School For Heiresses 2- Only a Duke Will Do (23 page)

How dare he threaten her! He was the one in the wrong. He was the one who’d promised her father behind her back that he would curb her activities.

He also said he would uphold his promise to let you continue with the London Ladies, until you got his back up.

Oh, that was just his excuse. Eventually he would have trumped up some other reason for restricting her. It didn’t serve his purposes to let her be part of the London Ladies, and Simon the Schemer always did what served his purposes.

As tears stung her eyes once again, she burst into her bedchamber and slammed the door. She was not going to waste tears on that wretch. She was not!

Dashing them away, she paced the floor. Nor would she let him get his way this time. Not for nothing had she spent the past few years teaching women how to get around their husbands. Dictate her activities to her, would he? No cake for anyone, eh? Well, she’d just see about that. By the time she was done with the Duke of Foxmoor, he would rue the day he’d ever schemed to marry her.
Chapter Eighteen

Dear Charlotte,

Surely Foxmoor would not have married her without feeling something deeper for her, not when there are countless more eligible females to hand. Still, you must admit passion has its place. It doesn’t make up for everything perhaps, but certainly a great deal.

Your cousin,

Michael

T wo evenings after his thwarted wedding night, Simon strode into his dining room, then cursed as he saw the empty chair at the other end of the table. Still sulking, was she? “Where is my wife?” he asked the footman.

“She asked that a tray be brought up to her room. I took it up already.”

So he couldn’t even commandeer the tray in an attempt to see her.

Good God, he was thinking like a besotted idiot again. This was what his own wife had reduced him to, damn her.

And damn the king, too, and the whole bloody family. He must have been insane to get himself mixed up with them again. Louisa was volatile, her father a fool, and her brother a nuisance at best. He ought to wash his hands of the lot.

But he couldn’t. He was married to her now, God help him.

With a groan, he took his usual seat at the table. His latest strategy wasn’t working. After his temper had cooled, he had thought he would give her time for hers to cool, and then perhaps they could have a reasonable conversation.

Bloody stubborn female. “Reasonable” wasn’t in her vocabulary.

Of course, his ultimatum had not helped. But he’d be damned if he would rescind his order. She was not going to twist him about her finger. He was the head of this house, by God, and she would learn to accept that if it took forever.

A sigh escaped his lips. Right. As if he could last forever in this limbo. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. During the day, he only half paid attention to what was said in the House, and at night, during his hunt through Grandfather’s letters, he had to read most of them twice.

What the deuce did she do all day, anyway? She didn’t go walking—he had charged a footman to accompany her if she did. Whenever he was home, he heard her moving around in the room adjoining his and saw the trays left outside her door. Apparently she ate in the dining room when he was in sessions. The footman set a bowl of something white in front of him, and he tensed at this other, more tangible proof of her presence. “What is this?” he barked.

“Smoked fish soup, sir.’”

Made with milk, no doubt. Milk-based soups and sauces turned his stomach, always had. His cook did not know that because he had been hired after Simon’s return, with the other servants. So all of them would accept whatever Louisa claimed about his likes and dislikes. And where had she learned what those were anyway?

He had a fairly good idea. “My sister came to call today, did she?’

“Yes, Your Grace. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

He doubted Louisa had told his sister about their battle, or Draker would be beating down the door to throttle him for hurting her feelings. His minx of a wife had doubtless couched her requests for information about his preferences by claiming that she wanted to be a good wife. He should have guessed what she was up to when his brandy began to taste noticeably less potent, and the fire in his room was allowed to go out frequently. But last night, when the servant told him it was his wife’s idea to have his cigars tossed out so she could buy him better ones, Simon had finally realized what was going on.

She was using her “domestic warfare” tactics on him. And they were actually working. He had never been so uncomfortable in his own home in his whole life. Bloody conniving female. Women are like horses, his grandfather’s voice sounded in his head. Give them their heads and they will trample you. They must be broken to the bridle if they’re to give you a proper ride.

“Yes, and you did such a good job of that, old man,” Simon snapped. “That’s why Grandmother cringed whenever you entered a room.”

