Read How to Deceive a Duke Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
How to Deceive a Duke (17 page)
B
y the time Nicholas reached the staircase that led to the foyer, there were a hundred people in his way. Men slapped him on the back. Women turned away to whisper behind their fans.
He was in too much of a hurry to catch his wife to stop and explain, or to plant a fist in anyone’s face. He shoved his way through the crowd, but Hector’s coach was gone by the time he reached the street.
He clenched his fist and drove it into the stone wall of the building, feeling his knuckles split. The pain didn’t erase the image of Meg’s face, the stark horror, the betrayal in her eyes. He felt hot shame flood him at who he’d allowed the
ton
to make him.
He found his coach and climbed in. The ghost of her perfume rebuked him. “Bryant House,” he commanded.
He’d look there first.
M
eg wasn’t sure how long she sat at her dressing table. The soft knock on the connecting door startled her. She stared at the shadowed panels, her heart in her throat, unable to speak.
The latch rattled and she cast a quick glance at the key on her dressing table. She picked it up and clutched it in her hand, squeezing until the metal dug into her palm.
“Go away.”
“Open the door, Meg,” he commanded.
She stayed where she was. She couldn’t look at him tonight, fresh from the arms of another woman, her perfume on his shirt, her touch still on his skin.
She stood in the center of the room, and glowered at the portal. “What do you want? To gloat?”
“I won’t have this conversation through a locked door.”
The word “conversation” made her lips twist bitterly. “You want to talk?” she hissed. “I think we’ve said everything. Go back to your mistress!”
She flinched as his fist hit the door. At least she thought it was his fist until the door crashed inward and landed at her feet. He stood in the opening, shattered wood at his feet, more pirate than duke.
A shiver of fear coursed through her.
“Never lock me out again, Maggie. This is the only time I will warn you.”
She folded her arms over her chest and glared back, meeting the anger in his eyes with her own fury. “Oh, is that the way to tempt you into my bower? To challenge you? That door has been locked for weeks, and you’ve shown no interest in opening it. Why tonight? Was my public humiliation not revenge enough? Have you come to laugh, to point out that I can now see why I am not good enough for you?”
N
icholas regarded his wife, saw the pain in her eyes. She was trembling. He felt shame fill his chest at the hurt he had caused her, even if it had been unintentional. She wore only her shift and a silk dressing gown that she’d forgotten to fasten. Her skin was flushed pink, her breasts heaving with anger. There was no paint, no jewels, no artifice. She was more beautiful than any woman, especially Angelique.
He had planned a very different ending to this evening. He had no idea how to fix this. Should he apologize, fall to one knee and beg? He didn’t beg. Nor could he bring himself to tell her that he’d dismissed Angelique because he couldn’t even think of any woman but his wife. He sensed even saying Angelique’s name would make things worse, not better.
“Perhaps I came to claim my husbandly rights,” he said instead.
It was the wrong thing to say. He saw that at once. She flushed scarlet, and her chin rose. She clenched her fist, and he thought for a moment she’d punch him. She threw a key at him instead. It hit him in the chest, and fell to the carpet.
“You dare to come to me from the arms of another woman and talk of rights and privileges? You have her makeup on your mouth! What of my right to respect as Duchess of Temberlay,
your wife
, or does that apply to everyone but the Duke of Temberlay?”
His gut tightened. “It seems you’ve forgotten the fortune you earned as your reward for marrying me. You want my respect as well? You’ll have to earn that, Maggie.”
She made a strangled sound of fury. “How, on my back, while you compare me to
her
?” she demanded. “Please leave, Your Grace. You have shown me that I am repugnant to you—”
She drew a breath as he advanced on her. “Shall I take you to bed and show you how far from repugnant I find you?”
She stared at him, and he watched anger warring with indecision in her eyes. She turned away. “No. I cannot do this. Not tonight, not now.”
For a long moment he stared at her silk-clad back, her bare feet.
“I have no interest in bedding an unwilling woman. Go to bed, Maggie. Alone. I wish you joy of it.”
He ignored her gasp of indignation as he stepped over the broken door and went to his own room. He crawled into his cold bed and pulled the pillow over his head and shut his eyes against the image of Meg’s tormented face, the ghostly sound of David’s final words.
