How to Deceive a Duke (11 page)

Chapter 20

“M
arguerite
Lynton!” Nicholas growled as he looked at the marriage contract. The license also bore her name, as did the announcement in the
Morning Post
. Mr. Dodd also sent a lad running to the church to check the registry. She’d signed her own name in a clear, elegant hand.

He shoved the documents away, and rubbed his eyes. She’d duped him completely, and he’d been too much of a fool to even notice.

“Everything is quite in order, Your Grace. All legal and binding, though you may wish to amend your will now you’re a married man,” Dodd advised.

Nicholas rose. “Thank you, Dodd, we’ll discuss that another time.”

He stared at Marguerite’s signature. He was certain he had heard Sebastian call her Rose.

There was no way of getting around the truth. It was his own fault. He’d been too busy playing the rake, trying to frighten her away, to give a damn.
He
was the one who should have been frightened. She was a bold, seductive, clever little liar.

The door of the library opened and Granddame entered. “There you are, Nicholas. I wish to speak to you. Will you ring for tea?” She settled herself on the settee and regarded him like a cat with a prized bird hidden between her sharp little teeth. He ignored her request.

“How did you get that woman’s name into the marriage contract without my knowing?” He kept his tone calm.

She swallowed the canary whole. “I had it changed a week before the ceremony. It was quite plain, written in bold, black ink if you’d cared enough to look.”

“You might have told me.”

She waved her hand. “Oh pooh. You should be glad things turned out as they did. Hector Bryant insisted I offer for the eldest girl, but I knew Marguerite would be a better match as soon as I met her. She’ll make a fine duchess.” She rose and pulled the bell herself. “Did you know Rose Lynton ran away rather than face the prospect of being tied to you for the rest of her life? I merely waited to see what the Lyntons would do. Marguerite solved the problem beautifully. I like her—she has fire and spirit. Tea, Gardiner, and don’t be all day about it,” she ordered when he appeared, and waited for the door to close behind him. “She said you were a magnificent lover.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Come now. That expression doesn’t suit a man of your reputation. I’ve heard the stories about you. There’s no part of you left that could be shocked by anything I might say. You must have found her worth the effort. Men need not go to the trouble of seducing their wives.”

He raised an eyebrow at her frankness and decided to match it. “She was a virgin, Granddame. What did you expect me to do?”

She pursed her lips. “Given your behavior at the wedding yesterday, I expected that you’d do what most men would do. I am pleased in this case—only in this case—that you are not most men.”

“You mean I’m not David,” he said.

She smoothed a hand over the black taffeta mourning gown. “No, you are not. If not for you, your brother would still be alive, but you are duke in his place. Marguerite is your last chance to redeem yourself, to honor your brother and your title. It’s time to grow up.”

He glared at the ducal ring he wore. So she’d heard all the stories, and it didn’t matter one whit to her that none of them were true. She wanted to believe the worst. She had never asked about his years at war, or how he spent his days now he was home. She saw him as she wanted to, a scapegoat for David’s failings. His blood made him suitable for bearing an heir, but otherwise she had no love for him.

He stared at her marble profile. It would destroy her if she knew her beloved David was the gambler, the liar, the wastrel. He could never be so cruel—as cruel as she was—and tell her. Nor would he give her another child to misshape into another David. He’d rather have the unhappiness, the title—all of it—end with him.

Gardiner arrived with the tea tray.

“Would you ask Her Grace to join us?” his grandmother asked.

“I’m afraid she’s gone out, Your Grace. She left some time ago, on foot.” Gardiner calmly poured the tea, apparently unaware of the tension in the room. Granddame’s face reddened dangerously as she pinned Nicholas with a malevolent glare.

“That will be all, Gardiner.” She waited until he’d left the room. “Damn you, what did you say to her?”

“I told her she was an imposter and invited her to leave.”

For once Granddame looked stunned. “You did what? You fool! Go and get her back this instant!”

He crossed the room and poured himself a drink. “She was eager enough to go, and I don’t particularly want her back.”

Granddame gaped at him. “Think of the scandal! Your wife has walked out on you, left you the very morning after the wedding. What will people think?”

“I suppose they’ll think I’m like most men after all.”

