Nothing But Scandal (25 page)

Perhaps
his
actions, or her father’s, had been false, but all
she’d
done was get caught in the struggle to remain true to the two men whom she’d loved.

There was so much more she wanted to say, to tell him, but the duke had already turned away.

For a moment, she simply stared at him. He stood in silhouette near the window, the dim light of a brace of candles deepening the shadows around him. His broad shoulders were as straight as ever, but his head slowly bowed. In defeat? Misery?

She ached to go to him, to cast herself at his feet and beg forgiveness for betrayals both real and imagined. But she knew that, in spite of what she said, she’d betrayed his trust far worse than he thought. She also knew the duke was not a man to whom forgiveness came easily.

She had, in all likelihood, ruined the best thing she’d ever had.

Finally, Elizabeth exited the room, then stood blindly at the top of the stairs as her vision blurred with tears.

Elizabeth had failed.

She’d failed to discover the truth behind her father’s death—if there was even any to find. More importantly, she had failed in her marriage.

“Don’t take it to heart, Your Grace,” Emma said reassuringly. She was combing and dressing Elizabeth’s hair with even more care than usual—not that Elizabeth had anywhere important to go. Elizabeth suspected Emma knew she was hurting and was offering comfort in her own way.

“Your duke will come around.”

Elizabeth’s shoulders wilted. “I doubt that, Emma.”

It had been two weeks since they’d fought, since Alex had told her to get out of his sight, and he’d shown no sign of relenting.

He’d shown no sign of anything, to be honest. His anger had subsided, but now he treated her as though she didn’t exist.

The morning after their argument, he’d returned to Montgrave without her.

By the time she’d followed him and arrived at the country estate herself, he’d had the servants move all her things into a suite of rooms in a separate wing of the vast home.

It was humiliating. The entire staff knew the duke and his lady were not in accord.

Divorce was out of the question. But they would certainly not be the first, or only, married couple among the nobility to have a marriage in name only. A marriage that was a sham.

Emma pinned another fiery curl into place. “He’s a proud man, your duke, but a man only gets that angry at someone he loves. Which must mean he loves you.”

“He used to,” Elizabeth whispered. “I don’t believe he does anymore.” And why should he? She’d betrayed his trust. Not in the way he apparently believed, but betrayed nonetheless.

She’d thought she was doing the right thing. She’d tried to trust Alex and still do her duty to her father, rest his soul. But she’d failed.

In fact, in some ways her betrayal was even worse, for rather than giving her affections to another man, as he’d accused her of doing, she’d questioned her own husband’s integrity.

Especially now, having seen him angry, she could not put aside her doubts. As coldly enraged as he’d been the other night, she could well believe him capable of murder.

“Well,” Emma said around a hairpin wedged in the corner of her mouth, “he has an heir to think of. Surely he won’t neglect his duties there…and, pardon my boldness, Your Grace, but that might be your chance to win him back.” She stuck the pin in. “You look particularly lovely this evening. Perhaps if you go to him, remind him—if you take my meaning—of what you once shared…”

Elizabeth forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her heart. An heir. ’Twas one of the reasons dukes married at all. And yet Alex appeared supremely unconcerned at his current lack of heir.

Elizabeth had not conceived in their first few months of marriage. She’d thought maybe…but then her courses had arrived two mornings ago. Yet another area in which she’d failed.

She’d dreamt of the children they might have—a little boy, perhaps, with Alex’s dark hair and intelligence, or a little girl she could dress in ribbons and bows.

But despite Emma’s reassurances, Elizabeth was convinced Alex would sooner let the dukedom pass to someone else than approach her again in
that
way. As far as he was concerned, she might as well not exist.

“There now.” Emma gave her hair a final pat. “Perfect. Why don’t you take a walk before dinner, mistress? ’Twould do you some good, and it’s unseasonably warm for winter. I heard the gardener’s been growing roses in the greenhouse. Perhaps you’d like to see them.”

Elizabeth gave her loyal maid a wan smile. “Thank you, Emma. Perhaps I will.”

“Will you eat in the dining room tonight, or would you like me to ask them to make you a tray?”

“A tray, please,” she said softly. Not that it mattered. Ever since
the
argument, as she was coming to think of it, Alex had been conspicuously absent from their evening meals.

Given his reputation prior to marriage, she didn’t like to think of where he might be.

