The Dastardly Duke (21 page)

“But she has faced them, madam, just as she faced up to her deception. She is not a weak woman. She will survive.”

“God willing, her aunt and uncle will never learn of her whereabouts these last few years. Let them
think
that she has been with me all this time. They will not turn her out now.”

“It was very fine of you to offer that, madam.”

Lady Huffington waved off the compliment. “Nonsense. Hannah is a decent woman, regardless of what anyone might think.”

Higgins arched a brow, but the countess’ nimble brain had moved on to something else that had caught her attention during the tumultuous scene in the study. Her expression brightened. “Higgins?”

“Yes, madam?”

“All the while Hannah was speaking, Julian was regarding her most oddly. As if he was drinking in her words, her very essence.” She wiped away the remnants of her tears. “What do you think that means?”

The majordomo frowned. “The duke obviously admires Miss Gregory, but I have never detected anything unusual about his demeanor toward her—”

“When was the last time that Julian admired any woman?”
Hig
gins
coughed discreetly. “The duke is known to have had any number of female
liaisons...”

“Yes, but how many of those women has he actually
admired
?” the countess demanded. “Precious few, I warrant. No, this is more than simple admiration, Higgins.”

“It is?”

“It is quite possible that he is besotted.”

Higgins looked shocked. “It is not like the duke to—”

“People are so thick about these things,” the countess continued. “A man can be in love and not even know it. And some women cannot see what is under their very noses.”

Higgins busied himself with the tea tray. “Do you think Miss Gregory returns his regard?”

She shrugged. “I suspect the poor girl does not have an
in
kl
ing
of her feelings. Even
i
f
she did, a woman of Hannah’s discipline would never allow those feelings to grow. She knows that a union between them is inappropriate, given her background.”

“What would it take, then?” Higgins asked quietly.

The countess looked at him in surprise. “Take? What do you mean, Higgins?”

“What would it take for a woman to allow herself to consider returning a man’s regard, even though the liaison may be ... inappropriate?”

Lady Huffington was taken aback. “Why, I do not know. Something out
l
andish, I suppose.”

“Outlandish,” he repeated, furrowing his brow in thought.
“So
me
thin
g
on the order of what you have planned for Lady Lucille and Sir Charles?”

The countess smiled. “Oh, yes. That might do very well. And it is not my plan but
yours,
Higgins. Do not forget that.”

“No, madam. I have not forgotten.” He sighed heavily.

Lady Huffington giggled. “I never imagined you had such a
rakish
mind.”

Higgins merely bowed in acknowledgment.

What he needed was a whore. A bottle of brandy and a whore.

Julian stared at the nearly empty bottle and gave a bitter, drunken laugh. The brandy was right before him, and the whore was upstairs somewhere packing her bags. Both were in his house, and precious good it did him. The bottle had not soothed his mood, and his chances of having Hannah were slightly less than the odds of quenching the fires of hell with a few paltry snowflakes.

What had been the point of that stupid bet, anyway? To prove once more that he could fool the world, as he had done all these years? To pass a whore off as a lady, a bastard off as a duke—it was all the same, was it not?

Ironically, the whore had proved herself a far better specimen of humanity than the bastard. She was strong where he was weak. She could face what she was and confess it before all. She did not shrink from the truth.

But then, she knew the truth about her life. He did not know his and might never. He wanted desperately to disbelieve his father’s deathbed declaration, but nothing had surfaced to allow him to do so. The honorable course would be to stand up before the world—as Hannah had done tonight—renounce his title, confess that he had lived a lie, and thereby cleanse his soul of the corrosive duplicity that had stalked him for a decade.

Yes, it was easier to face the truth when one knew for certain. A lifetime of uncertainty was pure hell.

The only thing he knew for certain now was that he had played with Hannah’s life as if she were a puppet on a string. Not once had he bothered to consider her feelings, but then he had never done so with any woman. He had thought of women as weak creatures, to be used as it suited
him

His mother had been weak. If she had truly been Octavius’s wife, why had she not stood up to him, forced his father to come for them? She could have blackmailed him into coming, threatened to tell the world that he had abandoned his sick and helpless bride. Octavius would have responded to blackmail.