It’s all Nicholas’s fault.
This time at least, it was true.
“T
he Countess of Wycliffe is here to see—”
Marguerite watched as her mother barreled poor Gardiner out of her way and entered the breakfast room the next morning.
“I have brought the scandal sheets,” Flora said, brandishing a sheaf of papers.
Meg turned to Gardiner. “Would you burn those, please, Gardiner? The dowager sent the morning papers to my rooms this morning, Mother. I did not read a word, and I do not wish to read them. In fact, I have banned them from being brought into my presence ever again.”
Flora frowned and sat down, helping herself to tea. “You sound very regal this morning. I trust the laudanum helped?”
Meg focused on stirring her tea. “I didn’t take any.”
She had stared at the vial after Nicholas left her, and put it away. She had lain awake half the night, thinking of the dowager’s threat. What would Flora do if she were publicly disgraced? She had retreated into a dangerous half world induced by drugs when her husband died.
The only thing to do was to find a way to make Nicholas sire a child to protect the ones she loved. Poor, poor child. It was an impossible choice, but perhaps it would be possible to find a way to protect her son.
“I came to ask which invitations you’ll be accepting this next week or two. I’ll arrange my schedule to match yours. The old cats may hiss behind your back in the face of this dreadful scandal, but they won’t claw at me!” her mother bungled.
“That’s kind of you, Mama, but I will be staying in this week.”
Flora’s eyes popped. “Staying in? Do you think that’s wise? You should be everywhere, seeing everyone, proving that it does not matter one whit to you what he gets up to.”
She raised her chin. “But it does matter. I must start again, come to an agreement with Nicholas if this marriage is to be bearable for the short time necessary to get an heir.”
“Get an heir? You still mean to allow him husbandly privileges?”
Meg felt her skin grow hot. What would her mother say if she knew it wasn’t a case of allowing him, but rather forcing him to bed her?
Meg got to her feet, breakfast rolling in her belly like an uneasy sea. “I must speak to him before he leaves for the day.” She hooked her arm through Flora’s, and led her firmly toward the door. “I trust you’ll be able to enjoy the parties and hold your head high without me?”
“Of course,” Flora said, and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I shall tell everyone . . .” She paused. “What shall I tell everyone?”
“Not a thing. Let them think what they want,” Meg advised.
When her mother had gone she went along the hall toward the library, steeling herself, thinking of just how she would insist that he must—
“You are too good to me. I could not have a better, dearer, more loving—” a woman’s voice murmured, and dissolved into tears. Meg froze in the hallway.
“I’m glad this has worked out, Julia,” Nicholas replied.
“I must thank you for the little house, and for all the gifts. You have quite spoiled us both.”
Meg peered around the door. A young woman with dark hair sat on the settee. Nicholas sat beside her, gazing at her with a gentle smile and love in his eyes. Her heart twisted.
“How is the child?” Nicholas asked.
“I think he’s excited about the trip. He’ll miss you.”
He looked dubious. “Can a lad his age miss a dreadful old man like me?”
Meg’s heart stopped beating.
A child?
Hadn’t her mother heard a rumor that he had been visiting a woman with a child? His child? Her heart sank to her shoes.
She watched the young beauty lean forward and kiss his cheek. “I am grateful for all you’ve done, Nick.”
They rose, and the woman looked around. “I might have been duchess here,” she murmured. “How different things might have been, if only . . .”
Meg fled. She didn’t stop until she was safely back in her room. She put her back against the door. Someone else might have been duchess, if not for Meg. And there was a child.
She wrapped her arms around her own empty womb and let out a panicked cry of pure agony. No wonder he didn’t love her, couldn’t love her. He’d had hopes of marrying someone else.
She thought of the duchess’s threat. How would she ever get his attention now, lure him into her bed? She’d have to be the only woman on earth.
She crossed to open the trinket box that sat on her dressing table. The vial of laudanum lay amid the earrings and pins and ribbons. She picked it up, held it to the light. The liquid was as dark as sin, as dangerous as—
“Good morning.”
