My Dark Duke (22 page)

Right there and then, she yearned to be free of all the restrictions binding her so tight she felt she could barely breathe. She dug her heels into Leila and urged the mare into a gallop. Surprised by Alethea's unexpected move, Leila sprang into action, her hooves thundering, covering the ground with amazing speed. Jack shouted out to her to wait, but the duchess ignored him and her horse quickly left behind his older and much slower mare. Lifting her face up, she laughed out loud as the wind tore off her hat and whipped her hair out of its tight knot.

For the first time she was free. In that moment she was not a duchess, or the daughter of a duke, or even a wife. She was just Alethea. Alethea the free spirit, with no ties to anyone or anything. It felt wonderful. And in that moment, she forgot the duke's warning, and her promise to him. Further and further she rode, past the grounds, past any familiar landmarks, until the landscape was just an open field of green.

She only realised how late it was when the sky started to darken. She was miles away from the house. It was only then that a trace of anxiety surfaced. ‘Come girl, hurry now. We must get home,' she called out to Leila.

Even at a fast pace, it took another hour to reach the grounds. Without bothering to stop at the stables, she pulled Leila to a halt before the front doors. Heart thudding, she slid off the saddle without waiting for assistance even as the doors opened.

‘Your Grace!' Hawthorne stepped out, the relief on his face obvious. It was the first emotion she had ever seen on his normally impassive countenance. ‘We have been extremely concerned for your safety.' She felt a pang of guilt strike her.

‘Hawthorne, I am so sorry. I lost track of time.' A footman quickly came and took the reins from her.

She hurried into the house just as the duke stepped into the hall. ‘James!' She ran forward and threw her arms around his shoulders. ‘I am so very sorry, I didn't realise how late it was.' Suddenly realising that he had not returned her embrace, she slowly dropped her arms and stepped back. Her breath stopped in her throat. His face was grim, his mouth set in a thin line. And his eyes.

Dear Lord, his eyes were colder than ice.

She had never seen him like that. Fear caused nausea to rise to her throat.

‘Where in God's name have you been?' His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

She swallowed hard. ‘I . . . I was riding.'

‘I am well aware of what you have been doing. Where have you been?' The duke held his body stiffly, and she knew precisely why. He was holding his emotions in, trying not to show them. And it was not relief, love or concern that she sensed. He was angry. No, not angry. Furious.

‘I'm not s-sure.' Nerves wound her stomach tight. She clenched her teeth.
Remember your composure.
She drew a steadying breath. ‘I rode past the homes of the tenants, past a little brook and over the green field beyond. Almost to the woods.'

‘The woods?' Incredulity echoed in his voice. ‘Alone? Have you completely lost your senses?'

‘No! Of course not. I just had to get away for a while.' Even to her ears, her excuse rang weak. She watched as a muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. What had she done? What had her recklessness led her to? Her pulse was racing so quickly that she felt light-headed.

‘You had to get away. From me, I must presume.' There was no change in his inflection, but she knew instinctively that she had hurt him.

‘No! Of course not! I would never want to leave you.' She took a step forward, reaching out a hand to his arm. To her shock, he stepped backwards to avoid her touch. Her hand fell back to her side, and she felt her stomach lurch at the hurt that swept over her.

‘That doesn't matter. You disobeyed me. You broke your promise.' The words rang through the hall. She tried to ignore the footmen who stood by the entrance. But her embarrassment was of no consequence at this moment.

‘I . . .' Alethea opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped, knowing it was true. ‘I'm sorry; I did, but I really didn't mean to. It was an accident.'

It was as if he hadn't heard her. ‘I specifically asked that you always ride with a groom, and you promised to do so. Yet you disobeyed me.'

‘Yes, I have already admitted to it. But nothing happened, so all is well, is it not? I am sorry, truly I am. Please forgive me. I promise, I swear, I will not do it again.' She tried not to wince. She sounded exactly as she used to whenever she found herself in trouble with her father. His next words mirrored her thoughts.

The duke was unmoved. ‘I am not your father; a mere apology and another promise will not make me forget your transgression.'

‘Transgression?' At that, her temper flared. ‘I am not a child, James. Do not treat me as one.'

‘Behave like a child, and I shall treat you as one. Your father has indulged you for too long. You have obviously never had to face the consequences of your ill-thought actions.'

‘That is not true!' Anxiety formed a ball in the pit of her stomach and she felt ill.

