Duchess by Mistake (28 page)

And see her husband taking his leave.

I must not think of it.
For the past several days she had been unable to purge from her mind the tortuous thoughts that her husband no longer came home, that he was in love with the Italian noblewoman. She must try to forget her obsessive love for a man who married her because she fit the requirements of a duchess. She was nothing more than a aristocratic breeder, like Princess Caroline, whom all of Europe knew the Regent had
not
married for love.

Breeder
. The very memory of lying with Philip, the wistful hope that she could be carrying his heir stole away her breath.

She was climbing the stairs from the basement at Number 7 Trent Square when she saw Mrs. Hudson awaiting her.

"I've just finished the reading lesson with Abraham, your grace, and I thought you might be interested in a report on his progress."

Seeing how cheerful the formerly forlorn widow had become gave Elizabeth something for which to be thankful. The young woman's eyes sparkled whenever she mentioned the handsome footman. "Indeed I am."

"He has far exceeded my expectations. His proficiency increases dramatically each day."

The two women began to climb the stairs to the next level. "I daresay that's quite a testament to the skill of the teacher."

Mrs. Hudson vigorously shook her head. "Not at all! He told me he spends anywhere from one to three hours studying by candlelight each night before he allows himself to fall asleep."

As proud as Elizabeth was of Abraham, it saddened her to think that the only time his pressing duties allowed him to study was at the expense of his sleep.  She frowned. "I told him he was at liberty to study in our dinner room by the light of day."

"A less conscientious man would have, but Abraham takes his new duties very seriously. He told me your butler is teaching him how to run a household." Mrs. Hudson's lashes lowered. "Dare we hope that means you may allow him to come to us every day?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I've decided that you ladies need a man here at all times, and Abraham has consented to be that man."

A huge smile broke across Mrs. Hudson's face. "That is happy news, indeed. I cannot convey to you how indebted we all are to you and your family."

It was scenes like this that lifted away Elizabeth's melancholy. "You ladies and your sweet children have brought my sisters and me great joy."

Before they reached the music room, the banging of piano keys by clumsy little hands filled the whole second story with a sound that was somewhere between music and annoyance.

"I wonder why Abraham hasn't told you about his impending new duties."

"He's a most modest man. I daresay he was afraid he might not come up to scratch with his new duties."

Elizabeth burst out laughing. The fellow's talents were wasted as a footman. "I expect you're right."

"Everything he does, he does well."

"I know. Now, Mrs. Hudson, you must help me come up with a title for him that will befit his new duties."

They peeked in the doorway and watched as Louisa studiously eyed the sheet music and tried to transfer the notes to her little fingers. Elizabeth looked from mother to child. The look of love in Mrs. Hudson's eyes was palpable.

"What do you think, your grace," Mrs. Hudson said a moment later, "about calling him house steward?"

"That's brilliant! I suppose, too, that we will dispense with Abraham in favor of his surname. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes—only because he's been practicing writing it in both script and print." Mrs. Hudson's voice dropped. "Though I will own, his handwriting has a very long way to go before I can boast on it!"

Elizabeth chuckled. "What is his last name?"

"It's Carter."

Elizabeth chanted the name twice. "Do you not think it has a very good ring for a house steward?"

"Indeed I do. How kind it is of the duke to allow this new expenditure."

Mrs. Hudson need not know that Elizabeth and the duke had never discussed it. They never discussed anything anymore. How could they when he was only home when his wife was presumably asleep?

After leaving Trent Square, the sisters and Elizabeth rode back to Berkeley Square in the duchess's coach. Once more, the duke's coach was in front of the Pulteney Hotel on Piccadilly. It suddenly became clear to Elizabeth  that the Contessa must have moved from the Chiswick to the Pulteney.

It also became clear to her that if Philip was there each day, all of London knew it. All of London knew he was in love with the Contessa Savatini. She felt as if the death of a loved one had just been announced. In a way, it
was
like a death. It was the death of all her hopes, the end of her marriage as she had known it.