She closed her hand on the vial and hid it behind her back at the sound of Nicholas’s voice.
He stood in the doorway regarding her soberly. “We need to talk, I believe.”
Meg swallowed. There was no indication in his expression of what he might wish to say. His gaze held none of the love he’d shown the dark-haired woman in the library. For her, there was only wariness in his eyes. Her heart sank. Talking wasn’t going to help. She desperately needed him to do much more than that if her family was to be safe.
“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse. Could she drag him to her bed, make him—
“I was thinking we might take luncheon together.”
Luncheon?
She squeezed the vial in her hand. “I have a better idea. Let’s take a picnic outdoors somewhere.” She forced a smile.
He smiled, relaxing. “I know a lovely spot a few miles outside London, by the river. Will that do?”
She nodded. “Perfectly.”
“T
his outing was a nice idea,” Nicholas said. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, after last night.”
Meg was staring out the window, her hands clasped in her lap. She’d barely looked at him as he’d handed her into the coach, and there were two bright spots of color in her otherwise pale cheeks. Was she still angry, afraid, nervous? He reached out to touch her hand, found it icy. He let go. “I thought it would be easier to talk away from the servants, and—others.”
The color spread briefly. She met his eyes at last, her expression guarded. “Tell me, how do you know of this perfect picnicking spot?”
She assumed he took other women there. He could tell by the skyward tilt of her chin, the ice in her eyes. “I used to come here to fish—alone—before I left for Spain. I haven’t had time to come since my return. This is my first visit to the place in years. I hope you’ll forgive me if it isn’t quite as I remember it.”
“Oh,” she murmured.
“Did you imagine I intended to take you out into the wilds to seduce you? This may surprise you, but I prefer the comfort of a bed.”
“Then I must assume you haven’t found one that’s just right, since you have tried most of the mattresses in Mayfair,” she quipped.
He let it pass. He’d carefully planned what he would say. If she wished to quash the gossip about what happened at the theater, the best way was to live as if it didn’t matter. They could leave London if she wished, go to Temberlay. He had no idea how the conversation would go from there. Accusations, tears, threats . . . he was ready for anything.
He hoped. He was as nervous as a bridegroom.
He pulled a flask of wine out of the basket she’d arranged, and two glasses as well. “Mrs. Parry has done well,” he said, examining the contents. “There’s chicken, duck, fruit, cheese, and even cakes. We’ll be well fed.”
He handed her the glasses, and took the stopper out of the bottle. She watched the wine flow into the glass, her lower lip caught in her teeth. It sparkled like rubies.
“To a new beginning?” he toasted.
Her eyes were sharp, but she nodded.
He sipped, hoping the wine would lend him courage to tell her he’d dismissed Angelique, but her name stuck in his throat, as if speaking it aloud would sully the air between them, shatter the fragile truce. He sipped again and again, seeking courage, until he’d emptied the glass. “Do you fish? I could teach you,” he said.
“No, Your Grace,” she said, staring at him with odd intensity.
“Nicholas,” he said, pleasantly warm from the wine. “Say my name, Maggie.”
“Nicholas,” she said. “More wine?”
He sipped again. He frowned and looked into the glass. “This tastes a touch bitter. I’ll have Gardiner check the stores in the cellar. Perhaps it’s a little—”
He felt dizzy, and suddenly sleepy. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. It wouldn’t do if he fell asleep now. He tried smiling at Meg, but there seemed to be two of her.
“What the hell is happening?” he said, and shook his head to clear it. Meg was sitting very still, her glass still full. She tossed it out the window.
“God in heaven, Maggie, what have you done?” he asked. Poison. She’d put poison in the wine. He dropped his glass from nerveless fingers, and watched the dregs spill across the floor like blood, crawling toward the door. She reached for the glass, and he grabbed her hand, held it tight.
“What have you done?” he demanded again, his words slurring. She pulled away, broke his grip easily.
“It’s only a little laudanum,” she said from a long way off.
“Laudanum? How bloody much?” he mumbled. “You can’t—” His tongue wouldn’t work. His eyes drifted shut, and he couldn’t force them open again. Oblivion rushed up to claim him.