Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (30 page)

It was obvious the Duke and Duchess were devoted to one another and whatever the Duke’s previous life as an unconscionable rake, Deb was certain he had mended his wicked ways upon marriage. She wondered how such cruel lies about the Roxtons’ private life had continued to circulate and was of the opinion that the Duke’s reputation as a debauchee must have been very bad indeed. But she could not now imagine him being anything but a kind and loving husband and father and thinking back on the baseless remarks she had hurled at her husband about his parents she felt shame and wretchedness.

Suddenly the delicious food on her plate became unpalatable and she lost the thread of the chatter going on about her. But in her abstraction of self-castigation she became aware of another quite separate conversation between devoted servant and master. Martin Ellicott and the Duke chose to converse in English at a table overflowing with French repartee. It was the first time Deb had heard the Duke speak his country’s native tongue and if his tone in French was haughty, in English he sounded positively chilly.

“May I inquire if you gained your objective with his French Majesty, your Grace?” asked Martin Ellicott.

The Duke looked away from the Duchess. “The private audience went well. Louis, like I, is most concerned Antonia should not suffer any undue—er—distress.”

“Then one can presume the trial…?” Martin began, letting the sentence hang because he found the topic of his godson’s upcoming trial a difficult one to broach with his father.

The Duke spooned oysters onto his plate from a silver dish lying on a bed of ice and held by a blank-faced footman wearing white gloves. “It is most lamentable, but I fear not only has the trial judge fallen victim to an undisclosed—er—contagion, which has delayed proceedings now for some months, but that the entire fraternity of judges has succumbed to the same illness. An early recess was called; cases are postponed for several more months.” He speared an oyster with a small silver fork. “The precise nature of the illness remains a mystery…”

Martin Ellicott grinned and waved away the gloved footman. “I’m sure it will, your Grace.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully, a sidelong glance down the crowded table at the Marquis who was heaping garlic drenched quail onto Jack Cavendish’s plate. “Yet, I believe your son was looking forward to his day in court. He will be disappointed.”

“Yes,” came the flat reply.

“After all, he is blessed with that rare quality amongst his kind: a strong moral code, if you will.”

“Yes. He is his mother’s son.”

Martin patted his mouth with a corner of a linen napkin to hide a knowing smile. “Yes, your Grace, he is. That must please you?”

The Duke put up his white brows in mock hauteur. “Are you daring to suggest I would not want my son and heir to follow in my—er—rakish footsteps?”

“Pardon, your Grace, but even did you desire it, which I know you do not, he would not do so. It is not in his nature.”

“Ah, my declining prestige…” The Duke finished his oysters, pushing aside the plate to take up his wine glass. “Defending his honor in a French court of law against an upstart merchant prince and his cunning bitch of a daughter serves no worthwhile purpose,” he said acidly. “If my son has a taste for speeches let him satisfy it in the Lords where his—er—
values
can be put to good purpose; he’ll be Duke soon enough.” He signaled to his butler to refill the Duchess’s wine glass, and raised his own to her with a smile. “Yet, my dear Martin, this infirm old satyr is determined, God willing, to remain for as long as possible upon this earth; for her sake, you understand.”

“Yes, your Grace, I understand perhaps better than any other.”

Deb followed the Duke’s gaze down the length of the table to the Duchess and was witness to the look and the private smile they exchanged, and for one moment it was as if the ducal couple were dining alone together at the long table and not amongst their chattering, happy family. The Duchess returned the Duke’s toast with one of her own, and with the spell broken the couple’s attention came back to the dinner table. It was then that Deb sensed that she too was being watched.

From under her lashes she looked across the cluttered surface of the mahogany table between two bowls overflowing with white roses and found Julian’s green-eyed gaze upon her. It was obvious he had been regarding her for sometime while she had had an ear to the conversation between his father and godfather, for he quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the silver knife and fork on his empty plate, but not before Deb glimpsed the abject sorrow reflected in his lovely eyes.

It was too much for her and she shot to her feet, none of the silent liveried footmen lining one wall able to catch her chair in time before the ornately carved back clattered to the parquetry floor.

