Chapter 5
Five
Mr. Joshua Forrester,
Please escort the eldest daughter of Lady Blair to my country estate in Dumfriesshire. The five younger children are to remain with their nanny. Compensate the nanny for her services with a monthly allowance to ensure the children have adequate living arrangements and tutoring. Once the oldest chit arrives at Caerlaverock, she shall be prepared for a proper marriage.
Nithesdale
—A letter from Edward Hancock, Duke of Nithesdale to his solicitor, Mr. Joshua Forrester, February 1803
H e made you his whore .
Why the blazes had he said that? There was no excuse for his utter lack of decorum.
Nash made his way down the grand staircase to have tea in the drawing room with the ladies for the third day in a row. Caerlaverock Castle was the perfect quiet sanctuary—if one wanted to ruminate day after day over one’s stupidity. Which he did not.
Yet he didn’t know how to erase that awful label he’d put on her when he should have been congratulating her on her recent nuptials. She was a duchess, for God’s sake, and he’d addressed her as if she were a common trollop in Covent Gardens.
Three days of this torture. Three days of being denied an audience with Nithesdale. Three days of his initial incivility constantly forming a wall, regardless of how humble he’d tried to be.
When he met the Duchess as she broke her fast, they may as well have been talking through stone. She wouldn’t look at him. When she took him riding across the moors, she on a stunning golden-brown mare, he swore she wore blinders. Her regal form had been breathtaking, and when he’d attempted to do the gentlemanly thing and apologize for his unconscionable behavior, she’d galloped away. Her head never turning to see if he followed. Nor did she garner to look in his direction when he’d caught up to her and openly watched the ease in which she rode the mare. It had made him think of other ways she would ride with ease, his mind going where it shouldn’t. Yet he couldn’t stop the thoughts from forming.
At dinner, the Duchess and that blasted Mr. Forrester conversed around him. Lady Drake was included, of course, but he was not. If it weren’t for Lady Drake, he suspected he’d be out on his arse. It was maddening. Had there ever been a lady who ate meals with her husband’s man of affaires and his mistress while she ignored a duke sitting at the same damned table? Of course, his own mother and father had never dined together, but he was quite certain if they had, a few barbs would have at least been exchanged.
He welcomed a set-down from those lips.
He didn’t want the Duchess of Nithesdale as his duchess. She was Nithesdale’s, and she was nothing like the child he’d encountered eight years ago. As a duchess she was beautiful, imposing, and cold—no that wasn’t true. She was cold toward him. Not toward Forrester, Lady Drake, or the servants. However, the only time he’d witnessed a spark of flame in her eyes in the past three days had been when he’d called her a whore.
Damnation.
Since his initial blunder, conversation between them was polite, but unrevealing. He still had no idea why Nithesdale had brought her into his home. Three days of seeing her in gown after gown, her firm creamy bosom put on display for everyone to observe. Three days of him being unable to ferret out the location of her sisters so that he might at least keep the other girls from having their virtue destroyed because of his being a first-class ass when he’d gained his title.
Not that being a duchess was a bad thing, but he and the last Duke of Ross had made her acceptance as a young lady entering the marriage mart impossible, and after Nithesdale’s passing—the circumstances of her birth would be unchanged, and she could quite possibly still be a pariah as well. Yet she still had her title and the ability to eviscerate an opponent with the heat of a glare—if she would let her spirit ignite into flames.
Once again, as with every other afternoon, Nash found himself outside the drawing room door holding out his arm for Lady Drake to escort her to tea.
“Good afternoon, Lady Drake.”
“Your Grace. I hope you had a delightful ride this morning.”
He glanced at her as they walked toward the library. Had he heard an innuendo in her comment? He hadn’t wanted to believe the rumors about her, either. Yet by her own torrid account, and the manner in which she touched the Duchess ever so familiarly, Lady Drake was the whore, not Iseabail. So why hadn’t he judged her or condemned her in front of the servants? Instead, he treated her with the reverence of her station as a member of the Ton.
