” he said.

  “Of course I do! We had intended to live here together, Riya and I. Isn’t it fair that I miss her, now that I am here and she is not?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, sounding a good deal less than enthused.

  She made a humming sound and spun on her toes. “It is so much more than a room of my own. A whole house where I can truly be my own master and do everything precisely when and how I wish. The country suits me, but London suits me, as well. Fortunately, our marriage contract has ensured that I will always have enough funds to spend every Season in London. Yes, I do think I could be happy here.”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  She looked at him.

  He looked at her.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Yes— Pardon?” He sucked in a breath, then appeared to hold it for longer than was healthy.

  “I said, no, thank you. I would have a wonderful life here, but no. I want to have a life with you.”

  He frowned. “Even if it means your life will be much shorter because of it?” he asked sharply.

  “Ah!” she said softly. “And now we come to the truth of it.”

  “This is what you wanted. This.” He threw his arms wide, indicating the walls around them. “Not a marriage. Not children. Not death.” His voice rose with each furious word.

  She gave him a pitying look. She did not relish hurting him so, but there was no other way.

  “Why do you not understand?” he said. “It is for your own good. I cannot promise you won’t die bringing our child into the world. Women do sometimes, as we have both admitted. Your own mother. Your stepmother. Women of my own acquaintance, as well. Hell, even Princess Charlotte, not four months ago. You must be reasonable about this.” He was fairly raging at her now.

  “And still, I choose you.”

  He looked at her silently for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t think I can allow that.”

  The words were a knife to the heart. But she had known he wouldn’t make it easy. She gritted her teeth, absorbed the blow, and fought her way through it. “You, my love, are a coward.”

  “I never claimed to be otherwise.”

  “One cannot escape life unscathed.”

  “Haven’t I been scathed enough?” he demanded.

  “Haven’t I, as well? It is too late, Sebastian. You cannot protect yourself from pain, not even if you lock me away in this cottage forever. That is what it means to love someone. You love me.” She hoped that was true, though he had never admitted it out loud, or very likely even to himself.

  He did not deny it, but neither did he admit it. Instead, he closed his eyes, swallowed hard. When he opened them again, the expression she saw there was fit to break her heart.

  “It is simply this,” he said. “Nothing has broken my heart like loving has, and yet I cannot breathe without you. If you were to die, I would be forced to die, as well. I would never survive it. I would go in a corner and stop breathing.”

  Her own breath came in rapid bursts. She struggled with the urge to throw herself in his arms. He wasn’t ready, not y
et. “Well,” she said mildly, “this might come as a shock to you, but I hardly expect to survive my own death myself.”

  He stared at her. His mouth twitched as though fighting a smile. “Do not jest. It is very serious.”

  “Yes, yes. Death is always serious.” She waived a hand impatiently. “I have spent much of my life ardently trying to avoid it. But death comes in many forms other than childbirth. Carriage accidents, for example.”

  His jaw opened and then snapped shut. He shook his head in denial.

  “Of course, I think the odds are more likely that I will die in childbirth than in a carriage. But I can’t really know for certain, can I? What I do know is this. I would rather have a short life with you than a long life without you.”

  “I won’t survive it,” he said again.

  “Everyone thinks that. And yet…somehow…we do.”

  He made a sound that was almost a sob. She went to him then, knowing she had won, knowing it hurt him that it should be so. She enfolded him in her arms, and at last he surrendered. He buried his face against her neck as she stroked his hair soothingly.

  “Separate bedrooms,” he said firmly, his voice muffled. “We don’t have to do…that.”

  She pulled back to give him an incredulous look. “Darling, do you really think we can resist? For even a fortnight, much less the rest of our lives?” The mere continuance of humanity was a clear indicator otherwise. She was not the first woman to consider that progeny could result in death, and yet progeny continued on.

  “No,” he said morosely.

  She held him closer.

  He hesitated. “But there are…methods…precautions…we could take. French letters and so forth. Nothing that is entirely certain to work, and I must admit that success seems to fade with every passing year. But we could at least try.”

  She gave him a searching look. He was serious. “But you want an heir.”

  “I want you alive,” he said fiercely.

  “All right,” she said. “We will try.”