She thumped her stick on the carpet, glaring at him, but she was powerless to control him now, to force him to do her bidding. Nor would he allow it any longer. He would have to call upon his wife at some point, and soon, but he needed time to decide what he would say. It would do her good to cool her heels with her mama for a while.

“Go and get her back!” Granddame ordered again.

Nicholas left the drink untouched and strode to the door. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.

When he saw his duplicitous little wife again, the upper hand would belong to him.

Chapter 21

H
ector watched Flora circle the rug in his sitting room like a caged lioness. She was twisting yet another lace handkerchief to shreds between angry fingers. He cast a sad glance at the remnants of three others that already lay on the carpet. Between the wedding ceremony and this unexpected turn of events, Meg’s marriage to Temberlay had cost a fortune in Belgian lace handkerchiefs.

It had taken only a single look at Meg as she stood in the entry hall to send Flora into a torrent of tears to rival Noah’s flood. She had been alternately crying and cursing Temberlay all afternoon. He’d been watching the clock, expecting—hoping—Temberlay would arrive to fetch his wife. He hadn’t come, and Meg was certain he would not.

His goddaughter was calmly sipping tea and nibbling on raisin cake as if nothing at all was amiss, but there were two spots of vivid color in her cheeks, a sure sign that she was furious. She drew calm around her like a cloak when she was most upset. It came from the necessity of having to keep her mother and sisters from falling into hysterics when things went awry. Meg had arrived at the door flushed with anger that she tried her best to hide from her mother. She blushed every time Temberlay’s name was mentioned.

“Do sit down and have your tea, Mama. There’s nothing at all to worry about,” Meg soothed. “We can go home to Wycliffe tomorrow. I’d rather not be in London when the marriage is annulled. I have met no one at all, and no one has met me, so the scandal will blow over all the faster if I am not here.”

She set her cup back in the saucer with exquisite care, but Hector noticed that her hands shook slightly. Her control was cracking. Her jaw was set hard as she fought to control her emotions. He held his breath, wishing she would fly into a rage, or soak the room in a flood of tears to rival Flora’s. Either would do her a world of good.

“What exactly did Temberlay say?” he began, but Flora turned on her daughter.

“Go home? Annulment? We’ll be ruined!” Flora interrupted. Another handkerchief shrieked as she tore it in half.

The sodden lace landed on the toe of his boot, and Hector regarded it sadly. It would mean far more than ruin. The Lynton ladies would be back where they started, and Meg’s notoriety would make it difficult for her to find a job now. But this was hardly the time to bring that up. And there was the possibility that Meg might be with child. What then?

Flora was muttering insults upon the absent Temberlay as she paced. She was making him dizzy, and Hector caught her hand. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. We expected there’d be some anger—”

“He was most insulting,” Meg licked icing off her fingers. Her face flamed again.

How insulting?

“Even so, I think it best if we send a note telling Temberlay that you are here. We can put it all down to a case of bridal nerves.”

“I’m not in the least nervous,” Meg said sweetly. “There’s no need of a note. He’ll know exactly where I am. The footman who saw me leave will report to Gardiner, who will report to the dowager. Temberlay will no doubt have informed his solicitors by now where they can find me. Can I pour anyone more tea?”

Hector squeezed Flora’s hand to keep her from shrieking.

“We must hope it doesn’t come to that. Perhaps if an apology was made,” he suggested.

“Men like Temberlay never apologize!” Flora growled.

Hector looked at her patiently. “That’s not what I meant—” but Meg was already on her feet.

“Then why wait? Since I have nothing to pack, I see no reason why I cannot leave for Wycliffe immediately.”

Flora shook his arm. “Hector, do something!”

He blinked at her. “Such as? I could order my coachman to take Meg back to Hartley Place immediately, willing or not, or perhaps you’d prefer I find Temberlay and call him out.”

Flora looked at him thoughtfully. “On what charge?”

Irritation pooled between his eyes. Three short weeks ago, his home had been a sanctuary, blissfully free of feminine hysterics. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Flora, I meant it as a joke. It’s too late to do anything today. Meg can stay here tonight, and we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

“Perhaps I don’t want it sorted out,” Meg grumbled, but he sent her a sharp look, and she subsided back into simmering silence.

