The Seduction of a Duke (20 page)

“I covered for Nicholas when he abandoned the more traditional roles for a younger son. My father flew into a rage when he learned Nicholas had left. In his anger, he knocked his crested walking stick in the fire. It wasn’t in the flames long, but when he retrieved it, he did this. It reminds me that I have responsibilities to future generations beyond my own pleasure.”

Horrified, she felt a sudden empathy for the young man burned in such a malicious assault. “What did your brother do when he learned what happened?”

“Nicholas doesn’t know.” His eyes captured hers. “And he is never to know. It wasn’t his fault that my father had too much to drink that night, or that I mistakenly assumed I was safe near my own hearth.”

She understood about love and betrayal when it applied to family, having experienced both. Her scars, however, were not as visible as this. Strangely drawn to the image, her finger traced the shield.

He watched her carefully, an uncertainty in his eyes reminding her of his concern about punishment in the Frog King.

“Do you think it’s hideous?” he asked.

“Your scar?” Surprised at his question, she shook her head.

“Unexpected . . . unique, but not hideous.” She rinsed the cloth in the bowl so as to avert her eyes. The scar was not grotesque in the way he imagined, but that it still pained him, embarrassed him, reminded her of her own youth. She didn’t want him to see her wince. “Parents can be such bloody idiots at times.”

His eyes crinkled in a smile moments before the ship took another dip, then righted itself. Bedford gulped, before turning rapidly on his side and emptying his stomach.

“That’s good,” she said, helping him to his back. “You’ll feel better when there’s nothing left inside.” She offered him water to rinse his mouth, then went to freshen the bowl. He’d accepted her assistance easier this time, she noted.

“It wasn’t this bad when I crossed to America,” he said. “Just a discomfort, then.”

“It won’t last. We’ve hit a patch of weather, that’s all,” she reassured him. A knock on the door sounded just as she was returning with a clean bowl.

His eyes opened wide. “No one to see,” he warned.

She put her bowl aside and reluctantly pulled the sheet over Bedford’s chest.

Mary waited outside the door with a bottle of ginger wine, a currant wine that contained enough ginger that it was known to settle a nervous stomach.

“Excellent,” Fran said. “Let me pour some for you to dose Hodgins. How is he?”

“Anxious to be standing on British soil.”

“This part of the trip is always the worst. Reassure him it doesn’t last.”

“I did, but I’m not sure he believes me.”

Fran pulled some of the deep amber wine into a glass and handed it to Mary. “This should be enough for now. I’ll keep the bottle here.”

Mary nodded, then left. Fran brought the bottle to Bedford’s side.

“I want you to drink this,” she said, deciding the best way to elevate him to drink. “It’s ginger wine.” Her voice took a lighter note. “British ginger wine. It should help settle your stomach.”

“Can’t.” He grimaced.

“Trust me, in this,” she said, moments before she realized she had voiced her mother’s favorite expression. She bit her lip, resolved to worry about similarities another time. After pouring some wine in a glass, she set the bottle in the bracket carved in the table.

She slipped her arm beneath Bedford’s head to the opposite shoulder, lifting him up. Cradling him much as one might a baby, a very large and heavy baby, she was reminded that her objective would again be postponed. There would be no courtesan practice today. She pressed the glass to his lips.

“Drink.”

He sipped the sweet wine, frowned his displeasure, then sipped again.

“More,” she insisted.

“Sweet,” he protested, but he obeyed. He hadn’t much choice.

She set the wineglass in the carved bracket, then lowered Bedford back to the pillows. She tucked the sheet around him. “Rest now. I’ll return in a moment. There’s a book in my room . . . it’ll be something to do . . . I’ll return in a moment.”

He didn’t think she would be gone long. It was difficult to estimate time or direction in this state. The mattress beneath him continued to rise and fall but without her hand grounding him, he felt lost. True to her word, his stomach was not reacting with the violence it had earlier, but his head couldn’t distinguish up from down. He was alone, utterly alone with just his memories of his father on that fateful night. The ship creaked and moaned around him, as if the surrounding vessel itself mourned the needless suffering of a young lad trying desperately to be the man his father demanded.