But she had not thought of taking on a powerful English duke. Perhaps, Julian mused, she had not been weak so much as spent. Her own parents had lost their lives to a bloody mob. She barely had the strength left to take care of a young boy. But whatever the reason, she had given up and allowed Octavius to treat her as nothing more than a whore.

Julian could not imagine Hannah giving up. She was a fighter, through and through. It had stunned him to realize that she was of respectable birth. Just like his mother, a well-bred whore.

And yet, every time he heard that word in his brain, he winced. It did not seem right, applying it to her. She was better than that. Better than him.

To think that he had once tried to reform. No wonder he had failed. Virtue and respectability would never be his. A tiger did not change his stripes. A bastard did not suddenly acquire legitimacy. He could not be something that he was not. He accepted those truths.

But tonight he had learned something else, a new truth that had chilled him to the bone.

Whatever Hannah was—lady or whore—she was too good for him.

Chapter
Nineteen

T
he hall was mobbed. From his position in the back of the room Julian could barely make out Hannah’s erect form in the front row. Her attention was focused on the man on stage. He imagined her intent, somber eyes as she concentrated on every word that fell from that preening, overlarge mouth. She appeared to be unaccompanied. He hoped that Rottenham had at least given her a maid and the use of his carriage for her outing.

Julian did not care for the demeanor of the celebrated Dr. Itard—or the predatory way he regarded Hannah. His “demonstration” bore more than a passing resemblance to a circus act. The audience had been invited to submit written questions, which were shown to the deaf patients on stage, who would then answer orally—their speaking proficiency presumably testimony to Itard’s skill.

One questioner wished to know if the deaf and dumb were unhappy in that state. An especially articulate patient, who had evidently fielded such idiotic queries before, showed himself something of a philosopher.

“He who never had anything has never lost anything; and he who never lost anything has no loss to regret,” replied the man, known as Massieu. “He who has nothing to lament cannot be unhappy. Consequently, the deaf and dumb are not unhappy.”

Appreciative applause followed this answer, which seemed reasonable in its logic but failed to acknowledge the p
light
of people like Hannah. Massieu’s words bore unnatural inflections that indicated he had been
born
deaf and developed the faculty of speech late in life. What of Hannah, who had lived a lifetime with sound and speech, only to have it taken away?

Julian watched her, sitting so stiff and tall at the front. What of the music that had been taken from her? What of the family that had turned her out because she had suddenly lost her hearing? She had known loss—profound loss.

As far as he could tell, she had borne these tragedies without a shred of self-pity. Even so, she must have deep regrets, ’else she would not be so riveted by that bombastic Itard and his “cures.”

Julian cringed at the ghastly methods Itard so proudly described—boiling oil poured into the ear, threading a string through the neck with a scalding needle. The ghastlier the procedure, the prouder of it he seemed—as if he thought the deaf deserved such punishment for having the temerity to defy the natural order of things.

At no time did Itard show sympathy for his patients or indicate that he had any idea what it was like to be deaf. He did not try to communicate with them in their language—the curious finger movements they used with each other when he lectured to the crowd. He seemed intent on teaching them
his
language, the language of the hearing world, as if their worth relied on becoming like everyone else.

But the deaf were not like everyone else—they were different. Itard gave no indication that he viewed that difference as
any
thing
other than a mistake of nature. Julian felt sorry for the man’s patients. Those who could not be cured would be discarded as scientific failures. Itard had no interest in helping the deaf live with their deafness.

So why was Hannah there in the front row, hanging on his every word? An ominous suspicion formed in his mind. Did she mean to subject herself to Itard’s torturous treatments?

Not if he had anything to do with it
.

The crowd gave Itard a standing ovation. Many rushed the stage to further scrutinize his patients. By the time Julian caught up with Hannah, she was standing outside with a maid, evidently waiting for her uncle’s carnage.

The sight of her so dignified in that plain blue dress he had bought her so long ago unnerved him. It had been a week since she left his house, a week of trying unsuccessfully to purge himself of her memory. Today he had finally resolved to see her, only to learn when he had called at Rottenham’s that she had come here. Now that she was so close, a strange joy surged within him.

