Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alice arrived at the Duke’s townhouse, expecting to find everything not to her taste.
But, as she entered the front hall to be greeted by the servants lined up for her, she found the building to be spacious and elegant.
If anything, it might have been decorated by a woman, with flowers in a vase by the window, and several lovely pastoral paintings on the walls.
The marble floors and pillars supporting the large stairway were perhaps a little overly grand for her taste, but when she hobbled into the drawing room, she found it was a pleasant, cozy space, and the library—fully stocked—seemed more so.
“I spend the majority of my time here,” the Duke began, and she vowed never to set foot in there again.
He said nothing as she struggled to make her way up the stairs, merely watching her progress with hooded eyes. She wondered if he was reflecting on what a mistake he had made in marrying her.
She was not the beautiful, accomplished, devoted wife he had no doubt hoped to find. And she was certainly no Lady Penelope Millington.
“You do not need to accompany me, Your Grace,” she muttered through gritted teeth when they reached the landing and the gallery, framed by paintings of his ancestors.
Heavens, he had so many of them. She half wanted to stare at them, to explore how many had the Duke’s sharp nose, the command in his eyes, or even just the strength in his bearing.
All this would be easier if he had a hunchback like King Richard III.
“And this will be your bedchamber,” he said, opening a door and ushering her inside. She stared at the large four-poster bed in some shock, though she didn’t know why. Of course there would be an enormous bed. She was a Duchess, the new wife of a Duke. No doubt everyone expected certain things.
Her aunt had even tried to give her the talk about what to expect when he inevitably visited her bed on the wedding night.
She folded her arms. “I presume that door leads to your bedchamber,” she said, nodding to a door set on a side wall.
“It does,” he replied.
“Lock it.”
“Pardon?”
“I wish for you to lock it. I do not wish for you to visit me in the middle of the night.” She raised her chin. “You may have forced me into your life, but I will not permit you into my bed.”
“I… see.”
Those ice-blue eyes bored into her for the umpteenth time that day, and she felt certain that he would refuse. Her heart pounded at the idea—fear, she told herself. Only fear.
Nothing to do with exhilaration at all.
No curiosity about what would happen if he brought his hand to her chin, brought her face to his, pressed his lips on hers, and denied her outright.
Her breath quickened, and heat sparked in his eyes. A flash of something so passionate, she wondered if she had been dreaming.
No man had looked at her like that since her accident. Ever since then, she had gone from an object of admiration and desire to someone pitied, cosseted, and ultimately forgotten. In their eyes, she no longer had value as a woman.
The idea that—despite everything—he might desire her, unsettled her greatly.
She coughed, then stepped back, wanting to put distance between them, but her bad leg buckled, and she stumbled.
The Duke darted forward, catching her and hauling her up against his body. His arms were tight around her, and his breath flowered against her neck. No one had held her in such an intimate way for over five years, and she stiffened in his embrace—for that was what it was. An embrace.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
As though he had any right to ask that of her.
Her cheeks flamed at the thought of him seeing her weakness, but she refused to let her chagrin show. This was what he had done to her. Better he saw and understood that now.
Yes, it was better. It had to be.
She leaned away from him, and he released her immediately. But by the manner in which his gaze traveled down her body, she knew he was concerned about her.
Concerned.
The indignity of it…
A small voice at the back of her head whispered that; wasn’t this what she wanted—him to understand in full terms what he had done?
But she silenced that voice, because now it came down to it, she found she didn’t want his concern, nor his pity. She wanted him to regret, not because he thought of her as lesser, but because he realized how terrible his actions were.
For her parents’ sake.
But she would not think of them.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she uttered, her voice wooden. “You should leave me. I’ve seen enough of the house, thank you.”
“Alice—”
“Leave me alone, please.”
After another long moment, he bowed, his eyes on hers. “I shall send someone up to lock the door,” he said, then left the room.
For the first two days of their marriage, Frederick scarcely saw his new wife. She descended for breakfast after he rose, and dined in her room.