‘You will forgive me if I find that hard to believe.' His voice was flat. ‘You are spoilt and reckless. Your lack of thought could have led to tragedy, do you not understand that? You do not know what evil lurks out there.' Frustration burned in his eyes.

‘Fine! I have said I am sorry. What more do you want from me?' She crossed her arms defensively at the flash of anger in his face at her remark.

‘It is clear that what I want I do not have.' For some reason resignation in his tone made the statement sound worse. What did he mean? Had she somehow fallen short of his expectations? Worse, had she just made him hate her? ‘Regardless,' he continued, his voice flat, ‘you will learn that your actions have consequences.' His face had become completely impassive again. As if she meant nothing at all to him. As if she was not the wife he had cherished these past months.

Pain struck her heart and she pushed that thought away. She couldn't think of that right now. ‘Just tell me what my punishment is to be.' She steeled herself for his answer.

But it was not to be. Alethea stood there, feeling as if she was a child being chastised, while her husband regarded her with flat, emotionless eyes.

‘This conversation is at an end. Go to your room. You will discover what your recklessness has wrought in the morning.' His tone was final and dismissive. Now she knew what both her brother and Henry had meant when they had warned her that James was ruthless, that he was not to be crossed.

She watched as he turned his back to her and strode away. Anger at the way he was treating her and anxiety over her punishment roiled inside her. Despite the warm night, she shivered with cold, as if someone had walked over her grave.

What was to happen to her?

Our Heroine Suffers the Consequences of Her Actions

Alethea lay awake for most of the night, unable to stop thinking of what awful fate awaited her the next morning. When she finally fell into a fitful sleep, her dreams consisted of a parade of men in her life, her father, brother and even Henry telling her to beware of the duke, their voices joining together until it became a chant: ‘Watch out. Watch out. Watch out.'

When she awoke, her head was heavy and aching. She had no appetite and did not touch her breakfast. Martha, who had fussed over her last evening, was unusually quiet, avoiding her eyes as she dressed her mistress.

‘Martha, what is it? What do you know? Did you hear something from the other servants?'

Her maid, who was brushing her hair, paused mid-stroke, then resumed again. ‘No, why do you ask?'

Alethea tried to catch her companion's eye in the mirror, with no success. ‘You are acting rather strangely, Martha.'

‘It's naught but the weather, Your Grace. You know how I get when a storm is brewing.'

The duchess glanced towards the window. Even through the heavy glass, she could see that dark clouds wreathed the sky. The air was oppressive, heralding severe conditions ahead. ‘I know you don't like thunderstorms, Martha. But it's not that. Something bad is to happen, isn't it? Please, tell me what you know.'

Her maid shook her head. ‘I do not know anything. Which gown do you wish to wear today, Your Grace?'

Alethea shrugged listlessly. ‘I don't care. The dark green velvet. With the black stomacher.' She felt fragile, needing the cover that the long-sleeved gown would provide.

Alethea stared at Martha in the reflection as she pulled her hair up into a simple knot. Martha's mouth was set firmly, and from previous experience, Alethea knew there was no point in asking any more of her. It was obvious that her companion knew something, and it must be dire indeed, for Martha's loyalty was usually unquestionable. The ball of anxiety in the pit of her stomach grew heavier.

A knock sounded on the door and Martha went to answer it. Alethea held her breath, hoping and dreading at the same time that it was the duke, but no, it was merely a footman. After a short exchange of words, her maid came back.

‘His Grace has requested that you meet him in the front hall in a half hour's time.' Martha was careful to keep her expression neutral but the concern in her eyes when they met Alethea's made the duchess's mouth dry with fear.

By the time she descended the stairs at the appointed time, it took all the training and discipline she had not to throw herself at her husband and beg for his forgiveness. One glance at his countenance and she knew that any such actions would be in vain. He was dressed entirely in black. His mouth set in a straight line, his eyes looked coldly upon her where once they had been warm enough to heat her entire being. Where was the man she had married? She barely recognised this grim-faced stranger standing before her. Swallowing, she stepped up to him.

‘Your Grace.'

He didn't return her greeting. In fact, he was already turning away and donning his tricorn. ‘The carriage is waiting.' With that pronouncement, the duke strode out the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the hall, bewildered. Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, Alethea followed him out slowly, wondering what the two footmen standing to attention behind her were thinking. What all the servants in the house must be thinking. That she was reckless and disobedient. Disrespectful. Qualities that a wife should not possess, much less a duchess.