Was the branding the impulsive action of a drunken duke? Or was it intentional? He would never forget the smell of burning flesh or the anger in his father’s eyes that bordered on hatred for just a moment before his lips curled into a satisfied sneer.

You’re the eldest. You belong to me, damn you! You will be responsible. You can never turn away.
Hot metal bit deep into his shoulder.
Sacrifi ce. Respect.
The words echoed about him as if spoken by God himself. Once again, he writhed on the hearth rug, his shoulder in undeniable agony while his father loomed overhead. He remembered the words spoken, though now he wondered for whose benefit they were repeated.
A duke never sheds a tear.
Indeed his father hadn’t. Not on that day or on any of the others that followed.

His father’s scorn swirled about him, even from the grave. What would he say about a man too sick to stir from his berth? He would laugh. He was laughing now.

William pushed himself upright. His stomach rebelled and he retched up remnants of the wine.

“Franny,” he called into the dark.

“I’m here.” Her voice was nearby, calming. When had she returned? When had the room gotten so dark?

Was it his imagination, or did her voice sound different—warmer perhaps, gentler than before? It was difficult to tell as so much seemed out of sorts. Her touch soothed him. He raised his hand in the dark, inches off the mattress before she took his hand in hers.

“I’m here.”

He took her cool hand and pulled it to the middle of his chest, securing it with both hands.

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

But you want to,
his mind argued.
You’ve wanted to all along. I’m not good enough. A duke is not good enough. You love another. Randolph.
Just the thought of that name brought a surge of bile to his throat, but he swallowed rather than let go of her hand.

“Tell me a story. One of your children’s stories.”

“Like
The Frog King
?” she asked.

“Yes. Tell me one like that. Just talk to me. Let me hear your voice. Let me know that I’m not alone.”

Fran proceeded to tell him the French fairy tale about a beautiful maiden who was given in wedlock to an ugly beast. She hadn’t advanced far when she suspected Bedford had fallen asleep again. She sat quietly beside him to see if he would protest her silence, but he did not. So she sat in the dark and listened to him breathe.

The storm had eased. Here at midship, the shifting underfoot wouldn’t be as troublesome as at the bow or stern. Chambers would be out of sorts for another a day, she guessed, before he was back to normal. She watched him sleeping, almost sorry that in a day’s time he would no longer call out to her, or require her company for anything more than show.

For the first time, she’d felt needed—not by her father’s crew hands, or the local farmers who appreciated her beekeeping skills, or the local shopkeepers who cared for her business—but by an equal. He needed her on a personal level, as a friend. That warmed her inside. Perhaps staying in England wouldn’t be so bad. It seemed she already had a friend there, which was more than she could say of Newport.

There was a soft knock at the door. Mary waited outside to advise that they were serving light meals to those that could stomach them in the dining saloon. She also asked that Fran look in on Hodgins as he was peppering Mary with questions about the Duke’s situation.

Mary agreed to sit with Chambers while Fran went above deck.

 

 

THE CRISP AIR, THOUGH CHILL FROM THE PROXIMITY TO the Artic, felt refreshing and invigorating after the fetid closed air of the cabin. She’d have to get Chambers up here as soon as he was able so as to cleanse the vestiges of seasickness from his memories. She walked the length of the deck past the row deck chairs, searching the faces of the huddled bundles for one that resembled Hodgins. He spotted her first.

“Your Grace,” he called. “I’m here.”

She settled in a vacant chair next to his and reassured Hodgins that his duke was still alive and improving. Yes, he’d managed a bit of that magic elixir, ginger wine. No, nothing stronger than a weak tea or broth for dinner. Yes, she would advise His Grace of how desperately Hodgins wished he was up for the task of serving him at this time. She reminded Hodgins that most probably, he’d be able to tell the Duke these things himself as the pitch and roll of the decks had calmed noticeably. She also warned him that he would be covered in salt and ice if he tried to sleep above deck. Mary would return to help him go below. She was certain the Duke would be grateful for his company.

