Chapter 16
Sixteen
Miss Sinclair,
I have arrived at Caerlaverock and learned the most disturbing news from the staff. It seems you ordered a new roof and much of my estate to be refurbished while you are on holiday with Lady Drake. I have not authorized these expenditures and have instructed Paddington to cease and desist all current renovations occurring to the ducal estate. I will allow for the roof to be repaired, but that is all.
I have made arrangements for a doctor to meet me at Lady Drake’s estate. We should arrive at the end of the week to put this matter to bed.
Henry Jarvis, Duke of Nithesdale
—A letter from Henry Jarvis, heir and presumed future Duke of Nithesdale, written to Duchess of Nithesdale, February 1811
I seabail crushed the letter in her hand. The man was a menace. The gall of him addressing her as Miss Sinclair and signing his letter as the Duke of Nithesdale!
Even she knew the proper address for written correspondence to a duchess. Instead, he chose to ignore her marriage, deny her parents’ marriage, and deny the existence of her child’s claim to the estate!
If she had an unborn child.
The last bit she should feel a bit guilty over, but she did not. This was Nithesdale’s last wish. He didn’t want Mr. Jarvis to become duke—if he had, he wouldn’t have married her—right?
“Nithesdale believed the staff and the tenants would be better off if you oversaw Caerlaverock.” Phoebe reassured.
“But what if Nithesdale had lost some of his faculties in his last days? It’s not unheard of. Maybe the servants and tenants would be better off with Jarvis as Duke, because despite his odious and filthy suggestion about putting the matter to bed, he was raised to be the next Duke of Nithesdale.”
“Until Nithesdale decided he wasn’t. Don’t question his motives, Iseabail.” Phoebe’s advice was filled with confidence.
She was not. “Blast it. Every man in my life has tried to run my affairs, and for once in my twenty-two years I’m in control. Yet somehow, I’m a mere wooden doll hanging onto the strings of their every word and whim. My father, Nithesdale, Nash, Jarvis, and now this … this Earl of Astley is the one suggesting I show myself at the house party—it’s utter madness!”
“He is rather mad,” Phoebe mumbled.
Iseabail paced the floor in front of the hearth, unable to enjoy the warmth of the fire.
Phoebe sighed. “However, the Earl’s plan is logical, crazy, and sound, despite the lesser societal pitfalls of being seen at a house party while you’re in mourning. It makes sense for you to turn to your relations in your time of need. A roof repair is our excuse.”
“Openly staying at Drake Manor during the very private house party is not. Jarvis was never supposed to know my current location.”
“Paddington had no choice but to tell him once he showed up at Caerlaverock demanding to know your whereabouts.”
“As if he had a right to know,” Iseabail muttered.
Paddington had had no other choice. She knew that. They had prepared for it. She just hadn’t planned on Jarvis arriving when he had.
“Now my excuse to use familial relations and their hospitality at Drake Manor during the repairs of my home will be public knowledge.”
“You will have to rely on this new plan of feigned ignorance of the house party taking place, and make a very public second arrival.”
Iseabail stopped in front of the fire and made up her mind. “Fine. Once it’s dark, I’ll go out through the servants’ entrance, down to the stables, and have the carriage brought around as if I have just arrived.”
“It’s your best option,” Phoebe agreed.
“If I had an option , none of this would have ever taken place.”
Phoebe hugged her before saying, “I will see you at supper,” and left the room.
Two hours later, with her maid leading the way, Iseabail traipsed across the lawn with her to her carriage. The night air was crisp and clear, the stars glistened down on them as if to mock her drab attire. Her navy cloak with the beautiful light-blue trim and lining she had adored was now black and gray, dyed for her period of mourning to a color that would disappear into the inky night.
“Quickly, Mary. We must not be seen.”
“Yes, Yer Grace.” Tall and willowy, Mary’s shoulders slumped as she limped across the lawn. Mary had been purposely maimed as a child for her aunt to earn more money by the girl begging in the streets. The despicable practice that left many a child with no options as an adult, had given Mary few choices as well. Most viewed her lame leg as a sign she would not be able to do manual labor. As a result, Mary had turned to prostitution by the time she was mid-way through her teens. Now, younger than Iseabail herself, Mary had the look of a much older woman in her eyes, and although her limp was obvious, she was stronger than most of the other household maids. She was also grateful for her employment, which made her the most loyal servant Iseabail could ask for.