After a few nights of dining alone, she’d taken to requesting a tray for her room. Far better than the cavernous silence of the formal dining room. No matter how unscrupulously polite the serving staff had been during those solitary meals, it could not erase the awareness she’d eaten alone.

Emma nodded sadly. “I’ll see to it, Your Grace.” She curtsied her way out of the room, leaving Elizabeth alone.

Not that that was unusual, these days.

She
deserved
this, Elizabeth reminded herself. But that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

Following Emma’s suggestion, she visited the greenhouse. The roses were indeed lovely, and the gardener unfailingly attentive and enthusiastic in showing them to her, but Elizabeth could not muster the spirit to share his enthusiasm.

She longed for companionship. Longed for the intimacy and ease she and Alex had shared. That feeling that the two of them had a secret, one that allowed them to laugh secretly at the foibles of the rest of the world while enjoying only each other.

She longed for the way he could kindle her desire with just one burning look, or the way he could draw out the pleasure of lovemaking into a leisurely bliss that left her feeling both exhausted and exhilarated.

There was just no one else like him.

And finally it hit her. She was still running. Every time she was faced with a crisis, her instinct had been to run, to hide herself. This time, she hadn’t done it physically, but choosing not to confide in Alex had accomplished the same thing. It had torn them apart.

She needed to apologize.

And she needed to tell him the truth.

Would he believe her? He thought her an adulteress. In truth he was the only man she’d ever known. But if she wanted him to believe that, she would have to tell him everything else—everything she’d kept bottled inside since that horrible afternoon Fuston had visited.

A shiver of fear passed through her.

Perhaps he had a simple explanation for what had happened that night of her father’s death. Perhaps he’d laugh and think her foolish for listening to Fuston’s story.

Or perhaps he’d feel even more betrayed that she’d been hiding such doubts from him the entire time they’d been married.

Or, worse, he’d tell her it was true.

It didn’t matter.

She
had
to talk to him, to come clean. She would apologize for her doubts, her flighty behavior, and ask his forgiveness. There was nothing else left.

But she had to do it right. How best to approach him? She didn’t want him angry. Nor could she bear his cold indifference.

If she came to him at night, in bed, offered herself to him physically first, would he listen to her? There had always been passion between them. She knew he’d not be able to turn her away. But he hated being used—and wouldn’t she be doing exactly that?

Perhaps morning was best, in the clear light of day? But when? Breakfast? He rarely showed. Interrupt his work? She didn’t want him irritated from the start.

Ugh. How had this distance between them grown so vast?

This was all her fault. It was up to her to make it right—if that was still possible.

When Emma brought her tray of supper, Elizabeth ate absentmindedly, pondering her dilemma. Finally she pushed away the tray, much of the food still untouched.

She still felt lonely. Maybe a visit to Buttercup would cheer her up. Though she’d never been much of a rider, she’d always enjoyed patting and talking to horses. And right now, she needed to be near another living being, human or not.

Head down, deep in thought, Elizabeth wandered across the shadowed lawns and toward the stables.

It had been sunny earlier, a nice respite from gloomy winter, but now that the sun had gone down, it was quite cold again.

Elizabeth shivered and wished she’d brought a heavier cloak. The sky had turned that shade of darkest blue it does just before going black. She tipped her head up to search out the stars while her boots crunched through the dried grass.

She reached the stables. The door stood cracked open and a warm, beckoning beam of light shone out of the entryway.

She lifted her hand to swing the door wider so she could enter.

“Don’t move.”

Elizabeth stopped dead, her breath caught in her throat.

Then she realized the voice was not directed at her. It was her husband’s voice, but he was talking to someone else. She peered through the opening.

A man stood frozen at the other end of the stable.

A man her husband was holding at gunpoint.

“On three, I’m going to shoot.” The duke’s voice was low, taut.

Why would he give the intruder warning?

“One.”

Elizabeth inched forward and recognized the terrified features of Old Tom, her favorite groom. He was no intruder.

With that realization came another, more startling.

Her husband
was
a murderer. And unless she acted fast, another innocent man would die.

“Two.”

Elizabeth rushed forward.

“No, stop!” she cried. “Don’t shoot! You heartless bastard, Old Tom’s done nothing. I won’t let you kill him. You’ve already murdered my father. Isn’t that enough?”

