An Ideal Duchess (52 page)

             
“Haven’t you?” He raked a glance up and down her body. “Are you going to tell me six years of correspondence is all in innocence? That you haven’t been arranging little tête-a-têtes to meet in private?”

             
“You are a fool, Malvern,” She said stiffly and brushed past him.

             
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her back until she fell flush against him.

             
“The biggest it seems,” His mouth and his eyes were cruel. “A cuckold.”

             
“You have no right, not when you’ve been cavorting with Viola for God knows how long in my house.”

             
She felt his answering flinch down to her very marrow.

             
“Yes, I’ve always known, and I will always despise you for your cowardice.”

             
He pushed her away, hard, and she stumbled back, her heel catching in the carpet pile. She went sprawling, banging her elbow against a table, biting her lip, and narrowly missing hitting her head on a chair. The chair instead toppled over on to her, one carved arm falling on her chin and the other carved arm falling heavily across her midsection, pinning her to the floor. He looked down at her, wide-eyed and grim-lipped, his expression blank and frightening in its intensity. She felt as insignificant as a tiny beetle beneath his boot, and could only stare mutely at him, shocked and shaken by the escalation of their argument. His hands moved restlessly at his side, as though he wanted to assist in some way, but she turned her head away in rejection and pushed the chair up herself with a grunt of pain. She turned at the flash of white in her periphery and saw that he held a handkerchief out to her.

             
“Your mouth,” He said curtly. “It’s bleeding.”

             
Why, it was
, she noticed with a tentative exploration of her tongue. The metallic, bitter taste of her own viscous fluid made their row more tangible, crueler, it seemed, and when she looked up at him again, he averted his own eyes.

             
She ignored the offer of the handkerchief and rose carefully to her feet, allowing only one wince at the aching pain in her midsection. He glanced at her again, dropping the hand dangling the handkerchief outstretched in the air, and she remained silent, forcing him to look at what they had come to. 

             
“Yes. Well,” He swallowed audibly. “Wipe your mouth and have your maid tidy you up before you come back down for tea.”

             
She watched the handkerchief float gently, elegantly from his hands to the floor, his booted feet inadvertently stepping on the clean white square as he pivoted on his heel and left the library.

London, May 1912

             
For the duration of the Season, Bledington Park was partially closed and left with a skeleton staff to maintain the cleanliness. The most important servants traveled by third-class to the Belgravia townhouse the Dowager Duchess let for three months and aired it out a week before the family was to arrive for Beryl’s debut,

             
Amanda remained in England rather than follow her first impulse to escape Malvern and join her family in New York. Thankfully, the boys were on their first short leave from the Summer term at Summer Fields, and she collected them from the school in her motor, and then drove them down to London. She hoped their presence and the gaiety of the London Season would act as a buffer between her and Malvern, because she wanted to avoid him as much as possible.

             
They were invited to a ball in Devonshire House, on Piccadilly, and after Amanda tucked the boys in for the night, she went downstairs to join the party in the entrance hall. Beryl glowed with excitement and beauty, and Amanda, ignoring Bron, went to her and linked arms.

             
“Are you excited?”

             
“Terribly. And nervous!” Beryl laughed.

             
“I don’t see why you should be,” Ursula frowned. “You are a duke’s daughter and no one would dare to ignore you.”

             
“Yes, Mama,” Beryl rolled her eyes at Amanda when Ursula turned away.

             
Fowler, who seemed strangely diminished in London, opened the door and they stepped out of the house and down the steps where Wilcox awaited with the motor. Amanda ended up seated opposite Bron, and she turned her head away the first time their eyes met, making sure no inch of her person or clothing touched him. Their marriage was beyond repair, beyond apology, and she wanted to pretend he did not exist in order to maintain her composure. The limousine moved swiftly through Belgravia to Piccadilly, and then through the cast-iron gates shielding Devonshire House’s courtyard from gawping strangers.

             
Though the house was of plain, almost ugly brown brick, the interiors were breathtaking, and they were ushered up a spiral staircase at the rear of the house adorned with a beautiful crystal handrail. The 9th Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, stood in a receiving line, where they shook the hands of their guests as they entered the ballroom, which was dominated by the massive, low-hanging crystal chandelier.

             
Amanda moved away when Malvern began to grab her arm, and did her best to get lost in the crush of people dancing across the parquet floor. There was a small palm orchestra playing waltzes in the corner, and in the adjoining room, she could see a buffet table laden with a punch bowl and trays of cold food. To her pleasure, Beryl was immediately whirled onto the dance floor, though she could see Ursula—seated with other mamas—eyeing each gentleman speculatively. There honestly was little need for this, since every guest was proper and correct, seeing how the new duke and duchess had little to do with any remnants of the old king’s fast set.

             
Suddenly, Amanda shivered, shaken by a wave of coldness at the sight of so much vitality when her father lay somewhere thousands of feet below the ocean’s surface. She made her way to one of the chairs placed against the wall before she could collapse again with grief, and hugged herself, wondering if she would ever feel warm again.

