The Seduction of a Duke (26 page)

“There’s something else,” William said, avoiding his brother’s glance. “I believe I have need of your advice on something of a delicate nature.”

“Is this the ‘matter of great urgency’ that required my appearance at the abbey?” Nicholas raised his brow. “Emma would have insisted we come to meet the new bride even if you hadn’t sent such an intriguing—and demanding—telegram.”

“If I hadn’t sent my request, you may have waited to allow us time to settle. I need your immediate counsel.”

Nicholas flopped into a chair, his walking stick by his side. “I cannot recall a single incident in which you’ve sought my advice. This promises to be most interesting.”

Most difficult, more likely, William thought, carefully choosing his words. “As you have noted, Francesca is a most engaging woman of considerable means. She is beautiful, intelligent, compassionate . . .” He lingered a moment over that last description, recalling how she stayed with him while he was ill and read her stories to keep him entertained. She could have easily gone elsewhere on the
Republic
rather than stay in that foul stateroom.

“William?” Nicholas tapped his boot with his stick. “I see no problem with the qualities you’ve listed. You must be the luckiest man in all of England to cross the ocean to return with such a jewel—sight unseen. Where is the difficulty in this?”

This was proving most difficult to ask, especially of a younger brother. But he could see no way around it. He thought to appear nonchalant, but given his interest, even that was impossible.

“How can you tell if a woman is with child?”

“Are we speaking of your charming wife?” Nick’s brows shot to his hairline before he laughed. “Lord, you do take your heir-producing obligations seriously. You’ll know when your wife tells you, of course.”

Nicholas glanced at William’s face and sobered. “Unless of course, we are speaking of another charming female, that of a previous nature?”

William shook his head. “No. My concern is with Francesca.” He sipped from his glass. “I’ve wondered why her mother would arrange to marry this beautiful, charming heiress, who had no interest in marriage herself, in such a swift and timely manner?” He didn’t give Nicholas an opportunity to respond. “I believe the answer is that she is ruined goods and the mother was anxious to have her married before her dishonor affected the family name.”

Nicholas frowned. “You surprise me, William. I had never considered you so provincial as to require the sacrifice of your bride’s maidenhead on the marriage altar.”

“It’s not that.” William raked a hand through his hair. “It’s no secret that I married her for her fortune. I married her to save this.” He swung his arm out to encompass the room. “I would have married a toothless crone with five brats clinging to her skirts if she brought the fortune I needed.”

“Dare I say again, you are the luckiest man in all of England. I fail to see your difficulty.”

William took a swallow from his glass, letting it burn down to his stomach. “The difficulty is this: if Francesca is breeding, I want to know it. I don’t want to question if the babe is that of another man, or my own. It’ll make no difference in the raising, mind you. I intend to honor my obligations as a husband and father under all circumstances, but I want to know. Damn it.”

“Have you asked the lady?”

“Of course, I have.”

“And?”

“She denies it, of course. But what value can I place on her word? If she is breeding, it would be in her interest to lie and pass the babe off as mine.”

“So you haven’t . . . dipped in the well?”

William pulled his lips taut, mentally preparing for the taunting that was sure to ensue. “No.”

His brother whistled an exclamation, then held his glass high. “You’re a more disciplined man than I, William Chambers. We of the baser instincts salute you.” He took a drink then grimaced. “How can you sleep with such a beauty and not take advantage?”

“I’ve been careful not to share a bed with her thus far,” William explained. “But she hasn’t made it easy.”

Nicholas choked on his brandy then lapsed into a coughing spasm. “What . . . what do you mean?” he rasped.

“She knows things.” William’s eyes narrowed. “Things that a proper, respectable woman should not know.” He pointed at his brother. “It’s as if she attended that bloody Pettibone School.”

“I repeat, Brother.” Nicholas chortled. “You are the luckiest man—”

“Spare me the laughter. It’s not a humorous affair.” He paced the floor like an Indian tiger brought round in a cage for display. “My life has been hell for nigh on the past week. On one hand, she’s perfect. She’s unlike any other woman I’ve ever known, and I want her. I want her so bad, my cock throbs when she enters the room. When she smiles, I want to cover her in kisses. I want to taste every inch of her honey skin, and know her like no other man. I can’t sleep. I can’t think.” He stopped for emphasis. “But if I yield, if I engage in intimacy in the manner she has so very clearly bloody well offered—then I may never know the parentage of the ensuing babe.” He sank into a chair opposite his brother then buried his head in his hands.

Nicholas slowly shook his head. “I thought you looked tired when you first entered the library. I had assumed more pleasant activities were costing you sleep.” He walked back to the decanter, placing his glass on the tray. “While I commiserate with your predicament, I’m not sure how you thought I might assist you in its solution.”

“You’ve fathered a child, Nicholas. You’ve seen a woman in the various stages of her pregnancy, and I know your proclivity with a piece of charcoal. I thought perhaps you had done some studies of Emma that I might peruse—strictly to determine if Francesca is following a similar path.”

“You want me to show you naked pictures of my wife?”

“Only for the purpose of studying the anatomy of a woman’s pregnancy,” William insisted. Surely, Nicholas didn’t think he would make such a request for any other purpose? “Mine is a scientific interest, really.”

“I swear, if you weren’t my brother—”

“You’ve already hung a naked portrait of your wife in the Royal Academy for all of London to see,” William argued. “Surely you wouldn’t object to—”

“No.
You
hung that purloined portrait, and don’t think I’ve forgiven you for it.” Nicholas stomped his way across the room, leaning heavily on his stick. “I should have called you out then and there.” He spun around. “I would have too if it hadn’t meant I would have been stuck with all this.” He waved his stick about the room, much as William had done earlier. “You’re a better man for this, William. I have no desire to be the duke of anything, but you’ve been bred to it.”