Flora sat down, and looked at him. “I do hope you’re right, Hector.” Her hopeful expression suggested she thought he could fix anything, even this. The earnestness in her blue eyes almost made him believe it too.

He smiled reassuringly, praying it would deflect another noisy flood of tears. “Of course I am. Everything will be just fine.”

Even Meg looked half hopeful when he glanced at her, though she turned away quickly. Perhaps, with a few apologies, and some delicate negotiations, things might work out after all.

Chapter 22

T
he next morning Flora sailed into the breakfast room waving a handful of paper. “Marguerite, this is dreadful! Look what I caught the maids giggling over in the kitchen.”

Meg looked. They were the latest scandal sheets. She braced herself and leafed through them. The first showed a caricature of Nicholas being dragged to the altar by a buxom bride—herself, presumably—while a crowd of London beauties sobbed in the background. Nicholas was watching them with lascivious eyes. “Fear not, ladies, I’ll be back to play tomorrow” read the caption.

The second scandal sheet showed Nicholas clad in the shocking green coat with a half-naked woman under each arm, while his bride cried in the background, and her mama, who looked surprisingly like Flora, chased him down the street with a cleaver in her hand.

“I’ve never handled an axe in my life!” Flora said. “And I would never wear such a hideous gown!”

Aside from those details, Meg felt her gut tighten at the cruelty and remarkable accuracy of the drawings. The artist portrayed her predicament almost as if he’d been present, like a fly on the wall.

Or a bedbug.

She ground her heel into the carpet as if the vermin was lurking under the table. Still, there was nothing she could do about any of it. She would go back to the country, and Temberlay would go back to his women.

Her mother was watching her, waiting for a reaction. Meg forced herself to pick up her fork and eat, as if it didn’t matter to her in the least. She swallowed something that might have been sawdust, since it only added to the lump in her throat. She forced a smile. “There’s no point in getting upset, since there’s nothing we can do about it,” she said soothingly.

She made herself glance casually at the last cheaply printed page on the table as she set her fork down.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. This caricature was cruel beyond measure. How could anyone have known to draw such a thing unless—?

She shot to her feet, and her chair crashed backward as if it had fainted in horror.

“What is it?” Flora asked.

“How
dare
he!” The illustration, daubed with vivid color, showed Nicholas riding a lace-veiled mare with shapely human legs, long lashes and full breasts. Three other female horses stood placidly in a nearby paddock, gazing upon her grinning rider. “The Temberlay stud and the Wycliffe mare” read the caption.

Meg recalled all too well how she had made a fool of herself on her wedding night, comparing men to stallions.

He’d told the world. He must have. He had gossiped about the most intimate moment of her life. She crumpled the sheet, not stopping until it was a tight ball in her fists, and hurled it into the fireplace. Heat flared against her cheeks as the flames consigned the paper to hell where it belonged. Even after the fire fell back, sated, the burn remained.

Obviously, the wedding night had meant less than nothing to him. He had plenty of prettier bedmates to choose from,
experienced
women who did not compare men with animals.

Fury churned in her belly as she imagined Temberlay telling the tale, keeping his audience rolling on the floor with laughter as he described the hilarity of his wedding night in ribald detail.

She cursed Temberlay with all her might, wishing she knew darker, stronger words to describe him.

“Marguerite! Such language! Remember you are a duchess. Well, I suppose there’s some doubt about that, isn’t there?” Flora admonished unhelpfully.

Meg turned a tongue-stopping glare on her mother. She shut her lips on a tart reply when she saw the dismay on her mother’s face.

None of this was Flora’s fault. Meg had no one to blame but herself. She’d dared to wonder what it would be like to kiss the Devil of Temberlay, to marry him, to bed him. Now she knew.

“I’m going home.” Did that make her as cowardly as Rose? She didn’t care. “I will ask Hector to make the arrangements immediately.” There was no reason to remain in London. Hector could sign anything that needed signing, and send her word when her marriage had officially been dissolved.

She marched across the hall and opened the door of Hector’s study without knocking. She didn’t even bother to say good morning, since there was nothing good about it.

“I want to go home, Hector. Today, if you please.”

