My Scandalous Duke Page 7

  “Hold on. Wait.” He was still trying to let her words in, still trying to have his muddled brain make sense of them. “I was the one you wanted?” Lightness blazed through him, a sudden surprised joy.

  She leaned forward, her chin propped on her hands. “You were, yes. I knew few other people, and we had always enjoyed each other’s company. It was natural, I think, that I should become besotted with you.”

  “You don’t flatter me with that statement.”

  “Ah, well.” Unfolding to her feet, she stepped back to the pianoforte. A sheaf of music was centered on the stand. “Even dukes must hear a thing or two they don’t adore sometimes.”

  He cursed his ankle to hell and beyond. If he could just stand—well, maybe he could. He swung his good leg to the floor.

  “Don’t,” she said, “even think about putting any weight on that ankle.”

  “Too late,” he grunted, dragging his leg back up onto the sofa. He was thinking about it plenty, putting weight on his injured ankle. About following her across the room and taking one hand in his. Dropping to his knees, begging her, Wait, please, tell me the truth. All of it. I never knew any of this; I never knew how you felt.

  It was too late to say that, and the bubble of elation within him popped. He was hollow inside, just as his sleepless nights always confirmed. “So you don’t care for me anymore.”

  “Of course I care for you.” She shuffled through the music sheets.

  “But not like that.”

  She took a moment to square the printed music into a neat pile, then set it aside. When she turned toward him, the movement was as deliberate as that of a clockwork figure. “Nicholas, what are you getting at? Do you want me to tell you that I’ve loved you and only you all my life? Do you want me to say I’ve been waiting for you, and no one else will do? Do you want me to drop to one knee and beg you to marry me?”

  “No. Of course not.” Though the thunder of his heart gave the lie to his words.

  “Right. Because you know those things are impossible. You and I want different things out of marriage, and that’s quite all right.” With the thumb of her right hand, she rubbed the spot where a ring would be. “And we’ve both found people who will be what we want—if, that is, you can pry Miss Lewis from the arms of Lord Barberry’s son. Likely you and I will both wed, and we’ll continue being friends, and you’ll continue being a duke and having everything the way you like it.”

  In what she said, there was nothing that he liked. “You don’t love me anymore.”

  She rubbed her temples. “Of course I love you.”

  “But not like that,” he finished with bitter triumph.

  “You don’t really want to know the answers, Nicholas. You only want to ask the questions.”

  “I bloody well do want answers!”

  She winced.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was coarse.” His ankle had better not be seriously injured. One morning on a sofa and he was ready to run mad.

  “An apology. Good for you.” Now that she’d finished with the sheet music, she seemed to be looking for something else to fidget with.

  “Ellie. Tell me the truth. What do you really want?”

  She seized upon a triangle of cloth that had been laid inside the heart of the pianoforte. “The truth is, you’re lucky I haven’t any more laudanum, or I’d have doped you into silence. The truth is that you think your words are gold. That I should always listen and you should always get what you want.”

  “Uh. That’s not the sort of truth I wanted.”

  She looked almost wistful. “That makes one thing that you got that you didn’t want, then. Too bad. If you ask me for truth, you’re going to get it.”

  Yes. That was the way it had always been with Ellie. There was an odd sort of comfort in the way she harangued him. “I didn’t think,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you didn’t.” Taking hold of the edge of the cloth, she shook it out in one quick snap. “You didn’t mean it that way. You didn’t think about how it would sound. You didn’t consider what you were asking of me, or implying.

  “You didn’t think of what it would mean to me, to have you kiss me on the steps of Devonshire House. You didn’t think of how it would look to everyone who saw it, to have you treat me so lightly, or how Lord Barberry would react. You just…do things, dragging tiny scandals in your wake. And it’s the people left behind who are shaken. For you, it’s all smooth sailing.”

  The cloth, he now saw, was a shawl. He had folded a shawl much like that once, hadn’t he? “What do you want me to do about it? How can I fix matters for you?” Never had he come so close to pleading.