He made no effort to push her to join him.
It was clear she wanted their marriage to be in name only, and he had no objections in principle. Aside from the issue of children, which he did not have to raise immediately—there was no pressing need for him to enter her bed.
And now that she had insisted on the adjoining door to their chambers being locked, there would be no convenient way into her room, anyway.
He told himself it was better that way.
Still, he thought of her often.
Her limp troubled him. He was no expert, but he rather suspected that if she had received different medical care, she might have found her symptoms lessened.
It was not his place, but he made inquiries in Harley Street regardless, seeking a doctor who had experience with old injuries such as this one, in rehabilitation.
No doubt it would take quite a bit for his new wife to agree to his aid, but he was prepared to push the point if necessary. Call it selfishness, call it redemption, but he did not want her struggling to walk and not do all the things other young ladies her age did.
And he rather thought that if he had a chair made up for her, she would not react well.
He lit a cigar in his study and offered Denshire some brandy. “I take it she is upstairs,” was how his oldest friend had greeted him.
“She is. And I doubt you’ll see her.” Frederick settled in the big armchair by the fire. “So far, she’s done an excellent job of avoiding me.”
Denshire accepted the brandy with an exaggerated exhale and settled into the armchair opposite. “I still think marrying her was a mistake.”
Frederick fixed him with a look. “You thought marriage at all was a mistake.” He lowered his voice to a breath, “Besides, it was my duty.”
“Pah. Time, and this would all have blown over. You’re a Duke, for heaven’s sake.”
Frederick shifted uncomfortably. Alice had commented several things to him—about how his station made him exempt from the usual punishments. According to her, he ought to have been hanged for his crimes.
That thought still itched, a still-healing scar.
“I may be a Duke, but you know the rumors abounding through London. It was marry her or live in disgrace for years. What mother would allow their daughter near me after the humiliation Lady Penelope suffered at my hands.”
“All her fault! You should have her imprisoned for her crimes,” Denshire scoffed.
Frederick couldn’t help his flinch at the thought.
If he had suffered at her hands the way she had suffered at his, he would have been tempted to act in a similar way. Worse, even. Every time he thought about that time and everything he did, guilt threatened to choke him. Because of him, people had lost their lives.
A girl had lost her parents. She had been hurt. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he saw the way she had hobbled, leaning heavily on the stick under her arm. A mark of what he had done to her.
How could he condemn her for that? Throw her into gaol? It was him who ought to be imprisoned for his crimes, as she had made very clear.
“Perhaps she acted rashly,” Frederick said instead, thinking of how her impetuousness would impact her, “but I cannot discount everything I did to her.”
Denshire huffed as he settled into his chair, but he knew better than to prod that subject.
Frederick had made his views plain over the years; he would allow no one to speak to him of that dark time.
And he had little inclination to discuss it now, either.
But he had to make his friend understand his position.
Marrying her had become a matter of honor once he’d discovered who she was. Perhaps he could not turn back time and make up for what he had done back then, but he could improve her state of life now. Especially when her reputation was in danger all because she held a—rightful—grudge against him.
Marrying her was a necessity. One he could have done very well without, but a necessity nevertheless.
“What are you going to do now? People are wondering about you,” his friend remarked, reaching out distractedly for the nearest decanter.
“We shall have to appear in public. Throw a ball. Pretend everything is well between us and she harbors no ill-will toward me.”
Denshire arched a brow. “Will she play along?”
Frederick shrugged. “Unlikely. But surely she must understand that this is her life now, as well as my own—and she will hurt herself if she attempts to hurt me too publicly.”
“She didn’t care much about that when she interrupted your wedding,” Denshire noted wryly.
“No, well.” Frederick stared moodily at the visible bottom of his glass, empty now. He could not even remember finishing it off. After the accident, he had worked hard to get his drinking back under control. This situation would not get the better of him.
He would not allow it.
“Langford?” Denshire asked suddenly, frowning at him. “Are you well, old boy?”