“Hannah!” he shouted, knowing the futility of his cry but wanting to claim her in whatever way he could. The maid heard him and pulled on her mistress’ arm.

Slowly, Hannah turned. As she spied him, a veiled look shuttered those clear gray eyes, sending sudden despair
knifing
through his gut.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledged formally as he reached her side, “why are you here?”

Julian frowned. “To see you, of course.”

She tilted her head, as if his statement needed diligent consideration. “Why?”

Polite verbal fencing was not one of his skills, and patience not one of his few virtues. With an exasperated sigh, Julian flung his hands heavenward.

“Damn it, Hannah. I forbid you to subject yourself to this man’s treatments. He is nothing but a charlatan.”

She looked away from him toward the carriage that rolled to a stop in front of her. A footman jumped down, ready to assist her into the vehicle.

“Dr. Itard is widely respected,” she replied. “As for submitting to his treatments, Your Grace no longer has any authority over me whatsoever. Such decisions are my own.”

With that, she ascended the carriage steps. The maid hurried to follow, but Julian stepped in front of her and pushed his way into the carriage before the startled footman could close the door.

“What can I do to persuade you?” he demanded.

“Very little, I imagine.” She eyed him calmly. The maid, who had hurried into the carriage to protect her mistress, stared at him with eyes as round as saucers.

Julian wanted to shake Hannah. “There is no shame in being deaf,” he ground out
.

“No, no shame in it,” she readily agreed. “I have never been ashamed of my condition.”

“Then why subject yourself to harsh, degrading measures that can have no result in
the
end?”

She looked away. “I am willing to endure pain if it means I may regain my hearing.”

Julian slammed a fist into the carriage seat. He could tell by the resolute look in her eyes that there was little hope of
changing
her mind. Still, he had to try. Gently he touched her chin, bringing her face to his.

“You are an intelligent, courageous, beautiful woman,” he rasped, wondering if that strange warmth on his face could be something as unheard of as a blush. He had never before sincerely complimented a woman. “You need nothing more. You are complete as it is.”

She frowned, but said nothing. Recklessly, Julian plunged on. “Damn it, woman! You have learned to face the world on your own terms—you understand what is said to you and you make yourself understood. That should be enough for anyone. Why can you not accept your deafness?”

Her eyes closed, as if she wished to block out his words. Her mouth twisted in what might have been pain before she opened them again and fixed him with that steady, unnerving gaze.

“Perhaps for the same reason that you cannot accept your condition.”

“
My
condition?” Julian eyed her blankly.

Her gaze shot to the maid, who seemed to be hanging on every word of the conversation. “Those papers that you lack,” she said carefully. “Without them, you live with the uncertainty of not knowing.”

Anger surged through him. He did not want to talk about his parents’ marriage papers or the lack of them. He wanted to talk about her. “What of it?” he demanded.

“Not knowing has made you less than you could be,” she explained. “That is how I feel also. I wish to know if it is possible to hear again. I wish to try. If I fail, then I shall live with failure.”

“Deafness is
not
failure!” Desperately, he took her hand between his, as if his conviction could somehow flow into her. “You are all that any woman could be. I have never met a woman like you.”

The carriage rolled to a stop before Lord Rottenham’s town house. Before she could respond, the footman opened the carriage door. She paused before descending.

“Yes, I am different.” Defiantly, she lifted her chin. “You have always viewed me as something of a novelty, have you not?” She stepped out of the carriage.

“Damnation, Hannah!” he shouted after her. “That is not what I meant.”

She had her back to him and did not catch his cry. But the little maid fairly jumped from her seat, nearly tripping over him in her haste to exit the carriage.

“Oh, la! I have always enjoyed your playing, Hannah, dear. Pity you cannot hear a note of it, but rest assured that we all stand in admiration of your artistry.”

Hannah lowered her gaze to the keyboard, shutting out her aunt’s insulting compliments. It had been like this since she had moved into the earl’s town house—all false gaiety as her relatives basked in the glow of having one of the season’s Originals ensconced in their home.