There must be something seriously wrong with him. From the moment he laid eyes on the Duchess, every last fear he’d had in the years since she’d been a child staring down upon him with so much hatred, had come to fruition. She may look more vibrant and beautiful than even he’d imagined she would become, but the fire he’d experienced blazing in his direction eight years ago had been tempered. He mourned the loss of the spark that had leapt from her mercurial gaze. It seemed to be lost forever … and he couldn’t stomach the very idea of that loss.
The Duchess of Nithesdale led the way into the drawing room on the arm of Forrester, who’d wanted to tear him limb from limb just a few days earlier. From his manner, Nash suspected Forrester held himself in check every moment they were together.
“I suppose an occasion such as this may call for something stronger than tea,” Lady Drake suggested, as she rubbed up against him. “May I pour you a brandy, Your Grace?”
Nash wanted to recoil, until he looked down and saw the uncomfortable grimace Lady Drake quickly hid with a flirtatious smile as she looked up at him through her lashes. The room shifted. He looked down at the graceful widow on his arm, and for the first time he realized her flirtatious manner wasn’t real—it was a facade. An act better than any play he had seen in the past decade.
But why? The revelation made him wonder about every other person in the room. Lady Drake had been terribly shy as a young woman. Her first season had seen her married off for her dowry to an old goat. Despite that, Nash had always believed her late husband loved her, just not enough to save her from his disastrous gambling habit. If the man hadn’t died in a drunken duel, Nash had no doubt Lady Drake’s husband would have gambled through her money in no time.
“What is the occasion?” he asked, while trying to gain his footing in this uncertain game he’d been caught up in.
“The doctor says Nithesdale is doing much better today. He thinks he may be on the mend.”
His gaze landed on Nithesdale’s wife. Her expression revealed neither relief nor regret at this turn of events, and it made him want to throttle Nithesdale even more. So far, he’d been denied an audience with the Duke, something he would have never expected before now.
He smiled at Lady Drake. “By all means, I believe the occasion does call for brandy, my lady. Thank you.”
“Allow me to pour. Would you like one as well, Duchess?” Forrester interjected.
Nash looked at the man in question, who led the Duchess to the settee where she sat down and pulled at the rather scandalous blue silk of her bodice. The long slim turn of her neck made a man want to bury his face in the delicate curve as he pulled out every last pin in her hair.
“Of course she does,” Lady Drake responded. She acted as if she were the lady of Caerlaverock, and Iseabail a mere visitor. And it was Lady Drake, not the Duchess, who reported the doctor’s news about Nithesdale feeling better than he had in weeks.
He watched the three other people in the room and tried to make sense of it all, but nothing had made a lick of sense since the moment he’d encountered Lady Drake at the ball in London.
“Yes,” the Duchess responded in a soft, almost dead tone.
Suddenly aware he stood stock-still in the middle of the room, Nash took the seat opposite the Duchess. There were several vacant seats he could have taken near Lady Drake, but the one directly opposite the Duchess was from where he hoped to read her emotions.
“I’m sorry Nithesdale has not been able to receive visitors, Duke. When he heard you had arrived, he wanted me to send for you right away. I declined, of course, at the doctor’s insistence.” Mr. Forrester proffered a glass to Lady Drake and then to the Duchess as he spoke.
Nash nodded as if his extended stay was inconsequential. “I understand your dedication to Nithesdale’s recovery and I am glad he’s feeling better.” It might still give him the opportunity to kill Nithesdale and then turn his sights on his over-handed man of affairs.
The Duchess let out an inelegant snort, and Lady Drake sent her a quelling look. The Duchess of Nithesdale, however, chose to ignore the rebuke, and he felt the corners of his mouth rise in the first hint of amusement he’d felt in days.
He addressed the Duchess. “Will Nithesdale be able to receive visitors tomorrow?” he asked.
“He actually asked that you be sent to his room now, but I advised the staff you will wait until after the Duke’s dinner,” Mr. Forrester interjected. Again, someone speaking for the Duchess, who shouldn’t. Mr. Forrester gave a slight bow of his head as he extended a tumbler of brandy.
“That is very good news. Thank you.”
“The honour is mine, Your Grace.”