She’d left Hodgins to make her way to the dining salon for a light repast. She smiled and nodded at the travelers she’d passed without thought. Until one young man stopped before her.

“Miss Winthrop?” he asked, with a look of uncertainty. His smile broadened, though it did not reach his eyes. “Though I suppose it would be Duchess now.”

She nodded, but couldn’t place the man. His features struck a familiar chord, yet there was an odd maliciousness in his glance, as if she had somehow offered personal insult to the man. Suddenly she wished she was in Chambers’s company. Strangers would not dare approach her with such a threat by her side.

“I’m Mr. Randolph Stockwell’s cousin, Joshua Hairston. We met at a polo match in Newport about a year ago?”

Randolph’s cousin! The memory returned in minute clarity. Was it only a year ago that they were together? It seemed much longer, so much had happened between that occasion and this.

“Yes, I remember,” she said, relieved to discover he was not a stranger after all. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“I shall have to write Randolph and tell him how well you look,” he said, disapproval still evident in his expression.

“Please extend my best wishes to him,” she responded stiffly. “And to his wife.”

“His wife?” Mr. Hairston’s brow creased. “You must be mistaken, my cousin is not married.”

A cold pall as frigid as the icy waters of the Atlantic settled over her. Not married? “I was informed by Mr. Whitby himself that Randolph had married while on assignment in Germany.”

“Mr. Whitby must be misinformed. I received a letter from my cousin the day we boarded the
Republic
. He writes that he hates the weather, the people, and the countryside and he’s most anxious to return home to”—he hesitated and looked at her askance—“his parents. It was not the letter of a newly married man.”

She recognized that his initial impulse was to say that Randolph was most anxious to return to her. He had remained faithful while she ran off and married someone else. It was of little wonder that the cousin looked at her with such distain.

There could be only one explanation. Her mother. She knew her mother would use devious means to achieve her goals. She had accurately assumed that Fran would not have believed Alva if she were the messenger of Randolph’s matrimonial vows. So she convinced her attorney, Randolph’s employer, to lie on her behalf. Righteous anger built within and apparently showed on Fran’s face as Mr. Hairston’s disregard turned into incredulous concern.

“You believed Randolph had married?”

“I had not received letters from him for several weeks before I was so informed. I thought . . .” She shook her head, amazed at the depths her mother would go to gain a duke as a son-in-law. “I believe I have been the victim of a most serious deceit.”

Was the Duke a party to her mother’s game? Did he endorse the lies to ensure his place as her husband?

Hairston regarded her with something akin to pity in his eyes. “I assume it is too late, then.”

“I have spoken my vows before God and the congregation,” Fran said. “Had I realized that Randolph was still a bachelor, I would have . . . waited.” She couldn’t bring herself to say she wouldn’t have married Chambers. She honestly wasn’t sure what she would have done. But she was angered that she wasn’t offered the opportunity of a choice.

Hairston bowed his head. “I’m sorry to be the messenger of such bad news.” He started to continue on his way, but turned. “I wish you and the Duke happiness.”

She hoped she’d managed to say thank you, but quite honestly, she wasn’t sure she had. She stood in a shocked stupor for a few moments trying to absorb this unexpected conversation. Randolph was still available and, it seemed, still in love with her. Did it matter? The world assumed she was the proper Duchess of Bedford. Even though she and the Duke had not taken the necessary actions to produce an heir, they had exchanged intimacies that would be improper if they were not husband and wife. Her name would be forever linked with Bedford’s, even if her heart belonged to someone else. This certainly was a complication.

As soon as she returned to the stateroom, she retrieved her jewel case and rummaged for Randolph’s pin. It would be her sign of defiance. Her mother may have taken away her opportunity for a quiet, uneventful future as the wife of a barrister, Chambers may insist she become involved in the social functions he seemed to favor, but they would all know she was participating in protest. She found the elegant honeybee and pinned it to her bodice lapel. She would flaunt this bit of Randolph and silently remind them all of what they had stolen from her.