Authors: Stephanie Stevens
The last words she heard before the slamming of the door were "So you say, Princess, but I know different."
Clinton turned to William when the earl's voice breached his thoughts.
"She's never been a biddable girl, and as I told you at our meeting in April, she can be quite unpleasant." William refilled his glass and continued, unaware of the dark scowl on Clinton's face. "It appears you manage her quite well, if I say so myself."
William looked up and was aghast at the cold look on Clinton's face. Looking over the rim of his glass, William felt chilled to the bone by the gray eyes, hard like glacial ice, that held him.
"Why the hell did you not keep your mouth shut, William? I told you in April of the conditions, which you agreed to."
Somewhat indignant over the tone Clinton used, William shot out of his seat. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I thought to keep her pure, unsullied for you. I did not feel it proper for the chit to be out with another when she was betrothed."
In a voice filled with icy sarcasm, Clinton said, "What you have accomplished, William, is to make my task more difficult. While I don't give a damn what she thinks of you, I take exception to being linked in her mind to the likes of you."
Slamming his fist down on the desk, causing the brandy to spill from the glass, he went on, "I told you before I wanted to handle the situation. Now I am forced to court her after the marriage rather than before."
"Your Grace, listen here, I will not tolerate you speaking to me in that tone of voice. What do you think I can do about this? It was you who created it, not I," William said defensively.
"What you can and will do, William, is leave as soon as possible. I want you--" Clinton pointed his finger an inch from William's nose "--gone from here till the social engagements commence."
"See here, Your Grace. You will not order me about as your lackey. I am a member--"
"I don't give a damn what you are a member of. Listen well, William." Clinton gave him a black look and said threateningly, "Don't push me. It would be very unwise on your part. I want you gone as soon as possible. You will not cross swords with the lady again. You will leave. She needs time to come to terms with this, time we no longer have. Your presence here is not conducive to my ends. As long as she has two enemies in sight, I cannot win the battle."
"Now . . . now, see here ..." began William, only to be silenced by the tone of Clinton's voice.
His words came slowly, uncompromising, uncoiling like a whip. "If you can't accept my terms, I shall have her moved
immediately
to Wentworth. There I will no longer need to concern myself with your interference or her safety from your heavy hand!"
William's face was red with rage. Clinton was deadly still, save for the muscle that twitched in his jaw. The air was heavy with tension.
Sweeping into the study, Winifred exclaimed, "That will hardly be necessary, Your Grace." She fixed an admonitory look on William, asking dispassionately, "Will it, William?" Without awaiting his reply, she turned to Clinton, saying confidently, "Let me assure you, Your Grace, William will take a holiday. He is long overdue and was just saying the other day he might retire to his Cornwall estate to check with his steward."
Then, in her most awesome and grand manner, she stated, as she cast a long, hard look at William, "I can promise you, as a woman of honor, there will be no further incidents or episodes."
William stared openmouthed at Winifred. Clinton did not miss William's response and turned to Winifred, asking, "I trust you won't disappoint me, madam?"
"Disappoint you, Your Grace? Hardly, for no one would
dare
disappoint you."
Clinton bowed to Winifred, saying "By your leave, madam," and strode across the room to the door, where he paused, turning back toward William. "You're a fortunate man, William; the women who surround you make up for your shortcomings." Clinton stalked out of the room.
Silence reined again in the study and was broken by William's outburst of righteous indignation. "How dare he tell me what to do! Duke or not! The gall of that man knows no bounds. I'll call my solicitors on the morrow and null the betrothal immediately."
Winifred whisked across the room, closing the distance between herself and William. Standing regally in front of his desk, in a voice firm but reasonable, she said, "You will do nothing of the kind, William. What you are going to do is have your valet start packing now so come morning, you can depart."
"Winifred! Have you gone mad?" William stood abruptly.
"No, but by your recent behavior, it appears you have. Now, sit down!"
The command in her voice caused William to sink into his chair, where he began to protest anew. "Winifred! You exceed your bounds here!"
With an aura of majesty and aloofness, Winifred, looking down the tip of her nose at William, replied icily, "In exceeding bounds,
dear
brother-in-law, you take the cake! You have harassed and abused your daughter, placed her in a deplorable situation, to which she responded desperately. You not only lost your temper, you
struck
her and then locked her in her room like an animal! You have treated us all to an embarrassing display of the type of ill-mannered and ill-bred behavior not befitting one of
your
station. You acted little better than an obnoxious boor!" She paused, pleased at his reaction, and continued, sparing him no quarter, "What you shall do is exactly as His Grace has instructed. Do not fool yourself in thinking you will outwit or outflank him. He will know the minute your messenger leaves for the solicitor and he will come himself, William. He will take Tiffany and elope before your man is two miles from Courtland property. And that," she stated emphatically, "I will not see happen." Turning from William, looking out the study door and then back to William, she replied, ' 'Tiffany will marry him, no matter how unwilling, but she will not be abducted as a result of your foolish pride. For if she is, never can she forgive His Grace for his action, and never will she find the happiness that can be hers. So you see, William, I will not allow you to ignore His Grace's instructions. I will represent the family and handle the Courtland end during your absence." She turned to dismiss him and headed to the open door, where she paused. Turning back, looking at William, she added with disgust, "I never knew your father. But I knew Robert well. I fear you have been deceived in believing you shared a common sire."
She whisked regally out of the room, leaving William alone.
Dull shafts of early morning light streamed, in bathing the room in soft gray hues. Tiffany slowly opened her eyes, watching the light catch the small dust particles floating in the air.