He was sitting at his desk with a strange, flat expression on his face. He rose slowly to his feet.

“Meg, my dear, I think you should—”

Someone else in the room cleared his throat. Horror dragged her stomach to her shoes. She read the apology in her godfather’s eyes as he nodded toward a chair hidden from her view by the door. Her hand tightened on the latch as she peered around the edge of the oak panel.

Temberlay was seated in a leather chair by the fireplace, his long legs crossed as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Meg’s heart leaped at the sight of him, even now. She’d forgotten how elementally male he was, how devastatingly handsome. How very tempting.

“Good morning, Maggie,” he said smoothly, rising.

With a growl of fury, she strode across the room and slapped him. “How dare you gossip about me?” She clenched her fists, ready to hit him again, but in one fluid motion, he swept her off her feet and dumped her into the chair. She backed into the corner of the still-warm leather as he leaned over her, blocking any hope of escape, his eyes granite chips of fury.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you strike me again, I’ll put you over my knee, no matter who’s watching.

Meg glanced around Temberlay at Hector. He was standing behind his desk in stunned silence, gaping at them. He shook his head in response to her silent plea.

“Your travel plans are canceled,” Temberlay said. “It appears our marriage is legal after all. You are my wife whether I like it or not, and you’re coming back to Hartley Place, where you will learn to act like a proper duchess.”

Meg flinched. What kind of marriage would that be? A match filled with cold hatred, anger, and distrust. The shame of a quick annulment would be better.

She glared at him mutinously. “No.”

There was no quarter in his hard stare. “You can leave here on your own two feet, or I will carry you out to the coach over my shoulder.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she hissed, her fury clashing with his.

There was a subtle shift in his expression, something dangerous she didn’t notice until it was too late. He hauled her off the chair and over his shoulder with remarkable ease. “I’ve warned you before, there’s very little I haven’t dared, Maggie.”

She shrieked as the room spun. She stared down at the heels of his boots in utter disbelief as he strode across the carpet with her. He paused only briefly by the door.

“Good day, Bryant,” he said, and Meg twisted to regard her godfather, who was watching in stunned silence.

“Hector!” she cried. Temberlay’s shoulder was pressed into her midsection, and it was hard to speak at all. “Surely you won’t allow this—this barbaric abduction!” she panted. She used her fists to pummel his back, and kicked him. A sharp, unexpected swat on her upturned bottom stopped her cold.

“You’ll only create more gossip if you scream. Behave yourself and I’ll let you walk to the coach.”

They were nearing the front door, and in a moment the footman would open it. Heaven only knew what
he
was thinking, what he’d tell the maids in the kitchen, and how it would sound when they spread the story to the staff next door. She did
not
want to appear in the scandal sheets with her bottom in the air.

She went limp. “Release me!”

“So you’ll behave,” he said, and let her slide down the hard length of his body until her feet touched the floor.

One look at the triumph in his eyes and she changed her mind.

She bolted for the stairs, heading for the safety of her room, and a locked door.

He caught her before she’d reached the third step. “You really are a hellion, aren’t you?” he asked as he put her back over his shoulder.

She could hear her mother nearby, her wailing muffled, pounding on something. Hector had probably locked her in the breakfast room to keep her from seeing this—or interfering.

Meg thrashed, but his grip only tightened. Her hair came loose in the struggle and floated around her like a red flag, obscuring her vision. She heard the front door open, smelled the dust of the street, felt the cool morning air on her silk-clad rump. She could hear voices and carriages going by. She could
feel
people staring at her. Was that laughter she heard? She couldn’t bear it.

Mortified, she began to struggle again, yelling every epithet she could think of, none of them very effective given her position, but he held her easily, and didn’t stop until he’d deposited her in the coach, dizzy and breathless.

“Hartley Place, Rogers,” he ordered calmly.

Meg caught a glimpse of her mother’s anxious face peering out the window of the breakfast room as the coach pulled away from the curb. Hector tugged her away and closed the curtains.

Heaven help her, there would be no rescue, no reprieve. She truly belonged to the devil. She wondered what further punishments he had in store for her. Bread and water? The torments of hell?

She sent up another desperate plea to St. George.