When she reached the carriage, she could scarcely believe her eyes. James had already seated himself. He had not even had the common courtesy to wait for her, thereby showing his complete disregard of how she would be perceived by the servants, not to mention her feelings. Tears burned in her eyes as she accepted the assistance of a footman and stepped into the carriage.

The carriage set off and Alethea's brow knitted as the carriage turned in the opposite direction from the main road towards the back of the house.

‘Where are we going?'

‘The stables.' The duke's voice was curt and invited no further questions.

A cold silence reigned for the next few minutes and Alethea clenched her hands tightly on her lap. If this was how it was to be for the rest of their married life, she wasn't sure if she could bear it. Especially as it was in such stark contrast to how their marriage began, when happiness abounded.

There was not a whit of joy in her heart as the carriage pulled up before the stables. When Alethea alighted, she had to put her hand to her mouth to stifle her exclamation of dismay. Some distance away stood Thackery and the groomsmen and stableboys under him, and in the middle of them stood Jack, the groom she had abandoned yesterday when she had embarked unthinkingly on her frolic.

‘James.' His name slipped out and she quickly corrected herself. ‘Your Grace, what is happening?' Her heart thundered with anxiety as she stared at the grim-faced Thackery and the terrified look on young Jack's face.

He did not reply to her question immediately. ‘What you may not be aware of is that it has been drilled into each and every groom from the day they start their service here that if something were to happen while they are escorting a member of my household or a guest, they are to return immediately and inform Thackery so that actions can be taken to rectify the situation.'

‘I don't understand, what are you doing to Jack?' Alethea watched in mounting anxiety as Thackery led the young man to a horse-tethering post and secured his hands to it.

‘Jack feared for your safety and tried to search for you to no avail. By the time he returned, you had been without an escort for well over two hours. He knew what he had to do, and he chose to ignore the consequences. As such, he will be punished.'

‘No . . .' The duchess gasped in horror when one of the grooms handed Thackery a whip. ‘You have to stop this!' She turned frantically to her husband, grasping his arm. ‘Your Grace! I beg you, please! It was not his fault, it is all mine. Please, stop this now.'

James finally looked down at her, his expression unreadable. ‘The rules are there for a reason.'

‘But it was not Jack's fault. It was mine. You are the Duke of Trent! You need only say the word and you can stop this. Please! I will accept any punishment you choose.' Alethea's heart was racing so quickly that she felt ill with fear for Jack. A quick look showed Thackery placing himself in position, whip in hand.

A foreboding silence fell. She looked up at her husband, finding his eyes on her. ‘Please, do not allow this to happen. If you care for me at all, stop this now,' she pleaded. Something flickered in his eyes and, for an instant, she felt a surge of hope.

The duke looked up at Thackery and Alethea held her breath. But his next words made her heart sink. ‘I will not change the rules. Not even for you.'

She stared disbelievingly at the man to whom she had given her heart. How could he be so cruel, so unfeeling? ‘If you let this happen to an innocent boy, I will despise you forever,' she whispered.

His jaw tightened. ‘So be it.'

When she moved to stop Thackery, James grabbed her arms, holding her back. She couldn't hold back her sobs as Jack cried out in pain when the whip landed. And again.

She forced herself to continue standing, even as waves of nausea swept over her at the sight of the red lines blossoming on Jack's back. All she could think of was that this was her fault. When the duke finally released his hold on her, she did not move, barely noticing as Jack was carried away. She wanted to scream and shout at James for his actions, but she couldn't. She was numb, every part of her paralysed.

As the carriage bore them back to the house, she could still hear the whistling of the whip as it cut through the air, shredding her heart and sounding the death knell of her marriage.

This time, she didn't care if the footmen in the entry hall heard the final three words she uttered to the duke.

‘I hate you.'

What did it matter? What did anything matter any more?

James drained his Scotch, then carefully put the snifter down on the table before him. He had lost count of how many he had had. The ferocious pain in his head had finally disappeared, thanks to the liquor he had consumed, but the pain in his heart remained untouched. Even when he had drunk until every part of his body was numb, he was still unable to forget the words his wife had uttered to him almost three months ago.

I hate you.