Instantly, Julian was on his feet. The rest of the gentlemen, with a lady out of her chair, politely rose but at a more leisurely pace. The Duke, however, remained seated, regarding his son and daughter-in-law over the rim of his glass with an expression that remained unfathomable. All conversation and laughter came to a halt.

“I—The heat—This gown—I-I should rest before the ball,” Deb heard herself babble in the deafening silence. She dropped a curtsey, first to the Duchess and then to the Duke. “Please, excuse me…”

Without waiting to be excused, she ran from the room with a shaking hand to her mouth.

Evelyn threw down his napkin to follow her but two sharp words from his cousin and he remained where he was.

Julian cast a smoldering eye over the table as the gentlemen sank back slowly onto their chairs, Evelyn included. “Deborah has had enough of this family’s good intentions for one morning. Harry? Jack? If you’ve finished eating we will inspect those archery boards before the guests arrive.”

And with a bow to his parents, Julian left the room with the two boys in tow; Lord Vallentine heard to comment loudly,

“What’s that?
With child
? Alston’s bride? Well, stamp me! The chit’s only been here five minutes!”

~   ~   ~

Lady Mary found Deb seated at a cluttered boudoir table, a cotton dressing gown over her flimsy chemise and frothy under petticoats. She was staring, not at her reflection, but out the window, chin cupped in her hand and a mass of dark red hair tumbling freely down her back. Draped over a spindle-legged chair by the ornate Oriental dressing screen was Deb’s ball gown of heavy silk embroidered with gold thread and pearls, and a matching pair of silk covered shoes with diamond buckles. Deb’s maid Brigitte, who held a silver-backed hairbrush, lifted her shoulders at Lady Mary’s look of inquiry, as if to say she had done all she could to hurry her mistress along to finish her toilette in time for the ball. She then stepped back with a curtsey to allow Lady Mary to draw up a chair. Such was Deb’s distraction with the view that it was only when she rose half off the padded stool to take a better look at what was going on beneath her window, and then turned to comment to Brigitte that she saw her sister-in-law.

“Mary! What a pleasant surprise. But how formal you look with your hair so tall and powdered and feathered and—Is that truly a sailing ship atop a small straw hat?”

“It’s all the rage. Do you truly like it?” Lady Mary asked anxiously, a tentative hand to her steepled coiffure. She failed to notice the quick look that passed between Deb and Brigitte, Deb biting her lower lip to stop a smile. “Of course I told
Maurice
my hairdresser that I did not want my hair so outrageously tall that I would have a crick in the neck before the first dance; which is what happened to the little Countess Lowenbrue and she had to sit out an entire ball with a bag of ice at her shoulder!”

“Is that so?” commented Deb, returning to stare out the window. “I am in two minds: Wear my hair down my back in the manner of a medieval princess, or let Brigitte work her magic. If I had my way I would simply braid it and be done, but Brigitte says I must wear it up and so I shall. Oh, well done, Jack!” she announced and this time did get to her stockinged feet. “Come look, Mary. Jack and Harry are having the most wonderful time with their archery bows.”

Lady Mary came to the window with its view of the courtyard.

Gaily colored tents festooned with ribbons and flags were erected at the far end of the rolling green lawn and under their shade lounged the crème de la crème of Parisian aristocracy, their every whim attended to by an army of liveried servants who came and went with heavy silver trays laden with food and drink. At some distance from these marquees a row of large bullseyes had been nailed to the chestnut trees lining the cobblestone walk, and it was at these bullseyes Deb drew Mary’s attention. A cluster of children watched over by their nurses and tutors, dressed in rich fabrics and diamond buckled shoes that mimicked those worn by their fashionable parents, were each possessed of a bow and a quiver full of arrows. They stood a designated distance from the bullseyes, ranked according to age, and fired off their colored arrows at the targets. When their supply of arrows was exhausted liveried servants ran about gathering up the spent arrows and returning them to the quivers of their rightful owners.

