Chapter 18
Eighteen
Duchess,
If you would like to join me for a morning ride, I will be in the stables at seven.
Yours,
—An unsigned letter to Iseabail Hancock, Duchess of Nithesdale, February 1811, left on her pillow at Lady Drake’s house party
I seabail crushed the vellum to her dressing gown and giggled. It’d been a week since she’d lost her virginity to Nash. A week of secret sex and laughter, sex and tenderness, sex and … the best days of her life. At least the best days of her adult life. The past week had also been filled with guilt for being so weak as to fall for a man who could so callously turn his back on six young girls. When she thought of it, her chest began to ache. She could not fathom this funny, charismatic man was the same cold-hearted bastard who’d stolen her home eight years earlier. The Duke who continued to own her home to this very day and had never stepped foot into it since their first encounter.
Setting down the letter, she began brushing her hair while sitting in front of her dressing table. She was in quite the bind. Her feelings for Nash were growing, but her acceptance into society remained as Simon had forecast. Not one person at the party, outside her very small circle, addressed her or even acknowledged her existence at the breakfast, supper, or dinner table. Last night she had given up—opting for a tray in her bedroom to avoid their prying eyes and disdainful comments. Before her marriage to Nithesdale, very few visitors over the years had given her the time of day. Now her position was worse than ever.
A light knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” she called.
Phoebe stuck her dark auburn curls inside the room. “I haven’t woken you, have I?”
“Not at all. Please, come in.”
Wearing a lemon chiffon dressing gown adorned with a fern-green ribbon and slippers to match, Phoebe stood at the doorway.
“I think you become more beautiful by the day, Phoebe.”
A blush crept up her friend’s cheeks, the same way it would on a young maiden just out of the school room.
“The same can be said about you.” Phoebe turned toward the maid. “Mary, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have a word with the Duchess.”
Mary immediately stopped fussing with her bed linens and caught Iseabail’s gaze in the mirror. Iseabail smiled. “A cup of hot chocolate would be most appreciated, Mary.”
“Of course, ma’am. May I get you one as well, Lady Drake?”
Phoebe shook her head. “That’s not necessary, Mary. Thank you.”
Mary gave a quick curtsey and left the room. Phoebe closed the door behind her and turned the lock with a definitive click. Iseabail raised a brow.
“What’s going on?” She whispered.
For the first time, Iseabail saw the hesitancy in Phoebe’s manner. Instead of floating into the room as if she owned it, she approached as if she were walking on an iced-over loch. Worry lines marred her flawless forehead, and in her hands, she clutched what appeared to be a letter.
Iseabail turned toward the best friend she’d ever had. “What’s wrong?” Had their ruse been discovered?
“He’s here.”
Phoebe didn’t need to say his name for Iseabail to understand. The rightful heir to Caerlaverock had arrived at the house party, and with his arrival, the unwelcome weight of guilt seemed to tighten around her throat. She was committing the same crime against Henry Jarvis that Nash had done to her, stealing his inheritance as if it were her due—when it was not.
“He has more claim to Caerlaverock than I do.”
“Nithesdale despised Mr. Jarvis.”
“That may be, yet it doesn’t change the fact that the man has more claim to the ducal estate than I do, or my child does.” She shook her head and walked toward the window, longing for a glimpse of Nash making his way to the stable. “I’m not certain I can maintain this ruse in Mr. Jarvis’s presence. It’s hard enough battling my guilt when he’s not here. His presence will be a daily reminder that I’m a fraud.”
Phoebe rushed forward and grabbed her shoulders. “I can see the decision on your face, but before you hand the keys to the castle over to Mr. Jarvis, I have a letter you must read.”
“I’m not certain a letter will change my mind.”
“Perhaps not, but I implore you to read the letter before you do something drastic. Nithesdale asked it of you.” Her last sentence was said as a whisper, as if saying Iseabail’s late husband’s name would conjure his appearance in that very room.
“Nithesdale?”
“Yes.”
“But … but …” She searched Phoebe’s face for a sign of what the letter could possibly hold. In the end she could not determine what manner of information her friend held back, nor why she would feel this was the moment to share it.
“Just read it.” Phoebe said and held out the letter.
She had thought the reading of the will was the last time Nithesdale would speak from the grave. Looking down at the bold yet somewhat shaken script of her husband’s handwriting, however, she realized she’d been wrong. Iseabail blinked back tears and read just how cruel life could be.