             
When the crowd of dancers parted, she was given a direct view of Malvern, who stood at the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, staring directly at her, his gray eyes darkened by shadows. She turned her head away with another shiver, feeling his eyes as though they were a beam of ice, and she knew she could never be warm with him in her life.

*           *           *

              Beryl danced with plenty of boys, but she wanted to dance with a man.
That
man, she decided, was standing at the buffet table, perusing the trays of food arrayed for the guests. She extricated herself from her dance partner when he would have led her back to her mother, and walked casually into the adjoining drawing room. For a brief moment, when she caught her reflection in the mirror fixed over the ornate mantelpiece, she cursed the white dress that marked her as a debutante. But then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin: she was more handsome than beautiful, though her figure was fine and many of the boys complimented her bright gray eyes and thick black hair. That was surely enough to make her gentleman overlook the reticence expressed towards girls just out.

             
Her quarry turned away from the buffet table, holding a glass of punch, and their eyes met. He was tall and darkly handsome, his own thick black hair barely contained by the brilliantine smoothing it away from his high brow. His eyes were deep brown, almost black, but they were lit with what she identified as humor, and the deep creases in his cheeks when he smiled at her confirmed this. She suspected he was laughing at her bold stare, which was unfitting for a debutante, but blushes, giggles, and the demure lowering of eyes did not achieve results. Beryl walked up to him and took his arm.

             
“You will dance with me, won’t you?”

             
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” He grinned down at her.

             
Beryl shook her head and lifted her shoulders, and led him across the room to the dance floor. One of the boys with whom she was supposed to dance the polka halted when he saw her with her new partner, and she tossed a smile his way before jumping into the initial steps of the bouncy dance.

             
He was an excellent dancer, knowing how to lead without forcing her to match his steps. She was grateful that the hobble skirt now came with discreet slits along the side, for her dance partner moved swiftly, forcing her to keep up with his pace.

             
When the dance ended, he took her arm, and to her surprise, led her directly to her mother.

             
“How do you do, Your Grace?” He gave her mother a sardonic bow.

             
“Challoner,” Her mother barely inclined her head. “It’s a pity Harty and Louisa are dead—you would have never darkened these doors had they been alive.”

             
“I count myself lucky that Victor Devonshire isn’t so hidebound by his predecessor’s prejudices.”

             
“Challoner?” Beryl glanced sharply at her dance partner. “Not Bim!”

             
“I recognized you the moment I laid eyes on you,” He grinned. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

             
Beryl frowned up at him. That was
not
the sort of compliment she wanted to hear from him of all people! She opened her mouth to protest when Bron appeared. Bim’s good-humor seemed to disappear as though a light switch had been flicked off.

             
“Pardon me,” Bim bowed and withdrew.

             
Next, Bron had pulled her onto the dance floor, this time a hesitation waltz.

             
“I saw you dancing with him,” Bron said casually.

             
“And what of it?” Beryl glowered at him. “It is customary for guests at a ball to dance with one another.”

             
“You’re much too young to possess such a waspish tongue,” Her brother raised his eyebrows. “How do you expect to catch a husband?”

             
“I’m not going fishing, Bron, but if I were going to catch a husband, I’ve already dangled my bait in front of the fish I want to land.”

             
Bron’s step hitched briefly, and she stumbled against him before they found the time again. “You’re out of your bloody mind,”

             
“You can’t forbid me from marrying whom I choose. My dowry isn’t yours to bestow.”

             
Beryl instantly regretted her words the moment they emerged from her tongue.

             
“Shades of Amanda, I see,” He said finally, his eyes bright and dangerous looking.

             
“I’m sorry Bron, I was saying silly things. Please don’t be angry with me.” She looked appealingly at her older brother.

             
His expression shifted, though not to anything remotely resembling forgiveness, but he inclined his head with a smile. “Perhaps I ought to warn you that you mightn’t have any dowry at all.”

             
“Wh-what do you mean?”

             
“Amanda’s fortune—or rather, that of Cornelius Vandewater—sunk with the Titanic. We are in a rather precarious financial situation, so do remember that when you think to throw the source of our fortune in my face.”

             
Beryl flinched at his harsh words, immediately subdued as all of the fizziness of the evening disappeared. Bron led her back to Mama with a slight bow and then disappeared into the crush. She glanced in dismay at the dancers, at the lavish frocks and décor, and then sat down in the empty chair beside her mother. Her mother merely murmured her approval over her sitting out a dance, and Beryl looked at her with incredulity before turning back to the dancers with a sigh.

             
She scanned their faces in search of Bim’s handsome face, and found him standing over Amanda, who looked rather wan and fragile—and desperately beautiful— in her black evening frock. She felt a tiny flicker of jealousy, but quickly stamped it out, refusing to taint her relationship with her beloved sister-in-law with such a volatile emotion, and commiserated with her over life with Bron.

*          *          *

             
Anthony had resided in his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn for over ten years, and he knew every nook and cranny like the back of his hand. His fussy clerk kept everything in order, so when he stepped inside his darkened room after leaving Devonshire House, he was instantly aware of an intruder.

             
“Wait,” Came a whisper.