Her head ached, her eyes ached, and she felt melancholy. Looking about the room, she saw her clothes thrown in a heap on the carpet. Her shoes lay at the threshold of her bedroom door, where she had angrily thrown them yesterday. I should move them so Clarissa or Germane won't stumble over them, she thought, and reluctantly rose from bed to do so.
She heard a commotion outside and ran to the window overlooking the front drive. Seeing the footmen load trunks and baggage, she became fearful Clinton had taken her at her word and sent his manservant to fetch her. She sighed with relief seeing her father alight into the carriage, and watched it pull away, feeling nothing. Turning from the window, she sat down in front of her vanity, gazing at her reflection. Her reflection confirmed the restless, troubled sleep of the night past. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and her lids puffy and sore when she touched them. Her hair was disheveled and terribly knotted. Dark circles outlined her eyes.
Closing her eyes, the scene in the study came back vividly to mind, reminding her of the seriousness of her situation. She tried to shut out the reality of it, replacing it with her dreams. She failed miserably. Opening her eyes and picking up her brush, she began to work the tangles from her hair, thinking about her predicament.
Brushing and thinking, she assembled the facts at hand. The brush moved smoothly through the untangled lock. Alan was gone and was not due back for two months. She stopped brushing and gazed at herself again. Eyes filled with tears. Shaking her head, she scolded herself mentally. There was no point in crying over his not being here to help her. She had to rely on her own wit until he returned. Suppressing the urge to cry, she began to systematically move the brush through the long, dark tresses. The facts are such. She began again stilling her trembling lips. Alan is gone. Her hand stopped when a snarl caught in her brush. The duke of Wentworth is the duke of Chablisienne, and they are one in the same man--Clinton Claremont Barencourte! She yanked the brush through the knot, wincing at the pain it caused. Her anger began to surface and she quickly pushed it down, remembering a quote at Madame's school, "He who angers you wins." The fact remained he was her betrothed. She snorted thinking of all the proposals she had turned down only to end up with a duke. A libertine and a bounder. Unbelievable! Her brush snagged again, and this time when she yanked, she came away with strands of hair. Tears came to her eyes from the pain of ripping her hair out over him. Remember the facts! her mind screamed. Okay, the facts. The banns were to be read on Sunday, which means the prenuptial agreement and contracts had been drawn and signed. But when? Where? How?
The first time she had the misfortune of meeting Clinton was at the races. Is it possible, she thought, he had arranged all of this after then? Her brush paused while she tried to remember their conversation. Then, he had known who she was, yet she did not recall ever meeting him. He was a duke, he decided he wanted her for a possession, and ruthlessly sought to secure his end by waving his title and position at her father.
Her father! She did not want to think about him and his treachery. She attacked her hair mercilessly and held back the tears that thinking of him brought.
Swallowing down the lump that formed in her throat, she gained control and began to assemble her facts. She was alone, and although Aunt Winnie had come to her last night to soothe her, there was no convincing Aunt Winnie to aid her in escaping. No, while Aunt Winnie was not the enemy, she was not an ally either and chose to remain neutral.
She had explained through her bouts of tears that she had not been actually compromised, but Aunt Winnie, while agreeing with her, did point out she had been technically compromised. Aunt Winnie told her it would be best to come to terms with all of this gracefully.
"Well," she announced out loud, "I might be outnumbered, but I am not outdone." Eventually Alan would return, and if only she could just hold out for two months until she had Alan to help her.
In the interim, she'd have to fend for herself in thwarting His Grace. A wicked smile crossed her face. "I'll show His Grace just what kind of duchess I'll make for his illustrious name. I'll show him just how stubborn and willful I can be. He'll see I'm no simpering miss at his beck and call."
She reminded herself for a brief moment that he was indeed a formidable opponent. Had he not drawn the battle lines at the ball? Well, two can play at his game, and maybe he did indeed win every game and challenge, and perhaps he was single-minded as well. So was she, and she was not going to marry him!
Her spirits lifted as she began to devise a plan born more of conviction than strategy. I will refuse to see him and let him know right off he cannot control me. That ought to set him back on his royal behind a bit, discovering his "duchess" was not an amiable, complacent girl. I will refuse to marry him. He has yet to see the real me, she thought, smiling at all the ways she could shock him and thereby cause him to break off the engagement.
Her spirits lifted as she continued to brush her tangle-free tresses, confident she would win. With each long stroke she dismissed Clinton from her mind, assured that her simple plan could not fail.
T
iffany jumped at the sound of the light tap on her door. Leaving the windows where she hid, she walked to the door and threw it open.
Winifred whisked into the room, closing the door softly behind her. Turning to Tiffany, she gently inquired, "Do you think it wise refusing to see him again?"
Ignoring the question, Tiffany asked instead, "Is he gone?" knowing full well he was, for she had watched him mount his stallion and ride off. She hoped somewhere between Courtland property and his lair, he would break his neck.
Winnie graciously sat on the edge of the bed, regarding her niece. "I think, my dear, you know the answer to that."
Tossing her head, Tiffany turned away to pace the length of her room, exclaiming, "Well, good riddance. Now I can go to the stable and ride!" Rushing over to where her boots lay, she pulled them on over her breeches, which she elected to wear as a sign of defiance and rebellion.
Winifred, knowing her niece well, saw the signs of her temper and restlessness. It had been four days since the episode in the study, and Tiffany had not ventured from her room. Winifred had to give her credit for her perseverance, for it was indeed a difficult task for Tiffany to remain inactive. Tiffany was used to exercise and unac-
customed to amusing herself with womanly arts. Winifred had wondered how long Tiffany would last before she started to champ at the bit.