My Lady Coward: An Episodic Regency Romance (5 page)

Part 9

In which Maria

voices her discontent....

“I do not care for her. I do not care for her at all.”

Richard's mouth fell open, golden eyes widening until they'd surely pop. Maria inwardly cringed, but refused to recant her opinion. A lady didn't express such an opinion, not to her husband, and certainly not about her husband's mistress.

“You do not care for Lady Felicia Hensley?” His bland tone told her nothing. He stood before her, the very picture of an elegant gentleman preparing for a day's ride in buckskins, frock coat, and topboots.

One brow lifted as the silence stretched. “Well?”

In the months since they married Maria had come to know her husband well. She'd come up in the world through her marriage, rising from the daughter of a tradesman to the wife of a duke. There were pitfalls and Maria encountered most of them.

Her husband's mistress was the worst of those pitfalls. Feigning ignorance was the accepted response in Society. Maria turned a blind eye for as long as she could. Now, a year after their marriage, her considerable forbearing had run out.

“I do not care for her company,” she repeated, raising her chin a notch. “She offends my sensibilities.”

His bark of laughter jarred her, sending a shock through her bulging middle. Her hand came to rest there, flutters from inside confirming the baby's discontent.

Richard strode over, dropping to one knee before her. “I am sorry, my love. I should not have reacted so.” His cheeks dimpled, eyes dancing as he squeezed her clenched fingers. “You simply looked so... so...”

“What?”

“Grand Dame!” he laughed.

The urge to slap the smile from his face rose up to tempt her. But Maria was not so lost to propriety as to strike her own husband.

“I see,” she murmured, extracting her hands and rising. “I am pleased to have entertained you, my lord.”

“Oh, come now, my love. Do not take on so,” he entreated, rising as she did. “I was merely jesting. Does my son cause so much discontent that you can no longer find amusement in that which is amusing?”

“What one finds amusing another may not,” she muttered, caring for his idea of a joke not at all. “My
daughter
has nothing to do with what I find amusing.”

“
Our
daughter or son,” he told her, reaching for her fists. “Son or daughter, Maria, this child is ours. I tease and I am a beast to do so.”

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, sending a warm rush through her veins. His next words splashed icy water over her flesh.

“My relationship with Lady Felicia is my business.” His tone brooked no argument.

Maria withdrew her hand again, and this time she was allowed to keep it. “Then I apologize for stepping beyond the bounds of propriety to indicate my selfish discontent, your grace,” she uttered in freezing accents.

“There's no need to—”

“What, your grace? Address you properly, your grace? As the daughter of a tradesman it is only correct that I address you with the utmost formality, your grace.” She was unable to stop the sharp edge in her tone. “Will there be anything else, your grace?”

Thunderclouds gathered on Richard's brow. “Maria!”

“Forgive me, your grace, if I am ignorant of the ways of a proper lady. My upbringing was less than ideal.” The words choked her but she forced them out, tears gathering in her eyes. “If you'll excuse me, I must make sure all the preparations are in order for this evening's entertainment.” She moved away from him, gathering her skirt about her as if afraid of contamination.

“Maria!” Richard's voice snapped out, disbelief warring with anger in his tawny eyes.

Maria considered walking out but thought better of it. She met her husband's eyes, regarding him as impassively as she could manage. Clasping her hands together until her fingers lost all feeling, she said nothing. She would not cry, she would not apologize, and she would not let him see how much his need for a mistress hurt her.

But Richard seemed unsure what to say in the face of her stoic resolve. When a full minute passed with nothing said, she bobbed a subservient little curtsy and made her escape.

It was nothing more than a small soirée for a few close friends. Richard's friends, of course. Twenty guests, in acknowledgment of Lady Felicia Hensley's engagement to the aging Lord Roth. Good breeding did not allow for a larger celebration, in light of the passing of Maria's father only months prior.

Rage congealed Maria's blood. How could Richard ask this of her? How could he expect her to not only entertain his mistress but to entertain in her honor?

And for the first time, as she saw a lady whisper to another lady, fans raised to hide their mouths and both pairs of eyes locked on Maria, she wondered what was being said about her. What did the other wives say about the upstart duchess whose husband made her entertain his mistress? That it was no more than she deserved?

Shaking off the lowering thought, Maria lifted her chin, determined more than ever to feign indifference.

Her resolve faltered a second later when Lady Felicia paused beside her. “My dear Maria, I am so grateful to you for this little gathering.” Her gaze swept the room. “It is all so beautiful, far more than I deserve.”

“It was the least I could do, my lady,” Maria murmured, dipping her head to acknowledge the praise.  How she agreed with the lady's assessment! Felicia Hensley most certainly did not deserve Maria's time or effort.