And she’d been taken in by the kindhearted Nithesdale. Jarvis would dismiss Mary immediately upon being named duke, of that Iseabail was certain.
They made it to the stables where Iseabail’s young groom, Thomas, quickly moved forward to take their luggage. For his trouble, Mary scowled and cursed under her breath about not needing the likes of any man to do her work. He winked and gave her a smile as lovely as Iseabail had ever seen on the young groom’s face. “That’s what I’m here fer, Miss Mary.” For his trouble, he got a deeper scowl that only seemed to amuse him further.
“Thomas, if you could get my coach ready, we need to pull up to the front of the house as if we just arrived.”
“The Duke warned me to have it ready, Your Grace.” Thomas was as jovial as ever, whistling a tune Iseabail had often heard coming from his lips. It was upbeat and jaunty, a song she had long suspected was learned with a pint in one hand and a willing maiden in the other. If he thought it would help him make headway with Mary, though, he was sadly mistaken. The young woman eyed him with distrust the entire time he helped them into the carriage, even sticking her head out the window to watch him load the luggage. A sleepy and somewhat inebriated driver was pulling himself up into the seat to take the reins, and Iseabail was thankful they weren’t going farther than the front door, or she might doubt their ability to get there at all.
Within minutes she and Mary were exiting the coach at the entrance to Drake Manor, as if they had just arrived. They climbed the steps to the house slowly, not taking any chances that a guest might be looking out the window and observe too much energy emitting from their bodies. They were after all, weary travelers. Phoebe’s butler’s eyebrow quirked as he came to the door, but he said nothing of their bizarre arrival. Instead, he took her cloak, handed it to a footman, and then advised Mary where Iseabail’s room was, as if the maid hadn’t cleaned her room every day for the past fortnight.
“Your Grace, Lady Drake advised me of your possible arrival. At this moment, she is seated for supper with several guests.”
“Oh, I had no idea.”
The butler’s lip twitched. “Of course. I could have a tray sent to your room?—”
“Iseabail?” Phoebe’s voice lifted with a feigned question, as if she couldn’t believe her cousin had arrived at her residence. Oh, but to be able to act as well as Phoebe. The woman was born for the stage.
Iseabail turned toward the open doors of the dining room where every face seated at the table was turned in her direction. Silence filled the room as each of them quieted to shamelessly eavesdrop on Phoebe’s conversation with her scandalous cousin. The men had retaken their seats upon Phoebe exiting the dining room, but one man remained standing. Nash.
Iseabail couldn’t bear to meet his gaze as she addressed her cousin. She spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, yet soft enough for them to believe they weren’t meant to. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were entertaining.” Her eyes traveled to the dining room and its guests once again, and to the commanding presence of him—the man she hated, despised, and who had somehow creeped into her soul and turned her body aflame with wickedness. The Duke who was approaching her as if it was his right.
“Your Grace.” He bowed elegantly over her hand, as if her station was much higher than his own. His actions were absurd and caused a flush to spread across her cheeks as his lips brushed her knuckles. She still wore her gloves, but the heat of his touch brought back searing memories of the previous night.
“I apologize for interrupting your meal—” she started.
“A beautiful woman could never be considered an interruption.” His voice carried through the hall, and she felt the interest it garnered from the rest of Phoebe’s guests.
She turned toward Phoebe, refusing to give his comment credence, or acknowledge the skip of her heart. He was the reason she was in the mess. “I have disturbed you long enough. I would prefer to retire to my room if that is acceptable.”
“Of course?—”
Nash interrupted Lady Drake and took Iseabail’s hand, wrapping it around his arm. “Nonsense. You must join us for supper, Duchess. You have been alone in that dark dreary castle far too long.”