  “You need not. I’ll find the answers myself.” Taking up the shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders like armor. “Nicholas, I want to be loved. I don’t think there could ever be too many people in the world who love me. Certainly there are not too many now.”

  That did not follow at all. “If you want to be loved, you’re not going about this husband hunt the right way. You’re looking at sticks who don’t even have hearts.”

  “First they were prigs, now they are sticks. Whatever you want to call them, they’re the sort of man who won’t kiss me in public without asking for my hand first. They’re the sort who don’t take the esteem of others for granted. The sort I can respect.”

  Men, in other words, nothing like him. And did that mean she didn’t respect him?

  He couldn’t ask her right now. He suspected he would not like the answer.

  Pushing a hairpin into a rogue curl of hair, she said, “Since you’re here until your ankle can be set, I’m returning to Sidney’s house. Though soon you’ll not have to worry about me at all. If Lord Barberry asks me to marry him, I’ll say yes.”

  Chapter Six

  “I have brought you pink roses, Lady Eleanor,” said Lord Barberry. “Your favorite.”

  He had called upon her just as she was preparing to leave the house—not for an afternoon walk, but for good. Her remaining garments were packed away; Sidney’s carriage awaited, ready to take her and her belongings back to Athelney Place.

  And now, pink roses, again. No one would give her what she wanted if she didn’t ask. She knew that.

  Though she had never dreamed of asking for a pianoforte.

  “Thank you, Lord Barberry. They are lovely.” She breathed in their insipid scent, forcing a smile. “Though I admit, my favorite roses are red ones. Great large ones.”

  “Oh.” He looked taken aback. “You don’t find them vulgar?”

  “It seems not.” Eleanor glanced at the closed door across the corridor, behind which a doctor was examining Nicholas’s ankle. It seemed improper for Lord Barberry to call here while Nicholas was here as well. Undecided, she toyed with the lapel of her gray spencer.

  “Would you care to accompany me for a walk?” she finally asked. “The day is so fine.”

  In truth, the weather was undecided too. Today had included everything from sunshine to mizzle, and just now clouds turned the sky a pewter shade that belied the early hour.

  “Of course I will walk with you.” Barberry held the sheaf of pink roses toward Eleanor. “Would you care to bring these along?”

  “Let us have a servant put them in a vase,” she suggested. A vase that would stay here in the dowager duchess’s house, but she didn’t have particular regret over that.

  Once the roses were dispensed with, Eleanor tied on a hat. It was a jaunty one that she liked, a soft hat of straw that tipped over her right ear and framed her face. A wide dove-gray ribbon tied beneath her chin to keep it fast.

  When she turned toward Lord Barberry, expecting him to offer her an arm, he instead paused. Hesitated—and then, with gentle fingers, he tucked a lock of hair under her hat. “You wouldn’t want to look untidy when we walk out.”

  Her hand lifted to touch the lock he’d hidden away. “Oh. Thank you.” The urge to pull it down and shake out her hair in a long curly tumble seized her f
or a moment, but she only smiled politely and preceded him out the door.

  Hanover Square offered a fine space for walking, with modern pavements before the houses and a great grassy space in the center of the square. Walking paths crossed it vertically, horizontally, and diagonally, creating a pattern Eleanor now realized was like the new Union flag.

  Which made her think of Lady Frederick’s ballroom. Which made her think of Nicholas.

  She shivered, buttoning the short front of her spencer.

  “Are you cold?” Lord Barberry was solicitous as he walked beside her. With each step, he planted a walking cane with a crunch of wood and stone that was not unpleasant.

  “No, not at all. A goose walked over my grave—isn’t that the old saying?”

  “A superstition.” He smiled kindly. In the gentle daylight, his hair shone the same pewter as the sky, and lines were visible at the corners of his eyes. “If you would permit the liberty, there is something particular I should like to discuss with you.”

  Here it came: the proposal for which she had been angling, from a thoughtful and sensible man. She swallowed. “Of course.”