Lord Henri-Antoine and Jack stood shoulder to shoulder amongst this excited group of laughing, happy children and fired off their arrows in turn. Standing off to one side was the Marquis of Alston, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and Martin Ellicott, who looked to be keeping score with quill and blotter; both offering collective encouragement to the children in their efforts to strike the bullseyes. As Deb and Mary continued to watch, the Duchess came up in a whirl of silk embroidered petticoats and stood between them, holding Martin Ellicott’s arm and barely reaching her elder son’s shoulder. When her younger son waved she blew him a kiss. At that Lady Mary turned away from the window with a frown and sat down heavily with her back to the view.

“I’ve never understood why that old servant is treated better than any relative!” Mary commented pettishly. “Gerald says it’s because Ellicott knows too many of the Duke’s secrets and so can’t be easily fobbed off. And if he wasn’t as ancient as his master we would all be left to wonder at the true nature of his relationship with Cousin Duchess.”

Deb swiveled about on the padded stool, mouth agape. “Mary! How appalling to hear you, of all people, repeat such horrid and quite malicious gossip, particularly about a woman who I suspect hasn’t a malicious bone in her body.”

“When you’ve been a member of this family for as long as I have you—”

“While I am a member of this family, I never want to hear any of the untruths spread about the Duke and Duchess and Martin Ellicott or, for that matter, my husband.”

“So you intend to remain Marchioness of Alston?” Lady Mary inquired archly.

Deb glanced at her own reflection, a protective hand to her round belly. “I—The baby…”

“The baby will at least be a consolation.”

“How’s that, Mary?”

“You’ll have something to love and someone who loves you. All the ugliness of your marriage will disappear and, if you are truly blessed, you’ll have a son and then, well…” Mary looked down at her plump white hands. “You won’t have to submit to any more unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness?” Deb gave an involuntary laugh. “Mary, you goose! This baby wasn’t conceived in unpleasantness. Far from it. That first night… It was the beginning of quite the most wonderful experience of my life,” she said wistfully and inexplicably burst into tears. “Damn! What is wrong with me these days?”

Lady Mary offered Deb her handkerchief. “Females in your delicate condition often cry for any reason. I did and at the oddest of moments.”

“Well I can’t bear it! First I’m bedridden with nausea and now I’m a weeping pot. How Medlow can tell me pregnancy is a perfectly normal condition… And how you can honestly sit there and say a child can make up for a loveless marriage is beyond me.” She wiped her eyes and disappeared behind the ornate dressing screen, calling for Brigitte and saying through gritted teeth, the wet handkerchief twisted in her hands, “How dare he do this to me so soon!”

“Don’t you want this child?”

“Want?” Deb called out bewildered, as if the question had never occurred to her. “Of course I want this baby. I wanted a brood. But now… Brigitte? Good. Let’s see if I can fit into that wretchedly heavy gown. And then perhaps I can go for a walk for I need some fresh air before I enter a ballroom full of strangers.”

“I know you’ve only just arrived, and I’d hope to spend some time with you,” Lady Mary called out, watching the maid come and go from behind the screen, first with the heavy silk gown and then return for the shoes, “but Gerald and I are returning to England tomorrow morning. Gerald says I’ve been away from Theodora long enough, which I quite agree, and there are pressing estate matters which require Gerald’s immediate attention.” She stood close on the other side of the screen. “And what with the baby you will have enough to do without worrying about a nine-year-old boy. Gerald insists Jack return to England with u—”

“No!”

“Gerald said you’d take the news badly, but you must be reasonable, dearest,” Lady Mary continued patiently and in a voice that was beginning to grate on Deb’s nerves. “Jack can’t impose on the Duke and Duchess forever.”

Deb came out from behind the screen and stood in front of the full-length looking glass, side-on at first to see if her expanding waistline was at all noticeable under so many layers of petticoats and a heavy silk overgown, and then face on to inspect the sit of the bodice across her swelling breasts. The square cut neckline was indecently low but there was nothing she could do about that now. In the reflection she caught her sister-in-law’s frown of disapproval.

“Jack belongs with me,” she stated, and carefully spread out her voluminous petticoats to sit again on the boudoir stool, to allow Brigitte to work her magic with pearl-headed pins and threaded silk ribbons on her untamed mass of long dark red hair.

“You’re in no condition to look after him, dearest,” Mary argued. “Indeed in your present condition I’m very sure you’ll be expected to spend your days resting quietly—”