In any other situation, Nash would have immediately put the man at ease and offered his hand in thanks. Mr. Forrester, however, made him want to embrace his title and tell the man where he could shove his over-protectiveness for the Duchess and the barriers erected around Nithesdale. He suspected the disdain was mutual. Mr. Forrester took a seat to the right of the Duchess, and he had the distinct impression it was a show—these three against the world—or rather, against him.
As if he were the one hiding something, and not the other way around.
“Is there anything I can do to assist you during this difficult time, Duchess?” His tone was that of a concerned peer, as he purposely ignored the two flanking her and addressed the Duke of Nithesdale’s wife.
“As a matter of?—”
“It is enough that you have come to visit during this trying time.” Lady Drake interjected before the Duchess could deliver the set-down he had coming.
Damnation, he would have admired it. The question remained, however, how could Nash turn the tables on what he and his father had done to the beautiful, corrupt, graceful, improper, extraordinary, immoral creature—the Duchess of Nithesdale?
“Tell me Your Grace, what really brings you to Caerlaverock?” the Duchess asked without a trace of subterfuge.
Ahhh, but he could see the embers attempting to burn. “Nithesdale was present when my … my father passed.”
Nithesdale had been at the same house of ill repute Nash’s father was visiting when his heart failed. Nithesdale had not been married, and there was nothing wrong with an unattached lord visiting such an establishment—but a brothel was last thing he was going to discuss in mixed company.
Her delicate eyebrows rose as if waiting for Nash to continue. He downed the contents of his glass. “He was there for us, and I merely want to return the favor.” He cleared his throat and gave her the one honest response she deserved. “Nithesdale gave me more fatherly advice than my own … sire.”
It was Lady Drake who seemed more touched by his confession than the Duchess. At present, the Duchess was more interested in her nails. “You may not know this, Ross, but I benefitted from Nithesdale’s advice as well when my husband passed. The Duke has taken on many an orphan throughout the years.” She reached over and squeezed the Duchess’s hand as if the Duchess could also relate to the generosity the Duke bestowed.
A growl escaped his throat, and he quickly turned into a cough. He wanted to throttle the old rake.
“I’ll get you some more brandy, Your Grace.” The Duchess rose with such swiftness he was caught off guard. It was only when Mr. Forrester glared down upon him that he realized he was still seated and immediately jumped to his feet and handed her his glass.
“Thank you.”
Lady Drake took Mr. Forrester’s glass, which was still half-full, and followed the Duchess to the other side of the room while he watched, unsure of what he should do next.
“Hurt her, and you’ll be seeing me at dawn.” Forrester’s voice deepened with the threat.
“I beg your pardon?” Nash wasn’t certain he’d ever been challenged by another lord in such a manner, let alone a man of service.
“You heard me, Your Grace. I will not stand by and let you hurt her.”
He pulled his head back and looked at the man in a new light then scoffed in disbelief. “You love her.”
Mr. Forrester ground his teeth together. “The Duchess’s husband is my employer. I look out for Her Grace’s best interests.”
“That doesn’t discount for the fact that you care for her.”
“As I do for all of my clients.”
“So, you would challenge a duke to a duel for all of your client’s wives?”
“If need be.”
It was another lie, and Nash couldn’t help but wonder about the lies stacking up at Caerlaverock. He refused to study his own feelings toward Iseabail Blair— Hancock. Iseabail Hancock .
Mr. Forrester turned and met his steady gaze. “The Duke has asked me to care for her welfare. I will do just that.”
“Does that include in her bed as well?”
He shouldn’t have asked, but he couldn’t stop the question that was burning the tip of his tongue.
Through clenched teeth and an inflexible jaw, Forrester said, loud enough for only Nash to hear, “It means, whenever and wherever Her Grace requires.”
It was the last thing Nash wanted to hear, yet he’d asked for it, hadn’t he?
