When the Duchess Said Yes (34 page)

Hawke set his cup down on the table so sharply that the porcelain rang in muted protest. “You did what?”

“I invited them here.” Lizzie raised her chin, determined not to cower. She was still his wife, still his duchess, and still at heart Lizzie Wylder. “I invited them here because I believed it would give you pleasure, Hawke. Most people enjoy sharing the things that make them happy.”

His expression didn’t change. “You presumed a great deal, Lizzie.”

“Yes, Hawke, I did presume,” she said as firmly as she could. “I presumed that you would wish to do good
with your life and to share the blessings that have been yours from birth. I presumed that since you did not wish to follow your father into Parliament, that you would instead wish to be yourself and help in the founding of this academy for the arts. I presumed that you might actually wish to improve your own country and its people, rather than mooning away after your—your
infernal
Italy.”

At last Hawke rose, looming over her. His lips were pressed tightly together with displeasure, his dark brows drawn low over his eyes. Most telling of all was the vein to one side of his forehead, throbbing in a telltale way that she’d learned never meant good.

“Are you quite done, Lizzie?” he demanded. “Is that all you have to say in judging me?”

She drew her shoulders back and raised her head with defiance, not letting him have even half an inch’s height in advantage over her.

“I am done, thank you.” She turned to Mr. Betts. “Please show Lady Merton and Sir Lucas in.”

Betts bowed and withdrew, and Lizzie turned back to Hawke, folding her arms over her chest, the trailing sleeves of her dressing gown like wings.

“You may leave now if you wish it, Hawke,” she said. “You needn’t stay on account of my obligation to Lady Merton. But as long as I am your wife and your duchess, then this house and its contents are mine as well. I won’t explain the pictures as well as you would, but I’ve heeded your lessons well enough to make an acceptable presentation to my guests.”

“Have you?” he asked, incredulous. He seized her by the hand and pulled her down to the far end of the row of paintings. He pointed to a painting of a sweet-faced saint, her eyes turned to the heavens in prayer. “Tell me. Who painted that?”

“Andrea del Castagno,” she answered promptly. “It is
St. Catherine, on the Wheel of Her Martyrdom
.”

He grunted and pulled her to stand before another painting, a Madonna and child. “What of this one? Who’s the painter?”

“Giovanni Bellini.
Our Lady of the Doves
.”

He grunted again and pointed to another, a long panel showing a procession of noblemen. “What of that? Who’s the painter?”

“That’s a trick,” she said at once. “It’s
The Duke of Urbino Returning After the Hunt
, with his castle there in the background, but the painter’s name is lost, and his work now anonymous. You told me that yourself.”

“Hah,” he said, pouncing on her answer with competitive triumph. “You are wrong. The painter’s name may be unknown, but he is called the Master of the Greyhounds, on account of how he put those dogs in every painting.”

“You never told me that, Hawke!” Lizzie cried with frustration, jerking her hand free of his. “How could I know if you kept that from me?”

He didn’t answer her question. “I see I must stay,” he said instead, “to spare us both the ignominy of you offering misinformation to our company.”

“A pox on you, Hawke, for not playing fair!” she exclaimed furiously. “And a pox on your greyhound master, too, and a—”

“The Countess of Merton,” Mr. Betts announced. “Sir Lucas Rowell.”

At once Hawke sauntered over to greet them, his smile wide and welcoming, as if this were entirely his idea. He left Lizzie no choice but to swallow her anger and follow him in her chocolate-stained dressing gown, even as his back offered a wide and inviting target.

“Lady Merton, I am honored,” he said. “Rowell,
good day. I hope you will find some measure of delight in my little collection.”

For the next hour he played the ideal host, putting aside all the animosity that he’d shown earlier. Each picture had an anecdote of its own, an explanation that Hawke told with his inimitable style, making the visitors by turns laugh and then nearly weep.

Following and listening, Lizzie found her anger gradually falling away. Though he’d never admit it, he was doing
exactly
as she’d hoped he would, sharing the pleasure of his collection with others. It seemed possible that he might actually have listened to her words, and possible, too, that he could take an interest in the new academy. If he could become part of that here in London, then perhaps even Naples might lose its hold on him. Yes, she’d presumed in inviting Lady Merton here, but if the result was as wonderful as she dared to hope, then all of her presumption would be entirely justified.