Two shocked male faces turned to stare at her as she grabbed Alex’s arm, wrenching with all her might to turn his aim away from Old Tom.

The gun went off, but the aim was wild. The bullet thudded into the stable wall. One of the animals panicked, streaking past her and knocking her aside as it rushed out into the night.

Elizabeth, intent on preventing another murder, hardly noticed the creature. She tightened her grip on Alex’s arm. Her husband’s first shot had missed because of her hold on him, but he was far stronger than she, and she knew him for a crack shot.

If he wanted to kill, he could.

“Don’t kill Old Tom,” she begged. “What has he ever done?”

To her surprise, Alex dropped the gun. “He’s gone. It’s no use now.”

Elizabeth stared in confusion. The groom was right there, wiping the sweat from his brow.

There was something going on here she didn’t understand.

She backed away, slowly. Her husband’s behavior was unpredictable, but now that she knew him for a killer, she was terrified his anger would turn on her for interrupting the scene of moments before.

“Elizabeth, don’t go out there.” His command was stern, his frown fierce.

She shook her head and continued moving toward the door. “You’re a madman,” she whispered. “It was true all along. What Fuston said. I didn’t want to believe him, but it’s true. You murdered my father.”

Old Tom’s mouth fell open, but Alex’s brows lifted to reveal his dawning understanding.

“Nay, mistress,” Tom finally spluttered. “You got it all wrong. His Grace was aimin’ for the dog, not for me.”

Elizabeth stopped. “Dog?”

Vaguely she recalled the flash of fur.

“The great hairy beast what ran out the door when you shouted,” Tom said. “He’s been roaming these parts the last month or so, killin’ chickens an’ such. We weren’t too worried, until we heard he’d bit a man over in the village, an’ that man’s gone raving mad an’ is like to die. Couldna have such a dangerous beast roaming wild, an’ when we saw him sneakin’ into the stables tonight, yer husband thought to rid us of him. Only problem was, I had the misfortune to be standing between him an’ the creature.”

Elizabeth turned to her husband.

“I was aiming for the dog,” he confirmed. “Tom, it looks like we’ve lost him for tonight. But I believe my wife and I have some things to discuss, if you’d be so kind as to leave us.” He spoke to the groom, but his eyes remained on Elizabeth.

“O’ course, Your Grace.” Tom glanced between the pair, obviously curious, but, aware of his place, he made a hasty exit.

Alex let out a long breath and bowed his head, seemingly aging before her eyes. “Elizabeth.”

“Your Grace.” Dizziness washed over her. She believed Tom’s explanation for the events she’d interrupted, but that didn’t provide any answers to her greater question—and now that her husband was aware of her suspicions, she couldn’t be sure how he’d react.

He shook his head as if in defeat, then spread his hands wide in appeal…or maybe just to indicate he meant her no physical harm.

“I am not a murderer. But I do not deny my role in the death of your father. Will you allow me to explain?”

Her heart sank at his words, and her knees felt unsteady, but she nodded.

He gestured toward a low bench. “Please, sit.”

She obeyed as though in a trance. A tiny part of her brain argued for her to run, to escape the presence of this dangerous man, but her heart hurt too badly to care what could possibly happen to her next. She would not run again.

The duke settled beside her, lowering himself slowly, as though he were a man of great age and weariness.

“I was not aware you suspected, or knew, what happened with your father. How long have you known?”

“Since just after our wedding,” she whispered.

“All this time?” he asked wonderingly.

She looked at him, searching for a sign of the man she’d so loved.

“I was unwilling to jump to conclusions, my lord, based on the words of one man alone. I prayed he was mistaken. You were the man who held my heart.”

“Were?” he asked, then shook his head. “No, don’t say anything. I do wish you’d come to me with your fears, your suspicions. You are an amazing woman. Brave.”

“I am a fool,” she countered. “For I determined to find the truth on my own. I dared not ask the question of you, lest it be true. Yet in all my questioning, I’ve found nothing to contradict Fuston’s words. And tonight, just now, you confirmed them yourself.”

“Nay,” he contradicted. “Not entirely. Although I do not deny the deed, I never had any intention of killing your father. I am responsible, but I am not a murderer.”

She wanted to believe him, she did, but his words confused her more. “I don’t understand.”

“How much
do
you know?”

She studied her hands. “Only what Fuston told me. That you shot my father, and then made his death appear an accident.”