* * *
He was in her library. Her library. No one came into her library. Not one person had entered this room since her arrival at Caerlaverock eight years ago, when Paddington had shown her the magnificent room filled with shelves so tall, a ladder was necessary to reach the literary treasures on the top shelf. The ladder alone was a bit of joy. Attached to rungs near the ceiling, the bottom step was flanked by wheels which allowed it to transverse from one end of the room to the other. On her first day, Paddington had shown her how to brace herself between the rungs and push off. She’d laughed for the first time since her father’s death, as she’d trailed her fingers lovingly across the spines of the books for the entire length of the wall.
A bit of joy in her somber path to adulthood.
Whom was she kidding … she’d done the exact same thing the very morning he’d arrived and turned her world upside down. But that was exactly the point. In here, she was free to act as childish as she liked. She’d come to the library this evening to escape his intrusion. It was supposed to be her sanctuary, her home … and he invaded it like he had Urquhart Castle. Now he was staring at her as if she were an oddity he thought to never encounter.
When he finally spoke, he said the exact opposite of what she’d expected. “Duchess, I apologize for trespassing upon your sanctuary. I was told I might find you here.”
His voice was deeper than she remembered from her childhood. Richer, like malt Scotch whisky aged to perfection. It was all the more delicious because of his acknowledgment of his intrusion.
Where in the devil had that thought come from? She loathed this man. If he was skillful in any manner, it was in the art of deception. He didn’t have a caring or polite bone in his body. She closed the book she’d been trying, and failing, to read and laid it upon her lap.
“How was your meeting with my husband?” She asked.
“He slept through it.” Frustration tinged his statement, and Iseabail found herself feeling a bit sorry for this man who obviously held Nithesdale in high esteem. It may have been years since her parents died, but she knew exactly how a goodbye could be a blessing and a curse.
“He does that frequently. How may I be of service, Your Grace?” The fictitious smile on her face was as artificial as his, and yet he seemed to be able to read what she hid underneath the falsity much better than she could. Drat.
He stepped into the room and closed the door before turning back to stare at her once more. She arched a brow in question as he made his way over to the settee next to her. Thank goodness she hadn’t lounged on it as she was wont to, but had instead chosen to sit closer to the fire.
“I don’t know if you remember our first meeting at?—”
She laughed, a hideous noise escaping her lips that sounded more like a cackle than the light-hearted flirtation she had intended. “Your Grace, I seriously doubt I could forget meeting you.” She paused, and let her compliment sink into his arrogance before continuing her attack. “I’m not surprised, however, that you have confused me with one of your many conquests.” There. Let the man believe she had no recollection of his cold-hearted regard for six orphaned girls.
His smile wavered as he searched her face. “You really don’t recall it?”
“I’ve never been to a ball, I’ve never been to London, or out of Scotland for that matter. Where in the world would a woman like me meet a duke like you?” She brought her hand to her chest in mock innocence. She’d read the scandal rags and their judgement of her character. Her innocence was forever tarnished, regardless of what the truth may be.
“We met at your family home,” he said, in a rather strangled voice.
This time her laughter sounded almost real. “I hardly think Nithesdale would have introduced us … here.” Saying it felt like the biggest betrayal of her life.
Especially to this man. Nithesdale was her guardian angel compared to the Duke of Ross. Even cloaked in the deepest of black, her husband was the purest color on the palette. His innocence was found in the absence of light. This duke’s guilt, however, was luminescent.
Ross shook his head, and she had to admire his ability to feign sorrow. The added touch of running his hand through his dark locks as if he were loath to continue, was brilliant. Yet he refused to drop his gaze. “No. We weren’t formally introduced, but I saw you at Urquhart, before you came here. You were standing at the top of the staircase to the great hall …”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. She’d never expected him to be so forthright. “Oh?” she said, because really, what else could be said without cursing him to hell? Damn the man.
“Yes, it was the week you were forced to leave your home.” He searched her face, looking for what, she had no idea. Hatred? She had plenty of that.
“I … I …” Her tongue was completely worthless. Her brain a jungle of what she’d been schooled to say and what she so desperately wanted to rage.
“I’m sorry to be the reason for your eviction,” he admitted, in a soft tone that almost sounded contrite.