When Lady Felicia did not move on, Maria's heart sank. Must the woman rub the open wound with her acid presence? Must she make Maria the laughingstock of London?

One protective hand crept to her middle. The baby sensed its mother's agitation, turning this way and that in Maria's rounded belly. She knew such a display of her pregnancy was frowned upon but Maria was quite sure it was the last thing Society cared about when her husband's mistress stood at her side.

“The child moves?”

Maria's eyes shot to Lady Felicia's. “Yes, very much.”

“It is your upset that causes it. The baby does not care for it.”

Her matter-of-fact tone incited Maria's curiosity. “Indeed. You speak as though from experience, my lady. Have you children of your own?”

Lady Felicia's dark beauty lit up from within. “I do, indeed, my lady. They are my treasures. It is for them I marry Lord Roth, to give them the security they deserve.”

Maria didn't know what to think of such a confession. Did Felicia love Richard so much that she would settle for an aging lord? The question perched on the tip of Maria's tongue, begging to be asked. But her ladylike upbringing dove to the rescue.

“I was unaware you have children,” she murmured, watching the dancers and avoiding Lady Felicia's too sharp gaze. “Do they favor you? Or their father?”

“Their father, bless their little hearts,” she laughed. “I would not wish my delicate features on any male.”

But who was their father? Maria wanted to ask. Her fingers curled into her palms, her deepest desire in that moment to know once and for all just what Felicia and Richard meant to each other. The need to know shivered through her, winding through her veins and into her brain. She had to know, had to ask—

“Are you my husband's mistress?”

She'd spoken much louder than she'd intended. All sound ceased. Whispers ended on many gasps, the swishing of skirts crescendoed and silenced as all bodies spun to face Lady Maria. Even the band stopped playing, one discordant note echoing through the chamber.

If only the floor would open up and swallow her, Maria thought. Knowing such a thing for the pipe dream it was, she braced herself for the aftermath of her careless exclamation.

“My lady, I beg your—”

Her words ended in a pained squeak. Richard grasped her arm none to gently, his lips nearly touching her ear. “That was very poor form, my love.” He leaned away, pulling her arm through his and raising his voice just enough to be heard by everyone gathered there. “I think the heat overwhelms you, my dear. Perhaps a breath of fresh air will put you to rights.”

As Richard led her away, Maria caught a glimpse of Lady Felicia Hensley's face. Pity and a tiny glimmer of something else colored her dark eyes.

It was all the confirmation Maria needed. Her stomach clenched, pain blossoming behind her eyes. Darkness rimmed her vision and before she'd made it from the chamber, she collapsed into Richard's arms.

Part 10

In which Maria

learns the truth....

Silence reigned in the duke's household. Lady Maria had nothing to say to her unfaithful husband and went to great pains to avoid being alone in his company.

And, she realized with a pang, he didn't seem to notice.

A tiny, wet circle blossomed on the fabric in her hands, two more quickly joining the first. She ruthlessly dammed the wellspring, fingers clenching in the soft cotton she held. Too many tears had already been shed, too much misery felt over a situation she could not control. She could only control her own reaction and she refused to shed one more tear.

After this one, final bout.

She buried her face in the soft cloth and let the wave of sadness crash over her. Sobs tore at her chest, swelling her lungs to the point of bursting. With each sob released, two more rose to replace it until she grew lightheaded.

The child in her belly moved, disturbed by her grief. A wave of longing shot through her heart, longing to hold her precious baby. This child would be loved, adored, and never allowed to see Maria's unhappiness.

This decision effectively stifled her tears. She straightened her spine and stared down at the garment she held, a snowy infant's gown of the softest cotton, adorned with bright yellow silk ribbon. The garment was only half trimmed, halted while Maria took a moment to grieve over a marriage that was no different than many Society marriages.

The drawing room door opened, Maria's personal servant entering with her own basket of mending. Maria turned away, trying to compose herself before Colette managed to discern her mistress's distress. The last thing she needed was yet another jaw-me-dead from her outspoken, yet well-meaning, maid.

“Your grace,” she said, dropping a curtsy and depositing her burden on the floor beside the straight-backed chair in the corner, “you have a visitor.”

Maria swung about, unpleasantly surprised. Her hand shot forward to catch her sewing as it tried to slide from her ever-decreasing lap. “A visitor? Who?”

“Lady Felicia, madam.”

Ever since Maria's
faux pas
at a gathering weeks prior—when she'd asked that lady if she was her husband's mistress—she'd managed to avoid Lady Felicia Hensley. It was one thing Society would not countenance: a lady simply did not ask her husband's mistress if she was indeed that gentleman's mistress, and she certainly did not do so at a social gathering. A lady pretended the mistress didn't exist. If forced into a social gathering with such a woman, one did not acknowledge her unless forced to, as Maria had been.