“I need your help,” William pleaded.

“I won’t deny that I’ve captured my Emma in all manner of her blossoming,” Nicholas said, with a tightening of his lips. He pointed his stick at William. “But those sketches are in my private collection at Black Oak. You will have to get Emma’s permission to view them, and quite frankly, I doubt she’ll agree.”

“Then you’ll offer me no assistance?” He had clung to the hope that Nicholas would be able to confirm Franny’s condition one way or the other. To learn that he could not was like the snuffing of a candle. He felt destitute.

“Time is your friend,” Nicholas advised. “You’ve been gone more than a month, and it takes a month for the woman to suspect she’s with child. If your Francesca is pregnant, you’ll know soon enough.”

“If I live that long,” he grumbled. “So you’re condemning me to continue to remain isolated from my wife?”

Nicholas nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll speak to Emma. Your Francesca might be more inclined to speak openly with another woman. I’ll set her to the task.”

“Thank you.”

“William.” The hard edge left Nicholas’s voice. “Not all women lie. Not all wives are like Catherine.”

Begrudgingly, William nodded. There were few similarities between Franny and his first wife. Catherine, whom he thought he loved at one time, was a liar and a cheat. Franny, who was a complete stranger, appeared to be neither of those things. He could almost hear his father’s laughter. His inability to judge women would be just another example of his inadequacy to be a duke.

His brother patted him on the shoulder, then headed for the door presumably to join his wife, another woman William had misjudged.

“I must say, Brother,” Nicholas added at the door. “After all these years of your cold heavy-handedness, it is most gratifying to see you in a stew over a woman.”

William threw a pillow toward the door.

MORNING CAME EARLY AND LOUD IN THIS PART OF the world. A chambermaid drew the heavy draperies aside, allowing the streaming morning light to slice across the bed. Fran awoke with a start, disoriented for a moment with the unfamiliar surroundings and a distant pounding in her head.

“Would Your Grace like a breakfast tray?” the housekeeper, a Mrs. Tuberville if she remembered correctly, asked.

It took a moment for her to unravel the accent with her groggy brain. “Yes. Thank you,” she replied.

Both the maid and the housekeeper finished their quick chores and departed, leaving her alone to scrutinize her surroundings. She’d been so tired the night before, it had taken all her energy to climb from the tepid bath and make her way to bed. That had been a surprise. Back home, heated water poured from a tap. In this centuries old abbey, the water was heated elsewhere then carried down long, drafty hallways. She regretted her request of the night before, not only because it kept so many servants from their beds but it also took much, much longer than she’d anticipated, which only delayed the time she could rest her head on a pillow.

She slipped from the bed, tying the sash of her wrapper around her. She’d speak to William about the need for indoor plumbing as part of the improvements he had planned. Meanwhile, she’d explore this room as she’d been informed, that of the many vacant rooms, this one was to be hers.

Back home, her mother had taken complete control over the decorating of all the family’s households. As she had intended that Francesca would marry royalty, her mother had thought it best to prepare Fran to live in a barren environment such as what she might encounter in a castle. Having lived in that surrounding for so long, the femininity of rose wallpaper, though severely faded, brought a smile to her lips. Paintings of pastoral scenes hung on the walls as well as small mirrors. She noted two oil lamps, and several candle holders, but no fixtures for a gas jet. How extraordinary. Her room had a fireplace, one of many throughout the abbey, she supposed, and several chintz-covered chairs, a writing desk, and a rosewood settee. Luxurious.

The maid returned with a tray of fruits, breads and jams, eggs and some sort of meat, and two pots—one of chocolate, one of tea. “We didn’t know which you’d prefer,” the maid explained.

“I shall drink them both,” Fran announced, happy to see that the liquids remained stable in their cups, and reflected neither the turbulence of crashing waves nor the turning of iron wheels. Like the bathwater, both were barely tepid.

“Has the Duke risen yet this morning?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. I can ask his chambermaid, if you like,” the girl replied with eyes as wide as saucers.

“I’m sure I’ll discover myself, soon enough.” She glanced about the walls. “Is there a connecting door of which I should be aware?” Her parents maintained separate rooms connected by a large sitting room. Her tutor had explained that the in-between room existed for private dinners or for those special private conversations, which Fran quickly ascertained meant arguments.

The maid glanced to a barely visible door handle on a far wall. “Will that be all, madam?”

“Thank you, yes,” Fran replied. She waited till the servant had left before she tiptoed to the connecting door. Most likely, he’d still be asleep as it appeared he and his brother were settling in for a long discussion last night. She just wanted to peek in as she was hesitant to go downstairs to meet the rest of the household without him. But the door was locked, which brought the enormity of her situation home.

She was alone in a strange house, in a strange country, speaking the same language, but spoken differently enough to be almost impossible to comprehend. She didn’t know the house routines, she didn’t know the house layout, for that matter, she didn’t even know the house inhabitants.

The only person she knew well enough to recognize in a crowd thought she was a lying slut—so much so he locked the door so she couldn’t gain admittance to his person. Even Mary, the one person she trusted to help her face the unknown, was facing a travail of her own. Tears burned in her eyes. What had she done?

She gazed out her window that oversaw some gardens. Flowers opened their petals to the morning sun. She could almost hear the faint buzzing of bees about their business. Oh, how she wished she were back in Newport in her veiled bonnet and gloves, isolated from the world and confidant in her own abilities.