She knew better. She stood and walked to the other end of the room and returned her book to the shelf as she gained her composure. “The past is incurable, Your Grace. I’ve never been prone to look back and wish it undone. Just as I would never wish I hadn’t finished reading a book. Regardless of how unpleasant an event or story may be, there are future chapters to experience and knowledge to gain. That is where my focus rests.” It was a lie, of course. Her heart would forever cling to happier times at Urquhart.
“What about your sisters?” He sounded confused, yet she couldn’t turn to decipher his meaning without exposing her true emotions. All she could do was stare at the volumes of texts on the shelves in front of her and get a grip on her anger. How dare this man come here and feign concern for her and her sisters! He was the reason they were in this predicament. If it hadn’t been for his greed, she would be with her sisters now—living on the loch in the Highlands.
She twirled around faster than she should have, the skirts of her gown swirling between her legs like angry waves of silk in a storm. “No need to concern yourself, Your Grace. We landed on our feet. Climbers always do.” She nodded in the direction of the bookshelves. “Please help yourself to my library while you’re here. We wouldn’t want our guest to be lacking entertainment.” The smile on her lips felt tight and brittle. If she didn’t escape this room this very minute, she feared she would shatter into a million deadly pieces.
“Will we see you at supper?” She sensed rather than saw him nod, and continued. “If you will excuse me, I must attend my husband,” she said, as she floated past him. There was something about this man that unnerved her. She’d envisioned him as a cold, calculating duke of the realm, and yet during this exchanged he seemed to genuinely care.
Which was utterly preposterous. A man who’d done what the Duke of Ross had done did not care one whit about anyone but himself.
* * *
Nash had never dreamed Iseabail Blair could grow into the woman before him. He’d known she would be a fiery beauty, but this? No, the passion in her eyes was enough to undo any man. Her lips were plump, a smile slightly larger than what the Ton thought of as classically beautiful … but a man? A man could only envision the ecstasy her mouth could wring from his cock. And the glimpse of the trim turn of her ankles as the frothy swirl of her skirts fought with the speed of her movements—holy hell, if he let his imagination run wild, he’d find himself getting hard while he was attempting to come clean.
In two steps he grabbed the delicate form of her wrist and pulled her back before she could escape. “Iseabail, I …”
She whirled around as if to strike him, a move that caught him, and her, off guard. Her arm froze the moment he grasped it, her forward motion stopping of her own volition, not his and he found his hand crossed over his body gripping her other wrist. For a moment they stood there, both of them breathing heavier than what the situation warranted. He suspected the causes of their erratic gasps, however, to be entirely different. His was from the arousal he fought, hers from the anger she was attempting to control.
“Unhand me, Ross.” Her demand was breathy and her chest heaved, drawing his attention to her modest décolletage.
He released her immediately. The last thing he needed to experience was a growing attraction for a woman to whom he owed so much. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to offer my sincere apologies.”
“Done. The incident is all but forgotten.” She turned to leave, but he stopped her once more.
“I meant for what happened eight years ago.”
Her mouth fell open in pure astonishment.
He continued. “I can’t possibly make amends.”
“You could give me back my home.”
“Our Regent has entailed it to the duchy.”
A derisive snort escaped her. “Then it seems we are back to where we were. Good day, Your Grace.”
He felt the insult in the honorific title as strongly as if the palm of her hand had encountered his cheek. “I’d like to sponsor your sisters.”
If she’d been angry before, now she was inflamed. Her eyes lit brighter than the embers of the fire in the hearth, and her face flushed with her attempt to control her passion. He had no doubt her nails were digging into her palms as she clenched her fists at her side.
“An unmarried duke does not sponsor young ladies .”
Bullocks. He knew that. He’d meant to say he would have a friend sponsor her sisters. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to insult?—”
“And yet you did. I believe we are both better off pretending this conversation never occurred. Don’t you?” She didn’t wait for his response. She quit the room like a goddess wrapped in sky-blue silk. The way her gown moved with the sway of her hips was like the caress of a lover, and this time he didn’t attempt to stop her retreat. It was too glorious and magnificent to stop Iseabail Hancock, Duchess of Nithesdale, from putting a true bastard in his place.
“Bravo, Duchess,” he whispered. “Bravo.”