  They took a few more steps along the graveled path before he spoke again.

  “I never thought,” he began, “to marry again, since my children are grown. But since meeting you, the idea has taken root. Like a rosebush.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes?” Some form of encouragement was required.

  “Your companionship is everything proper and pleasant.”

  A surprised laugh burst from Eleanor’s throat.

  “What have I said?” His lordship looked bewildered.

  “My brother would disagree with your statement. The thought struck me as humorous.”

  “Ah, I see. Siblings. Most amusing. My sons enjoyed teasing each other when they were young, I remember.”

  And they didn’t anymore? What kind of brothers were they? “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Eleanor said demurely. “Please, go on. You were saying?”

  “Yes, yes. Your companionship.” They reached the intersection of two paths, and he looked at her with raised brows. “This way?”

  “If you wish.” A damp breeze tickled her cheeks and tugged free a lock of hair from under her hat. Before Barberry could reach for it, she tucked it away again. He looked pleased.

  “I do not require a dowry,” said Barberry, “as my financial situation is sound. With investments in the funds, we may rely on a steady income at a dependable rate of return. And if children should grace the household in future, they would be most welcome.”

  “That all sounds sensible,” she said.

  He halted under a tree. Its shading leaves speckled his face with light and shadow, and it was difficult to read his expression. “Does that mean you will do me the honor of accepting my hand?”

  He extended one gloved hand to her. It was a fine glove of dyed kidskin, the same gray shade as her old half-mourning pelisse.

  She had married for adventure once, and her choice had been poor. Yes, Palmer had twirled her about a ballroom as if they were the only two in the world. He had sneaked into a garden to pick roses for her by the light of the full moon. He had whipped them off to the seaside at a moment’s notice.

  But he had never cared for the consequences of his impulse. The spending, the spectacle, the inconvenience. And there were always consequences, and they always fell to Eleanor to tidy up.

  Barberry was a sensible choice. She did not love him, but she could become fond of him. He would not waste money or flaunt a mistress. Perhaps he would not even stray. And wasn’t that all worth something? Wasn’t security, when one totted up all its advantages, close enough to love?

  She ought to be ecstatic. Delighted. Instead, she felt…sort of pewter inside. A little gray, not as shiny or precious as she’d hoped.

  “I accept.” She placed her hand in his and tried to feel as if she’d done the right thing.

  * * *

  It was just like any other early afternoon in the study of Hampshire House, except for the footstool on which Nicholas had propped his bandaged right foot. The physician had dubbed the injury a sprain rather than a fracture, and the ankle was immobilized in a length of cotton bandage that crossed over and around his arch.

  With his bare toes visible, he felt oddly vulnerable.

  But! He had plenty to do now that he was back at home, with crutches to master and a desk full of papers to review. Any time. Right now. The sooner, the better. He had a platter of sandwiches at hand, and tea, and a full inkpot and fresh quills.

  When his butler announced Lord Athelney, Nicholas welcomed the visitor at once.

  “Sid, do you care for a…” He looked around the room. Surrounded by bookshelves and priceless oils and cluttered with papers, the study was a cozy, chaotic space. “I’m not certain what I have to offer you, but there ought to be a decanter on the sideboard over there. Or here, I have a few sandwiches left on this plate. The cook made them an hour ago. Beef and onion.”

  Sidney flung himself into a chair across from Nicholas’s desk. “In a minute. I bring you news.”

  Nicholas had missed yesterday’s session of Parliament, thanks to his cursed ankle. “Oh? Has Addington resigned?”

  “A vain hope. No, this is a personal matter. Ellie is betrothed.”

  Nicholas sat up straight. His right foot thumped to the floor, making him wince. “Impossible.” Not impossible. She’d told him she planned to accept Barberry, but somehow he hadn’t, well, accepted that.

  “The happy couple”—Sidney’s tone was dry—“told me the news themselves. Barberry asked her yesterday.”