If Hannah had forgotten her aunt’s shrieking denunciation three years ago, she might have been fooled by the fawning politeness with which her presence was welcomed now. Her aunt and uncle had supplied a maid, offered to buy her gowns, showered her with effusive compliments. Even Gri
s
elda and Elspeth seemed in awe of her.

But she had not forgotten, nor did she feel terribly guilty lying to them about her whereabouts for the last few years. They had easily accepted her story of being with Lady Huffington in Yorkshire. To be sure, things could not go on like this forever, but tomorrow she would have her first treatment. She would be on her way to regaining her hearing. Then, with the money Lucy had given her, she could make a respectable life without her hypocritical relatives.

But what, a nagging voice demanded, if the duke was right? What if Dr. Itard could not help her?

Hannah pushed aside the doubts. The odious man had only meant to try to control her again, as he tried to control and manipulate everything. Had not the doctor himself said that she was a perfect candidate for treatment, that he was confident in succeeding? After all, she had only fallen out of a tree. She had not been
born
deaf. It could not be a permanent state—
c
ould it?

Beethoven, Goya—they had been unlucky, that was all. And at the moment, Hannah felt very lucky. Her fingers fairly raced over the keyboard of her aunt’s square piano. It was not so fine an instrument as Lucy’s, but her aunt had volumes of music to go with it—including a sizable collection of Mr. Beethoven’s works, which Hannah adored.

She quickly worked out the development section of the first movement of his Sonata in E flat major. Obviously, the piece had been composed in a passionate state of mind, for it was filled with grand and startling moments.

Perhaps it was only logical to see the duke’s stem, cynical gaze as she allowed Mr. Beethoven’s moods to buffet her. From what she heard of the composer, he and Julian were not so very different. Both were temperamental, tormented men whose souls held a dark beauty. At least the composer’s did, she mentally amended. She was not so certain about Julian’s.

Seeing him outside the Argyle Room today had thrown her heart into a somersault. Silly wretch that she was, she had even thought for a moment that he had come for her. That he had missed her. That he cared for her.

His first words told her otherwise, however. He had come to berate her, to exert his compelling will, to manipulate that pitiable woman who was the subject of his disgraceful wager.

What made him think he could intrude on her life now that she was no longer under his roof?

Hannah took a deep, calming breath. He would not stop her from going to Dr. Itard. Nothing would, now that she had Lucy’s money. Someday she would repay every penny, but for now, she would use it to regain her hearing and establish her independence.

For the first time in a long while, the future looked rosy. Plunging into the rondo like a driven woman, Hannah willed Julian’s tormented gaze from her mind.

“It is a lovely afternoon for a drive, is it not, children?” As Lady Huffington’s venerable traveling coach rolled over a particularly jarring bump, she gifted her two companions with a beatific smile.

Two dour gazes met over the tip of the countess’ plumed turban.

“I should have thought it rather late to undertake an outing to Richmond.” Lucy pressed rigidly against the back of the seat to steady herself.

“Quite,” Charles agreed stonily.

Lucy had finally abandoned as futile the questions of why her aunt had to see the maze this afternoon, why she had dallied until they had gotten an impossibly late start, and why she had insisted that Charles accompany them.

Apparently oblivious to the strained silence between Lucy and Charles, Aunt Eleanor had filled the carriage trip with her usual moralizing homilies—this one about the necessity of appreciating nature. Lucy had barely listened. Charles merely glared out the window.

The awkward atmosphere in the carriage at last caused her aunt to halt her rambling monologue and fix them with a ste
rn
gaze. “I suppose you are wondering why I wanted both of you to accompany me on this expedition. ’Tis simple: I wish you to set
tl
e your grievances.”

Lucy gasped. “There is no need—”

“There is every need,” the countess corrected. “Charles has done you no real harm, you know.”

“What!” Lucy eyed her aunt incredulously. “Have you forgotten that he made me the stakes of that insulting wager—as if I were a horse or some other inanimate possession? If that is not harm, I do not know what is.”

“When did you become such a stuffy miss?” Aunt Eleanor demanded. “The only thing he injured was your pride, which has seethed and festered until it has made you miserable.”