Bitterness swept her child-plump form, knotting in her stomach. Felicia could move about in Society, accepted as one of them. Maria, married to a duke, was barely tolerated because her late father was in trade. Her acceptance plummeted to exactly none after she publicly inquired after Felicia's relationship with Richard, Maria's husband. What an unfair world she'd married into!

“I am not at home,” Maria declared.

Colette nodded. “Very good, madam.” She disappeared, returning a moment later to resume her seat in the corner.

Maria resumed her sewing task, but her thoughts would not focus on the task at hand. She darted looks at her maid, dying to ask what the lady's response was, but knowing how improper it was to ask.

Colette's hands stilled for a fraction of a moment. Then, as her fingers moved again, working her needle with speed and skill, she asked, “Is there anything else, madam?”

Horrified at having been caught so deftly, Maria nevertheless steeled her nerve enough to ask, “Did Lady Felicia seem vexed?”

“Oh yes, madam,” the maid confirmed. “She demanded to see his grace.”

This time the garment fell from Maria's numb fingers and slid to the floor. She had the devil of a time asking, “And was his grace at home to her?”

“Oh yes, madam, he always is.”

Those words, uttered with such finality, sent Maria's heart into double time. She had no conscious thought of doing so, but moments later she exited the drawing room, her feet taking her to her husband's study where she knew he spent many afternoons overseeing the financial aspects of his properties—properties he wouldn't have if it wasn't for her and her father's money.

This last thought sent her into a blind rage. How dare Richard so disrespect her as to bring his amours into their home! How dare he reprimand her for her conduct when he treated his mistress with more respect than his own wife!

She would have thrown open the study door—despite the wide-eyed footman standing at attention just down the corridor—had raised voices from the other side not stopped her in her tracks. What fresh mystery was this? Lady Felicia arguing with Richard? About what?

Maria unashamedly leaned closer, putting herself as close to the slightly open door as she dared. The footman opened his mouth but Maria shot him a glare that effectively snapped it shut.

Felicia's voice filtered through the ornate mahogany. “You have to tell her, Richard.”

“Why? She already believes the worst of me. Shall I confirm her suspicion, Felicia? What good would that do her?”

A pause, and then, “Surely you do not believe this to be healthy for the child? Maria's fear will do them both harm. Ease her fear for your child's sake if not for hers.”

“Everything I do is for her,” came Richard's reply, slightly muffled. Maria could only assume he'd moved further from the door. “I love her.”

Maria's racing heart slowed, her fingers twisting in her muslin skirts. He loved her? And yet, he consorted with his mistress, publicly shamed his wife, and made a mockery of their marriage. The ways of Society bedamned! She'd take no more.

Lady Maria didn't throw open the door as she longed to do. No, she forced herself to nod to the footman, taking a step back so that young man could open the door for her, as befitted a duchess.

Richard and Felicia stood face-to-face, her hand on his arm. She stepped quickly away, a faint pink climbing her cheeks. But she straightened her spine and gazed at Maria, waiting for her to further humiliate herself, no doubt, with gauche behavior.

As for the duke, he sighed, sinking back against his desk and wiping a weary hand over his face. His whole being spoke of defeat. The image shook Maria to her core.

As if to emphasize her disquiet, the baby moved. Maria gasped, her hand coming to rest protectively on her distended belly.

Richard came alive at the sound. “Maria? Are you unwell? Is it the baby?”

“I am well. My daughter merely protests so much excitement.” She couldn't help the teasing edge of her tone as she mentioned their unborn child. It was her habit to insist she carried a girl. Her husband insisted she carried his heir. Though Maria acknowledged it was unusual to speak of an unborn child, vulgar even, she took heart in her husband's willingness to tease. If a duke did something, it was unlikely to be thought vulgar, merely eccentric.

The duke smiled, a genuine grin rife with amusement. The tiny indentation in his left cheek appeared, reminding Maria of how long it had been since she'd seen him smile, really smile. What cares weighed him down, she wondered now, that caused the slump in his broad shoulders and the new lines feathering his brow? Why had she failed to notice the change in her husband? What burden did he carry?

As quickly as the teasing light entered her eyes, it faded, replaced with wariness. Her eyes darted to the side, meeting those of Lady Felicia.

Richard's smile disappeared. His eyes still trained on his wife, he said, “Felicia, please excuse us.”

Maria's heart stuttered, her gaze drawn once again to her husband. Fingers clenching, she wondered if he'd reveal his secrets, finally let her into his elite little world, the world where she was at least equal to his mistress in his affections.