She eyed Clair on the opposite seat. Clair was noted for her inherent honesty, even when the truth might be painful. She saw that Clair too had seen her brother's coach, yet she said nothing.

"I beg that you tell me the truth," Elizabeth said to her in a grave voice. "Is the Contessa Savatini staying at the Pulteney?"

Clair's countenance softened as she shot Elizabeth a pitying gaze and nodded somberly. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

 For weeks now he'd thought that single-handedly cracking the Pyrenees Code would bring him more joy than anything he had ever experienced. But as he sat before his desk, the waning afternoon sun providing just enough light to read his scribbled decipher, he glared at it—the solution—strangely void of elation.

His life was so miserable, nothing could bring him pleasure. Nothing except Elizabeth.

He had best inform Haverstock before he left for the day. They needed to act upon the newly discovered information. He crossed the chamber and went through the door connecting their offices.

Haverstock looked up. Though he was dark, and his sister was fair, there was something about his mouth that looked like Elizabeth's. Little observations like that had the power to pluck at the heartstrings Philip had not known he possessed.

"Any luck?" Haverstock asked.

Philip nodded. "In fact, I believe I've managed to solve the whole bloody riddle."

His eyes rounding, Haverstock leapt to his feet, snatched away the paper Philip held, and began to read.

Perhaps Philip was capable of experiencing emotions after all. For as he stood there while Haverstock read, pride swelled within him, and when Haverstock looked up, admiration and exultation shining in his face, Philip could not suppress his overpowering feeling of accomplishment.

"This is bloody brilliant!"

"It would have been bloody brilliant had I solved it the first day. Have you forgotten how many hours it's taken us?"

Haverstock continued to study it. "We've notified the War Office about the location of the various French couriers. Did I tell you they have already captured each of them?"

"No, and it's not as if we don't see each other every day."

"Sorry, old chap. We had men dressed in French uniforms to draw them out. I meant to tell you yesterday."

But Haverstock had obviously gotten distracted yesterday after seeing the Aldridge coach at the Pulteney whilst its owner was ensconced in Whitehall. Being his sister's advocate, he had demanded an explanation from Philip.

It had been exceedingly difficult for Philip to withhold information from his oldest friend, but he refused to divulge any portion of the truth. "It pleases the Italian woman," was all Philip would own.

"It's a shabby way to treat your wife."

"Believe me when I say nothing could ever hurt me more than inflicting pain on Elizabeth."

Haverstock had eyed him with suspicion, then dropped the topic.

"We must get this information on troop movements immediately to the Duke of York."

"Exactly what I was hoping you'd say. I would suggest sending battalions to intercept them before they reach Spain."

"If we cannot attack this flank before it reaches our troops, we will be seriously outmanned and overpowered." Haverstock looked back up at his brother-in-law. "Your country is deeply in your debt. Well done."

"Thank you."

Haverstock started toward the corridor. "Do you want to go with me to see the duke?"

Philip frowned. "No, I have some correspondence that demands my attention."

He would not tell Haverstock that correspondence was a letter from the Contessa. Fury still pounded through him that she had tracked him to this building and had the offensiveness to have her servant deliver her letter here. His anger was so intense, he had refused to open it.

Now that his work here was temporarily finished, he felt rather like an uncaged bird. How he longed to rush to Berkeley Square and see Elizabeth, but the she-devil was succeeding in her efforts to destroy his marriage.

He must make it clear to the Contessa that no matter what she did, he would never love her. Back at his desk, he eyed the letter and finally tore it open.

Amore Mio,

Tonight is the Wentworths’ ball. You will dance with me. Failing to do so would result in a disclosure to the newspapers that no one in your family would wish to see.

Forgive my ruthlessness. It is only that I love you most dreadfully.

Your Angelina

An anger like nothing he had ever known surged through him. Were the Contessa to die tomorrow, he would feel not a shred of remorse.  Were she to die by his own hand—an appealing notion—he would be no better than that she-devil, certainly not a man worthy of Elizabeth.

More than anything, he wished to be worthy of the fine woman he had married.