  Nothing was any good then. The tea tasted like dirty water, the sandwiches were dust. The study was not cozy but dim and oppressive.

  “Hand me a glass from the sideboard, if you please,” he said to Sidney.

  The marquess looked a question at him, but unfolded from the chair and retrieved a glass from its home behind a pile of books on the sideboard. He set it on the desk before Nicholas, atop a pile of papers, and resumed his seat.

  Nicholas picked up the glass. It was crystal, probably. Heavy and fine, catching the light from the tall west-facing windows.

  Hefting it in one hand, he threw it at the marble fireplace, shattering it against the stone.

  At the sound of something valuable being utterly destroyed, he felt a tiny bit better.

  “Unusual display of temper for you.” Sidney looked unperturbed.

  “The mess is regrettable, certainly.” Gritting his teeth, Nicholas hauled his injured limb back into place, propped on the footstool.

  “What’s the reason for the rotten mood?”

  “I can’t get around. I’m bored. I’ve nothing to do.”

  Wordlessly, Sidney eyed the newspapers and correspondence spilling in untidy stacks across the desk. The shelves and shelves of much-consulted books. The deck of cards scattered on the floor, where it had fallen when Nicholas had bumped it with an elbow.

  “Get the damned decanter.” Nicholas swiped his hand across the desk to clear a spot at the center. Obliging, Sidney clunked a decanter and two glasses in the eye of the paper storm.

  The marquess unstoppered the decanter and took a whiff. “Buttery. Sharp. That’s quite nice. Is it a Scotch whisky?”

  “Yes, and a very good one.”

  Sidney poured a measure into each of the two glasses. “Don’t throw yours until you drink that down.”

  “Ha.” In one quick motion, Nicholas tossed the whisky back. It burned his palate, his throat, all the way down through his chest.

  “I say this to you as an old friend who has only your best interests at heart.” Before reseating himself, Sidney picked up a shard of the glass from the hearth. “You look like hell.”

  Nicholas rubbed a hand over his chin. He needed a shave.

  “Not just because you’re as stubbled as a field after harvest.”

  “You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to use that wordpl
ay, haven’t you?”

  “I have. I really have. It was clever of me.” Sidney held the broken crystal up to catch the cool afternoon light. “Having trouble sleeping again?”

  He was one of the few people who knew about the insomnia. Even, as Nicholas had described to him in a tired moment, the wall he built of his thoughts, and the claws of worry that constantly scrabbled to bring it down. He was used to outrunning the claws, but now that he couldn’t run…damnation, the hours were long.

  “There’s no ‘again’ about not sleeping well. It’s ‘still.’” The only time he’d slept worth a damn lately had been on that hard sofa in his mother’s parlor, with Eleanor nearby playing quiet tunes on the pianoforte.

  “Is it because of Parliament? I assume you’re not attending today’s session either, which is just as well. Since Nelson was granted his viscountcy, then sailed off to Russia, each discussion touching on the war threatens to drag on ten times as long.”

  “I am decidedly not concerned about that.”

  “Nelson,” Sidney continued as if he hadn’t heard, “has done a great deal for this country. But so do the people who sew Great Britain and Ireland together in a proper marriage, as you once put it.”

  “Don’t speak of marriage to me right now.” Should he have another whisky? Probably not.

  He poured out another measure and drank it with the same speed as the first.

  Sidney dropped the piece of crystal onto the desk. “Give me that decanter if you’re going to gulp fine aged whisky like it’s the rawest gin. You’re wasting it.”

  “Maybe for your birthday next year, I’ll send you a bottle. Of gin.” Nicholas wrapped his hands around the bulbous decanter. “Do you know Lord Killian? He hinted I ought to pick my battles more carefully.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Ellie said, though not in quite these words, that I need not be an arse.”

  Sidney laughed. “I always thought Ellie was the wisest of us. Was she talking about politics?”

  “And romance.” And then he’d gone and been an arse to Ellie. He had kissed her in public, making her a party to gossip. And she was right, he had questioned her judgment.