Felicia nodded and stepped toward the door. She paused next to Richard. “If you worry over revealing secrets not your own, I assure you it is of little import. I, nor David, would ever wish for your unhappiness.”

Having her said her piece, she nodded to Maria, murmured, “My lady,” and made her exit. A subtle hint of roses lingered in her wake.

Maria frowned. “Who is David?”

“Felicia's husband.”

“But— I thought— Is he not... dead?”

“Indeed,” Richard murmured. “For many years.” He moved away, his low voice barely carrying to her ears. “By my hand.”

“What?” Surely she'd misheard.

His sigh was louder than his words. Maria's eyes bored into his back, willing him to turn, to say it was nothing more than a poor jest. He moved further away, the distance short but for Maria it may as well have been miles.

Minutes passed. Maria fidgeted, her fingers twisting the life out of her skirt. She didn't know what to do, what to say, how to make her husband speak as she knew he must. His heavy thoughts weighed him down, the secrets he kept on Felicia's behalf, David's behalf.

Enough was enough. If Richard wouldn't come to her, offer his secrets so she could share the burden, she would go to him.

Her fingers brushed the rough wool of his coat. He tensed, turning about to meet her concerned gaze. “Tell me, Richard. Tell me what plagues you so. Why do you say David died by your hand?”

Richard stiffened and pulled away. Maria felt his departure in the deepest part of her soul and mourned the loss.

“David was my best friend. I'd known him since we were in short coats. We attended Eton and Cambridge together. Then he married Felicia.”

He stopped, pacing away from her. Maria wondered if he'd continue, wondered if she'd have to prompt him to do so, but he only took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“It was the stupidest thing, really. He took a mistress and I, idealistic young man that I was at the time, thought it was unfair to Felicia. I challenged him to a duel and he accepted.” He glanced at Maria, a self-deprecating smile tilting his lips. “Ridiculous, isn't it?”

“A duel?” Maria, reminded of another duel her husband had fought, didn't know what to think. Duels were illegal, yet Richard had engaged in two of which Maria had knowledge. How many more had he felt were necessary to preserve honor, as gentlemen claimed was reason enough to engage in such barbaric behavior?

“A duel. My first duel. I killed him.” He paused, his gaze flying upward. “I'd never fought a duel before because I was a notoriously bad shot. He chose pistols. I turned and fired. He died. Felicia and I covered over the truth, claiming it was a hunting accident. Being a duke had its advantages. No one questioned my claim.”

“You challenged him believing you would lose.” The thought filled her with horror, the sensation sinking all the way to her toes. “When you challenged Lord Derringer—”

He laughed, a deep, surprised sound that jarred her. “Hart was never a threat. He's all bluster. He shot over my head and I winged him, accidentally.”

“So that's why he left London,” she mused. With the loss of her father just after Richard's duel with the Duke of Derringer, Maria hadn't time to think of what had become of Derringer. Her husband had no response to her conclusion and the last person she wanted to think about was the hateful duke.

She returned to the subject at hand. “What if David had killed you? What would that have proven?” She took a step, closing a portion of the distance between of them, her skirts rustling in the silence.

The wrinkles in Richard's brow attested to his confusion at her response. “It was a point of honor. He wronged his wife.”

“But—”

“I know it makes little sense to you, Maria, but to a gentleman honor is everything.”

A smile tipped his lips, one that Maria felt was a trifle patronizing. How would he react if she slapped him the way she suddenly longed to do?

“But why did honor demand you challenge him? I am given to understand it is common for Society gentlemen to take a mistress, married or no. What made David and Felicia's situation different?”

She dreaded the answer. Tension settled itself over her shoulders, stiffening her spine until it would surely snap.

“Felicia loved him, trusted him. And she never believed he would play her false.”

“And that warranted your intervention?”

Richard exhaled in a violent breath, throwing his hands into the air. “What do you want me to say, Maria? That I loved her? That I couldn't live without her? That I was jealous of David and wanted her for myself?”

Heart thumping in her chest, child flipping in agitation, she closed more of the distance between them. Then she asked the one question she didn't want to, the one question whose answer could very well shatter any hopes she harbored about her husband's affections.

“Do you love her?”

Richard's tawny gaze snared hers. “Would it matter if I did?”

He studied her face, nothing of his own emotions showing on his own, and Maria didn't know what answer he wanted to hear. So she said nothing.

“You believe Felicia is my mistress.”

“Is she not?” Maria demanded, amazed by her own daring. “Everyone whispers she is and though they try to hide their whispers behind fans and snuff, I am not deaf, nor am I stupid.”