She attempted to dig her kid heels into the carpet with no such luck. If she persisted, she would end up tripping herself and possibly him. She imagined the tangled mix of limbs they would make on the floor and her face flushed scarlet. Drat and double drat. The heat suffusing her face caused two ladies at the end of the table to exchange a knowing look. Now he’d given the guests even more titillating gossip to spread about London upon their return. No doubt they would report she was smitten with the Duke of Ross—why else would she blush so thoroughly when he escorted her to the end of the table where he sat next to Lady Drake?
Why else would he turn to Lord Bradbury and ask, “I’m certain you wouldn’t mind giving up your seat for the Duchess of Nithesdale, would you, Bradbury? We can discuss business a bit later.” The scandal was beyond the pale.
Lord Bradbury’s lips quirked as he bowed and gave her body a less than respectful once over. She could have sworn she heard Nash growl, but when she looked up, he merely dismissed the lord with an absent nod as he held the chair for her to sit down. A footman cleared Lord Bradbury’s plate and quickly set a new serving in its place. A chair had been brought to the other end of the table where Lord Bradbury was now sitting next to a widow who batted her eyes flirtatiously in his direction. He seemed surprised and pleased with the new seating arrangement.
Iseabail was not. Yet at that moment, she realized the seating had been off kilter upon her arrival. The Duke had been seated to Lady Drake’s right with Lord Bradbury on his right and the Earl of Astley next to him. Now she was sitting in between the Duke and the Earl, and the table was set to rights. Every man had a woman on each side, and likewise for the women.
Iseabail felt as if she’d been purposely duped.
Her gaze flew to Phoebe who was addressing a gentleman on her left Iseabail didn’t recognize. He had to be at least an earl, but her knowledge of the Ton was minimal. Bradbury had been to Caerlaverock to see Nithesdale about business in Parliament. She assumed it was the same type of business Nash had been discussing this evening.
A foot rubbed her own and she nearly jumped out of her chair. Nash. Her jaw tightened and she refused to look at him. Instead, Iseabail chose to engage the man on her right, Astley, but that encounter was almost as disturbing as it had been with her nemesis. The Earl was darkly handsome, holding his head with a sardonic lilt that said he knew he did not fit the societal mold of the Ton’s pale skin and stylishly tousled hair.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she bit out, knowing he was referring to the parts of her he had seen in the garden.
Nash scowled at his partner in crime, but Astley seemed unfazed. His skin was naturally kissed by the sun, regardless of the season or how much time he spent out of doors. His hair was black as night, darker even, with none of the midnight highlights that made Nash’s hair so alluring. Astley’s hair was long and full. Sinful soft waves, as wild as the ocean he sailed, splayed over his shoulders. His brows were even darker, and yet he was beautiful in a masculine way. When he turned toward the lady on his right whose breasts were nearly falling out of her gown and onto her dinner plate, Iseabail had nowhere to turn.
She glanced at Nash to see if he was also mesmerized by the display. She was shocked to find his eyes glued to her own less-than-exemplary décolletage. A blush covered her cheeks once more, but this time, it traveled to her chest. Her entire body burned with the heat of his gaze. She heard, rather than saw the breath he released. It was as if he was just as affected by the exchange and memories of the previous night as she was.
“If you hadn’t appeared, I was going to tear this house apart to find you,” he whispered between sips of turtle soup.
“That would have caused a scandal.”
“I am not above a scandal or two, Duchess.” The way his voice turned to gravel, she had no doubt he knew exactly how to create multiple scandals at once.
It was then that she heard the whispers of the two ladies on the opposite side of the table who had eyed her upon her arrival. “Nithesdale couldn’t even sit up in bed the last month of his life—how could he possibly sire a child?”
“I heard she got pregnant by a footman.”
“I heard it was his barrister, Mr. Forrester, there at the other end of the table.”
Nash’s spoon froze half-way to his mouth. She didn’t need to see his face to know the thunderous expression he wore. Anger rolled off him like a storm cloud roaring through the hills of Scotland and the ladies caught sight of it immediately. They silenced and sipped their soup, eyes downcast. The gentleman who sat between them, however, openly eyed Iseabail with the disdain the ladies’ words had held.