“Your Grace?” the footman said.

“Er…nothing. Just thinking through a speech.” God, now he was talking to himself. That was what Louisa had done to him.

Simon pushed the soup aside. “Take this away, will you?”

The footman did it without comment, but when he brought the next course—a joint of beef ruined by a thick overlay of creamy sauce—Simon lost his temper.

Enough of this nonsense. He was not going to let her get away with this. She’d had plenty of time to get over her anger at his colluding with her father. It was going to end right now. Shoving away from the table, he left the dining room and headed for the stairs. He was halfway up when he saw Louisa’s maid slip out of her room with her discarded clothes. Good. Louisa had just dressed for bed, so he would catch her alone with her door unlocked. That was another thing that must stop, damn it

—her locking her doors against him.

He jerked the door open, several husbandly admonitions leaping to his lips, but they died unsaid when he spotted her.

She sat by the hearth but she didn’t see him, for her head was down and she was brushing her hair in long, slow strokes. He sucked in a breath at the picture she made, her inky tresses flowing to the floor and the firelight shining through her sheer nightdress to silhouette every soft, seductive curve. As if in a trance, he entered the room and headed for her, wanting nothing more than to haul her into his arms and kiss the stubbornness right out of her.

Then a sound arrested him. Weeping. She wept as she brushed, the sobs wracking her slender frame. Hearing them was like a knife blade to the gut.

He froze, half of him angry at himself for letting her tears affect him, and the other half wanting desperately to comfort her, to embrace her and assure her that everything would be all right. That was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? To bring him to his knees. To soften him until he allowed her to do as she pleased—consorting with radicals, ruining any hope of his being prime minister. He would not let her do it, damn it!

He stood there another moment, uncertain. But in the end, his pride got the better of him and he left for his study, desperate to drive the sounds of her pitiful sobs from his head. But being in his study only reminded him of her look of betrayal once she had realized that he had conspired with her father. He had hurt her badly. Not just once, but twice. Could he really blame her for wanting to strike back at him?

After an hour of such tormenting thoughts he went to bed, only to be plagued by them there, too. But sleeping was worse, for he saw her in his dreams, wearing her sheer nightdress on their wedding night, a hopeful smile trembling on her lips. Until her father walked in and the smile turned to shock. When he awoke at dawn, hard as stone and restless, she was still asleep. And as on the past two mornings, though he dawdled, he ended up having to leave for Westminster Palace without ever hearing her stir in the adjoining room.

A few more days, he told himself. Give her time.

But how many more of these days could he stand, the hours bleeding into each other, one long monotonous torture?

Even being at Westminster did not help. With no important issues on the agenda just now, the lords had little interest in Parliamentary business and the speeches were dull as a rusty penknife. Halfway through the morning, he was contemplating going home when a voice hissed at him from close by, “What the devil are you doing here?”

He turned to see Lord Trusbut staring at him in alarm. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You said you would go with the ladies to Newgate. I counted on it when I sent my wife off with yours.”

Simon stared at the man. Surely Trusbut was mistaken. Louisa would not have defied him so openly. Not after what he’d threatened. “They…er…went this morning?”

“Yes, just as they’d planned,” Trusbut whispered. “Your wife told us the day before your wedding that today’s trip to Newgate wouldn’t be affected by your marrying, so I brought Lillian to your house just an hour ago.”

Two men nearby frowned at them, so Simon motioned to Trusbut to go with him into the hall. Once there, he snapped, “Are you sure they went to the prison?” He’d given express orders to the coachman that she was not to take any coach anywhere without Simon’s permission. Trusbut eyed him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course. Your wife asked if I meant to join them, and I told her I was going to my club. When I asked to see you, she explained that you were coming from here to join them at Newgate. That’s why she requested that I carry her and Lillian to Lady Draker’s house—so you wouldn’t have to leave two equipages near the prison. I was happy to oblige—it was on my way to the club. But then I remembered I wanted to speak to Peel, so I came to find him. And found you here instead.”