“Your Grace, I am for once truly speechless,” Sir Lucas said when they were done. “Such beauty! Such passion! I can only beg the privilege of bringing my apprentices here so that they, too, might see such rare works of genius.”

Hawke only smiled benignly, neither agreeing nor refusing.

“I will be eager to see how the paintings are finally arranged and hung, Your Grace,” Sir Lucas continued. “That will surely be the mark of a true connoisseur such as yourself.”

“I rather like how they are arranged at present,” Hawke said. “I see no reason for a permanent hanging when the paintings won’t remain in London.”

Lizzie frowned. What could he mean by that, anyway? Did he intend to have the pictures removed to the country, to Halsbury Abbey?

“So you do intend to return to Naples, Your Grace?”
asked Sir Lucas sadly. “Ah, and here I had hoped you would play a larger role in our little venture.”

“In time, yes,” Hawke said, as if this were the most natural reply in the world. “I have, of course, kept my villa there against my return.”

Lizzie listened, stunned. What was Hawke saying, prattling on about returning to his villa like this? What
was
this nonsense?

“Oh, Duke, how it pains me to hear it!” Lady Merton said. “When my husband told me last night that you intended to return so soon to Naples, I could scarce believe it. Though I assure you we will look after your dear bride here in London after you depart.”

Lady Merton was smiling indulgently, but Lizzie pushed past her to grab Hawke by the arm to make him meet her eye.

“What is this nonsense, Hawke?” she demanded, her heart beating painfully in her chest. “Answer me, if you please. Why haven’t you told me you’re planning to return to Naples? Why haven’t you told me?”

His hospitable smile remained, but his face flushed.

“Later, sweeting, when we are alone,” he said, his voice full of warning. “Not before our guests, if you please.”

“Why shouldn’t I speak before them,” Lizzie demanded, “when it would seem they know far more of this matter than I?”

“Duke, I thank you for your kind tour of your pictures,” the countess said, belatedly realizing how she’d misspoken. “Come, Sir Lucas, we’ve taken more than our share of Their Graces’ time. Good day to you, Duchess. You have been most kind.”

They hurriedly retreated, scarcely waiting for the footman to usher them away.

“Are you happy now, Lizzie?” Hawke said sharply before the door had even closed after them. “Is that what
you wished? To behave like such a shrew that everyone in London will speak of nothing else?”

“All I care of is what you speak to me, Hawke,” she said, desperation driving her as she clung to his arm, “and it had best be the truth. What did you tell Lord Merton? What did you say to him?”

“Enough of this, Lizzie,” he ordered, trying to pull free. “You are raving like a madwoman, without any sense or reason.”

“If I am mad, it is because you have driven me so!” she cried furiously. “Why won’t you answer me?”

“Why should I, when you are behaving like this?”

“Because I am your
wife
.” She was weeping now, hot, bitter tears of anger and loss, tears she didn’t try to hide. “Because I love you, and I thought you loved me.”

“Damnation, Lizzie,” he said. “I do love you.”

“Then why won’t you answer me?” she cried, and in her frustration she flew at him, drumming her fists against his chest. “Why would you leave me if you loved me?”

She saw in his eyes the instant his temper broke, his anger spilling over to match her own. He grabbed her by her wrists and shoved her back against the wall, trapping her there with his body.

“Listen to me, Lizzie,” he said, breathing hard, “and mark every word that I say. I love you more than I’ve ever loved any woman, and no one, not even you, has any right to say otherwise.”

“Then what devil possesses you to—”

“
You
are my devil, Lizzie,” he said, kissing her hard before she could answer, his mouth grinding down on hers and his body shoving her back against the wall. Yet it was a kiss of possession, not the love he claimed, and Lizzie knew the difference, twisting her mouth away from his.

“Love!” she cried bitterly, struggling to break free of
him. “Do not speak to me of love, Hawke, not when you treat me like this!”