And there it was. Exactly what Phoebe had described to her earlier. The table was silent. Everyone seemed to be counting how many sins she committed against Nithesdale. She wanted to scream and rant and rave.
It was the man sitting next to her who was reprehensible. He was responsible for an entire family’s downfall. He was the reason she and her sisters were not living at Urquhart at this very moment. The reason she didn’t have a Season. The reason Nithesdale had felt the need to offer for her hand in marriage before he died and the only reason she’d been forced to accept Nithesdale’s ring to save her sisters. As nice as Nithesdale had been, she had always dreamed …
No. Dreaming was for fools, and she was no fool. Phoebe laughed suddenly as if someone had told her an outrageous tale. All heads turned in her direction.
“You must forgive me, I was thinking of the last house party my husband and I threw.” She was addressing the entire table as if it were normal for the hostess to allow her voice to boom throughout a dining room as she recounted a story about her husband spilling his wine all over his hunting partner—Iseabail’s dead husband’s—lap.
Iseabail didn’t think it right to laugh at Nithesdale’s expense, yet everyone else seemed to think it was quite acceptable, given how unorthodox the story and the manner it was told. Even Nash chuckled and she found herself drawn to that deeply masculine noise.
She smiled, but feared it looked as if she were choking on the turtle soup. She had to see this through. Her hand instinctively went to her flat stomach.
A ridiculous notion that was not lost on the Duke.
Nash leaned over in her direction as the table continued with conversations. “For most women it takes more than once.” His voice was low and only meant for her ears. If anyone could have possibly heard, it would have been Astley, but he was too engrossed in what he was doing to the lady’s décolletage to his right, as he wiped up a drop of soup that was quickly disappearing down the front of her bodice.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The chances of there being a babe in your womb are slim.” He explained.
Her face flushed once more. Surely, he was not going to discuss this here? He continued as if giving a medical lecture to a pea-brained hen. She glanced about the table, but no one was looking in their direction.
“Think of it as you would a thoroughbred horse or a prized hound.”
Good heavens, was he comparing her to a nag, or his favorite bitch?
“Sometimes it doesn’t take, and you must bring the stud back around for a few more visits.”
Or perhaps he was referring to himself as the stud? Oh, this would hardly do. “I assure you, Your Grace. If, and I emphasize that word most emphatically, if I am not with child, I will not seek your assistance again.”
“No more visits to my bedchamber in disguise?” Although his face didn’t show an ounce of emotion, she got the distinct impression he was laughing at her.
“No.”
His tone sobered. “You dare risk your sisters’ futures so carelessly?”
“Of course not,” she practically hissed.
“Then I will come to your room.” He sounded almost bored.
“I … I have other options.” Could this entire situation be more humiliating? She looked at Mr. Forrester.
Nash followed her gaze and snorted. “Over my dead body.”
Iseabail worked hard not to grit her teeth. She was, after all, of the same station as he, and she wasn’t about to let one of these prigs see her as anything less than a duchess.
It was at that moment she noticed the gentleman sitting to the left of Phoebe place his hand over Phoebe’s. Phoebe pulled her hand away, but not before Iseabail heard a low grumble at the other end of the table. She eyed Mr. Forrester who was staring at the gentleman next to Phoebe as if he would challenge him to a few rounds at Gentleman Jack’s Pugilist Club. It was rather eye-opening.
And to think she had asked Mr. Forrester to father her child. What a disastrous decision that would have been—for everyone.
Nash leaned over and whispered. “It seems Mr. Forrester is not an option.”
“So it seems.” Their soup bowls had been replaced with fish, and then the main course of venison and stewed vegetables. Iseabail took a bite of meat.
“There are so many things I could teach you.” The gravel of his voice hinted at the manner of things he thought to school her on, and Iseabail nearly choked on the tender morsel in her throat. A warm, strong capable hand began to stroke her thigh under the table and she nearly jumped out of her seat. She calmly reached for the napkin in her lap but grabbed his hand instead as it moved toward the center of her being, the center she had not known existed until this man.
“Are you wet, Duchess?” He whispered.
Yes. “No.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I believe you are being less than honest with me.”