The words echoed in his head, over and over, driving him to repeatedly seek out oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. Worst of all was the blank look in those dark eyes – those entrancing eyes that had always been filled with the spark that made Alethea who she was. It was he who had taken that spark away, leaving just a shell. She no longer laughed; she barely even looked at him. She exhibited no emotions, not even hatred. He would have taken even that over the empty look in her eyes.

For the first time in his life, he knew not what to do. How he was to salvage his marriage. He knew now that he had been wrong to allow Jack to be punished. He had seen only in black and white; it was the way he ran his vast empire and it had always served him well. But now he was paying the price. His marriage, once so promising, lay in ruins. The thought that he would never again see affection and joy on her face as she gazed up at him made fear grip him so tightly that he could not breathe.

Physical pain suddenly sliced through his thoughts. He looked down, surprised to find that the snifter now lay in shards on the table. Blood dripped freely from his palm and he sat unmoving for a moment, almost savouring the pain in his hand, as it gave him temporary respite from his emotional torment.

‘James! Bloody hell, man, what have you done?'

The duke looked up to see Cole rushing to him, pulling his cravat off as he did so. He carefully wrapped it around the injured hand, calling out instructions to the footman for hot water and clean cloths.

‘What the deuce is wrong with you? Have you lost your senses?' the doctor exclaimed loudly.

‘It's good to see you too,' retorted James, wincing as his friend applied a none-too-gentle pressure to his hand.

‘I go abroad for two months and come back to find that you have been in town all this time. Where is Alethea?'

The duke shrugged carelessly. At least he tried to. ‘Where a wife ought to be at this time of the year. Where else?'

Cole's eyes narrowed. ‘What has happened? You have been married a mere six months. Surely you cannot have fallen out with each other already. What have you done, James?'

‘Why do you assume it's something I have done?'

‘Because I know you all too well. And I cannot believe that the duchess has committed such a severe infraction as to have caused this rift.'

‘You do not know her at all, then.' James leaned back on his chair, avoiding the doctor's knowing eyes.

‘No, but as I said, I know you. What has happened? Tell me.'

The duke was silent at first. He had never been the sort to confide in anyone. As a child, it had taken him almost two days to admit to his nurse that his arm was broken after enduring a vicious beating from his father. This time, though, he gave in. He, who had never requested anything from anyone in his entire life, was going to break his rule.

‘I need help, Cole.'

His friend quietly tended to his injury as the story poured out.

‘I was furious. So furious I could barely think straight. She begged me, Cole. She begged me and I ignored her. She will never forgive me,' James concluded slowly.

‘How will you know if you don't ask?' countered Cole, tying off the end of the bandage.

The duke shook his head. ‘You haven't seen her. I could have borne it if she had yelled at me, or screamed or hit me. She didn't. She just looked through me as if I were not there. She's not even angry with me any more. It's as if she's barely even there.' He fell silent, too ashamed to admit more.

As always, there was little he could hide from the doctor. ‘What else did you do?' Cole's voice was gentle, and James lifted his head to find his friend looking at him with compassion.

‘I bedded my wife.' Even after three months he could still remember the scent of her hair in his nostrils, her silken skin under his fingertips, the soft sighs she made as he pleasured her.

‘Do you feel guilt for doing so?'

‘How can I? It is my duty, is it not?' James laughed humourlessly. ‘At least, that is what I tell myself. I visit her because I cannot keep my hands off her. A wife who despises me and everything I stand for.'

‘She rejected your advances, then?' His friend's tone was still gentle.

James pushed back his chair and stood up, walking towards the only window in his study. ‘On the contrary. But she hated herself for doing so.' Even after all this time, the memory of hearing Alethea cry herself to sleep still caused him to feel overwhelming guilt. So much so that he had come to London to escape it. To no avail. Each time he closed his eyes, he could hear those heart-rending sobs. ‘God, Cole. I'm afraid.' The words were torn out of him. He had never uttered these words aloud in his life. It was a sign of weakness, and he had been taught never to show any weakness. Not as the heir to a dukedom, and certainly not as a duke. ‘I don't know what I would do if my actions have cost me my wife. She's . . . so precious to me, Cole, and I never told her. Not once.'

‘It is not too late, James.'

The duke turned to look at his friend, his chest tight with hopelessness and fear. ‘I was too proud. I didn't want her to have the power to . . . hurt me.'

‘You have to tell her why you did what you did.'

James clenched his jaw. ‘Do you think I was wrong to allow the punishment to proceed?' Once, he would never have asked that question. Right or wrong, he had never doubted himself.