“Yes,” Simon said grimly. Here in Parliament. While his wife trotted off to do exactly as she pleased. Domestic warfare was one thing, but out-and-out defiance was unacceptable. He was not fool enough to admit to Trusbut that he couldn’t even control his own wife. “Sorry, old man,”

he said tersely, “I forgot entirely about the trip to Newgate. And since I left before the duchess was awake, she had no chance to remind me.” He headed for the door. “I am going there now.” And taking my wife in hand, damn it.

“I’ll go with you,” Trusbut said. “I see that Peel isn’t here anyway.”

Moments later they were in Simon’s carriage, silently trundling toward Newgate. Thank God Trusbut wasn’t a chatty sort, because Simon doubted he could carry on a civil conversation just now. When they reached the prison, a guard led them through several dank, gloomy halls. They moved at a snail’s pace to allow for Lord Trusbut’s game leg, so by the time they reached the women’s ward, Simon

’s anger was at fever pitch.

But it faded at the sight that greeted them as the guard ushered them inside. Over two hundred women sat on the stone floor in small and orderly groups, diligently painting wooden carvings. Mrs. Fry, Mrs. Harris, and Regina moved among them to help. Though the women wore meager clothing, it was clean and neat and, for the most part, proper.

A burst of laughter from the corner made the laboring women glance up, then smile indulgently toward where a group of children milled about, clapping at some entertainment that he and Trusbut were too far away to see. Which was, of course, being provided by Simon’s wife, along with Lady Trusbut. Simon motioned to Trusbut and they made their slow way around the crowd. As they approached their wives, Simon could hear a bird trilling over the buzz of female conversation. Then he spotted Lady Trusbut’s canary perched on a chair, and beside it, Raji dancing with his usual glee. Simon caught his breath. He ought to be angry that Louisa had brought his pet here without his knowing, but how could he when the children watched enraptured, their little faces animated with delight? Lady Trusbut was the first to notice him. When she saw her husband, she broke into a smile so broad it wiped years from her aging face. Simon did not have to look at Trusbut to know that the smile was returned, the way a wife’s smile should be. By a caring husband.

He winced.

Louisa had not spotted them yet, but she was smiling, too, as she watched the children enjoy the antics of Raji and Lady Trusbut’s canary. Indeed, her face wore a look of such pure pleasure that a lump caught in his throat to see it.

And suddenly her defiance of him did not matter so much. The only thing that mattered was figuring out how to keep that look on her face.

So when she glanced over at them and her smile faltered, he cursed himself for ever conspiring with her father. If he had simply courted her like a proper gentleman before marrying her, would they now be estranged? Was it too late to make it right?

He hoped not. Because at this moment, he would crawl through broken glass if it would make her smile again.

Chapter Nineteen

Dear Cousin,

After seeing how Foxmoor looked at Louisa today at the prison, I have hope that their marriage may one day prove a love match, if they can refrain from discussing politics. Louisa tells me that her husband is not at all pleased by our choice of Charles Godwin as a candidate.

Your opinionated cousin,

Charlotte

L ouisa jerked her gaze away in a panic. Good heavens, Simon was here. How had he found out? Lord Trusbut, of course. She should have known she’d be caught. What had she been thinking? Her husband would never forgive her for this. He would whisk her off to Italy and that would be the end of her hopes for the London Ladies.

But what else could she do when Lady Trusbut showed up with her canary, eager to go off to Newgate? Tell her that Simon forbade it? She couldn’t destroy the woman’s budding interest in the London Ladies before it even had a chance to flower.

She sighed. What would he do now? Drag her out? Lecture her before her friends? Order Raji to dance on her head?

“Raji,” Simon said, then added a command in Hindi.

The monkey made a pretty bow to the children, then began marching like a soldier, his hand in a salute. As the children burst into laughter, her gaze shot to Simon. He was watching her, but he didn’t look angry. He looked like an urchin gazing through a toy shop window at what he couldn’t have. It was a most unsettling glance, haunting her, chipping away at her anger. That had been crumbling for days, every time she heard him pace his bedchamber or saw him pore over papers in his study, with his cravat askew and his face weary.