Perhaps, but she was being honest with herself. No man had affected her in this manner and she absolutely detested her body’s betrayal. He was the enemy, for goodness’ sake. What was wrong with her? Her heart beat erratically as she allowed his hand to travel where she desired his touch. She nearly gasped when his fingers brushed her sex … and didn’t that turn her thoughts wanton. What had this man done to her?
“Will you surrender to the attraction between us, or must I remind you of how good we are together right here in front of everyone?”
She grasped at his fingers but only succeeded in driving them deeper into the folds of her gown and it took every ounce of control she possessed not to scream, don’t stop! She blurted out the only thing she could think of. “Do you know how to play the game, Pope Joan?”
He took a drink of wine with his other hand, acting as if he wasn’t driving her absolutely mad. “I haven’t played since I was a boy.”
“Ahh. Your tastes are much more sophisticated than those of us in the country, who only have the country squire as competition.” The disdain in her voice was palpable. She had to get him to focus on anything but what his hand was doing to her.
“On the contrary. I’ve never held a house party of my own, and as a guest, I have always succumbed to the desires of my hosts.” He let his gaze travel down the length of her body to let her know exactly what type of desires he was willing to please as his fingers found the spot she prayed he would not.
* * *
He was rewarded when her back went as stiff as his cock. He was willing to bet her body was ready to explode with the desire she wanted to deny.
“So, you will yield to my cravings as well?” she asked, as she picked up her fan and flitted it back and forth in front of her face.
He wanted to ask her to wave it in front of his, because the stifling heat in the room had drastically increased since the beginning of their conversation. “Duchess, I would bow at your feet and serve your every need.”
Her smile was slow and sultry until she struck it down with the precision of a knight slaying a dragon. “What in the world could a duke possibly do at my feet that I would find praiseworthy?” She asked, her voice barely loud enough for him to hear.
“When I am finished, you will view my skills with exaltation.”
She blushed prettily and he found himself wanting to see her do it again and again—without her clothing hiding the pink tinge traveling the length of her body.
“I’m not certain I know of the skills you speak.”
“Give me the opportunity, and you will,” he persisted.
“Perhaps we should place a wager on our game of Pope Joan?”
“Winner takes all?” he asked. “Name your price, Duchess.”
She didn’t hesitate. “One thousand pounds.”
For a moment he was struck dumb. Had he heard her correctly?
“Are you afraid you’ll lose, Ross?”
He scoffed. “Hardly, but I find that money doesn’t interest me when I’m placing a bet with a beautiful woman.” For a moment he thought he saw anger as hot as coal flash in her eyes, but it was instantly gone and a coy smile spread across her delectable mouth.
“Of course, money means nothing to individuals such as yourself with vast holdings.”
He didn’t hold half as much as his father had, but he wasn’t about to share that bit of news. It might show weakness on his part. Instead, he nodded in agreement.
“What does interest you?” she asked.
Oh, but his cock stirred with her question. She interested him. Her lips. Her neck. Her breasts, her … everything. He wanted her more with every passing moment, and he found himself wanting to know her thoughts and desires as well as her body. It was a strange sensation.
“The next week of your company … in my bed. My bath. The stables, if I so desire. Anywhere I want you, you will bend to my will.”
It was the first time he saw fear in Iseabail’s eyes, and it was the first time she let her knowledge of his dark reputation slip. She’d felt comfortable teasing and flirting with him at arm’s length. Anything more, however, was too much. He had no doubt she had felt something for Nithesdale, but they had not been lovers. The attraction Iseabail felt for him, however, was real. Very real.
Her fear disappeared as if it had never existed, and she held out her hand to seal their wager. “The pleasure of my company, versus your one thousand pounds. You have yourself a wager, Your Grace. I will give you a day to refresh your knowledge of the game.”
“Oh, my dear, but this will be a sweet victory,” he said as he took her hand and raised the back of her knuckles to his lips.
He felt the shiver run through her body. It was only then he noticed the absolute silence at the table. Not a piece of silver scraped a plate, nor a glass touched a lip. Every eye was watching their exchange. Every ear straining to hear their conversation, but if anyone could hear, it was only Astley and Lady Drake, and neither one of them would disclose a word.