“Then there is your answer, your proof,” he said, setting her free so abruptly that she staggered to one side. “Love doesn’t last.”

She gasped and went still, shocked. “
My
love will!”

He shook his head, his chest rising and falling with emotion.

“No, it won’t,” he said with maddening finality. “It won’t, any more than mine will for you. In six months’ time, a year, perhaps two, it will be done between us, the way it happens for every man and woman.”

“It didn’t with my parents, and it won’t with us,” she said, desperation making her frantic as the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Not with me, not with you! We are
married
, Hawke, pledged to each other so long as we live!”

“You’re so young, Lizzie,” he said. “When you’re older and have seen more of the world, you’ll understand the truth of what I’m saying. If your father had lived longer, I’m sure he and your mother would have come to a similar agreement, much as mine did.”

“An agreement?” she cried. “How could the end of our marriage be no more than an
agreement
?”

His smile was more a grimace. “You know why we wed, Lizzie: for the sake of children and our families. We’ve obeyed, and when children come, then our obligations to each other will be done.”

“But what of having our love grow with our children, of sharing our lives?” she asked, her voice breaking along with her dreams. “How could you turn away from that?”

His expression was fixed, looking past her. “I’m sure you’ll find other, ah, interests to fill your life, just as I will.”

Though she didn’t need to, she still turned to follow
his gaze. Behind her sat the painting of the view from Bella Collina.

“Naples,” she whispered miserably, so overwhelmed by the truth that she sank to her knees. “So they were right and I was wrong. Oh, Hawke, how could you? How
could
you?”

He said nothing, nor did she truly expect him to, not after everything else he’d said before. Yet when she heard the door open and then close softly, she knew she’d more answer than she’d wanted. With a broken cry, she bent forward beneath the weight of her sorrow and wept.

She sobbed and sobbed until, at last, her tears were spent. With a shuddering sigh, she slowly rose to her feet, wiping her swollen eyes with her sleeve. She went to the table that held their half-eaten breakfast, the rolls now hard and dry and his coffee and her chocolate cold and unappetizing.

She opened the top of the silver coffeepot to look inside. As she’d hoped, it was nearly full, the coffee thick and black the way Hawke preferred it, and thicker still for being cold. She lifted the heavy pot carefully, not wishing to squander a drop as she carried it across the room to the picture of the view from Bella Collina. With the same thoroughness with which she’d water a potted flower, she poured the cold, black coffee over the entire surface of the painting.

Upstairs in her rooms, Lizzie could tell from Margaret’s anxious expression that word of what had happened had already spread through the household. Of course it would: the first quarrel between the duke and the duchess was sure to be news. Doubtless now everyone in the servants’ hall was waiting breathlessly for news of a passionate reconciliation, with wagers already being made on the exact time.

She almost felt sorry to have to spoil the anticipation by leaving.

“I shall dress for traveling, Margaret,” she said as evenly as she could. “The quilted Brunswick, if you please.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Margaret said, clearly so ready to burst with questions that, against all her training, one slipped out. “Will you be joining His Grace in the park?”

“In the park?” Lizzie repeated. “Did Giacomo say that was where he’d gone?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Margaret said. “He dressed for riding, took his favorite horse, and said not to expect him for dinner, nor supper.”

From that description, he could be anywhere in town, and she fought back the automatic pang of wifely concern on his behalf. He was a grown man. He could find his dinner and supper well enough without her.

“I should also like you to pack a small trunk for me, Margaret,” she said with fresh resolution. “Clothes necessary for a sojourn in the country. Pack for yourself as well. You will be accompanying me. I should like to leave within the hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Margaret said. “May I ask how long we’ll be away?”

“A fortnight, to begin,” Lizzie said. Hawke would expect her to flee to her sister or mother, but as Duchess of Hawkesworth, she intended to show more independence. “Have the stable ready the traveling coach, and a rider sent ahead to inform the housekeeper at Halsbury Abbey to prepare for my arrival. Hurry now, I haven’t time to waste.”

She hadn’t, either. She wasn’t sure exactly how long it would take Hawke to come back to his senses, but she’d no intention of being here to witness it. He wasn’t the only one who could run away from responsibility.