Now he just hoped to God that Elizabeth was not going to the Wentworths’ tonight.

* * *

He had to return home to dress for the ball. While he was changing his clothing, he was aware that his wife too was dressing for the night in the adjoining chamber. Dare he allow himself the pleasure of dining with her? It might be difficult to concentrate on eating when the desire to drink in her loveliness was so strong.

Once Lawford had finished with the final inspection of his master's inky black coat against snowy starched cravat, Philip was powerless to keep from striding into her chamber. He stood there for a moment, watching her sit at her dressing table before an ornate looking glass in which he could see her face. Her maid babbled on as she styled Elizabeth's golden hair. How lovely she looked in tonight's silvery blue gown. How desperately he wanted to gather her in his arms. His heartbeat accelerated, his breath shortened.

Suddenly he realized she was peering at him through the mirror's reflection, and he felt rather like an Eton youth becoming aware of his first love. This woman—his wife—truly
was
his first love. "You look lovely, my dear." His gentle voice sounded alien to his own ears.

"Thank you." She turned back to offer him a smile. "Have you brought me sapphires, your grace?"

He thwacked his forehead. He'd been so impatient to behold her he'd entirely forgotten. "Allow me to fetch them."

When he returned to the chamber a moment later, the maid had been dismissed. He fastened the sapphire necklace with trembling hands. Then his head bent as he nibbled at her silken neck.

A knock sounded upon the door, and Clair came into the bedchamber. She stopped and eyed him beneath lowered brows. "You've been quite the stranger." There was no affection in his sister's voice. No doubt she believed exactly what the Contessa wanted everyone to believe.

"Your brother has many important duties that prevent him from being home," Elizabeth defended.

Clair still glared. "So, Aldridge, will you come with us tonight to the Wentworths’ ball?"

He was no better than a mute throughout the light dinner he shared with his wife and sisters prior to going to the Wentworths’. His own appetite had vanished the second he had learned Elizabeth's destination. Not only did he refrain from talking at dinner, he ignored the conversations that bounced about around him.

All he could think of was that he had to get out of attending the bloody ball. Thus far he had complied with the Contessa's wishes. And were his wife not coming tonight, he could have danced once with the she-devil in order to satisfy her malicious demands.

But he could no more hurt Elizabeth than he could publicly humiliate her. Even if she did not love him.  No gentleman could openly treat his wife in such a way.

Nothing could prevent a man from dancing with a woman to whom he was not married. It was done all the time. Though a man's code of honor permitted dancing with other women, that same code forbade a man to dance with a woman all the
ton
knew to be his mistress. Such shabby behavior was not to be countenanced. Ever.

He felt Elizabeth's gaze but could not look up from the plate where his fork was nudging at uneaten food. "Philip? Are you unwell? I declare, you haven't taken a single bite."

"You may be right, my dear." He offered her a smile. "My appetite seems to have eluded me. I daresay it's owing to the many things that occupy my mind."

"You never told us what your plans are tonight." Elizabeth eyed him with concern.

His gut clenched as he was forced to make a decision. "I fancy dancing with my wife and sisters tonight."

The dazzling smile his comment produced upon his wife's pretty face made him feel like a beast. He hoped to God he would be able to manage this tightrope act without jeopardizing either his wife's or Sarah's happiness.

For he had decided he would dance with the Contessa Savatini in his wife's presence.
After
he danced with Elizabeth and each of his sisters. Hopefully, by the time he got around to dancing with Angelina it might look as if she were just another acquaintance.

Except, he told himself, all of London would believe what the she-devil wanted them to believe.

* * *

No queen could have felt more regal than did Elizabeth as she glided onto the ballroom floor of Lord and Lady Wentworths’ grand mansion on Piccadilly. She had no doubts that Philip was the most handsome man at the gathering—along with her brother, when he arrived. Just weeks ago, the Duke of Aldridge was unquestionably considered the best looking unmarried man in all of England. It pained her to realize that even were he not a duke, women would be making cakes of themselves to merit a glance from her husband.