Scandalous Love (38 page)

But of course it was
true.

He was a womanizer.
Everyone knew it. She had known it. She had learned of his reputation early in
their relationship. Elizabeth had probably known, too. But she had probably not
cared. Ladies were not supposed to care about their husband's lovers. If
anything, they were supposed to be relieved that their husbands cavorted
elsewhere.

Nicole was not relieved.
Nicole was sick.

How could she have
forgotten for a moment why she had not wanted to marry him in the first place?
But in one short week she had forgotten, because of the carnal bliss they had
shared. But it was only that, carnal bliss, yet she had foolishly, naively,
thought it something more.

Nicole peered out of the
carriage window. Her gloved fists were clenched tightly in her lap. As soon as
Stacy had left, she had immediately departed Clayborough for London, taking
only Annie with her and not even informing the distressed Mrs. Veig as to where
she was going. Once in the city, she had ordered her driver to Covent Garden.
(A place Hadrian would never go, and thus never chance upon his own carriage.)
She had ordered her driver and Annie to await her there. She had climbed into a
hansom, and now they were pulling up in front of No. 12 Crawford Street.

It occurred to her that
Hadrian might be within that residence even now.

If he were there, she
would die. No—if he were there, she would be strong. She would be impassive,
cool, perfectly composed.
She would not let him know how he was hurting her.

Nicole barely looked at
the townhouse with its wrought iron fence and its painted brick facade. She
climbed from the hansom, asking the driver to wait. She was numb, as if in a
dream, or a daze. Slowly she walked through the gate and up the steps. She banged
an old-fashioned brass knocker.

A butler immediately
answered the door.

Nicole's mouth was so
dry that she could not, for a moment, speak. "I would like a word with
Miss Dubois."

The butler let her
enter. "Whom should I say is calling?"

Nicole hesitated. He had
not said that there was no Miss Dubois there. Briefly she closed her eyes,
nausea overwhelming her. So far, Stacy had not lied.
Just as Nicole had
known.

When Nicole opened her
eyes, she had regained control. "It does not matter. Tell your mistress I
am here." Nicole was imperious. She had at least learned to be a
duchess—when it was too late to matter.

She walked past the
butler, head high, strides graceful and fluid, her fabulously expensive gown
swirling about her silk shoes. She walked right into the parlor. She did not
sit down, just as she had not taken off her gloves or coat. She gave the butler
no choice but to do as she asked.

While she waited, Nicole
took in all of the fine furnishings—the delicate furniture, the Persian rugs,
the papered walls and landscape paintings. Miss Dubois lived well. She lived
well beyond the means of an actress.

Several minutes later a
woman said from the doorway, "You wish to see me?"

Nicole turned. She
turned to see a small, petite woman in a stunning and expensive gown, one too
low-cut to be appropriate for midmorning at home. The woman was as exquisitely
beautiful as any woman could possibly be, she was as perfect as any china doll.
Her blue gaze was puzzled, but as Nicole stared at her, the truth hitting her
like a sledgehammer, the confusion left Holland Dubois' lovely cat eyes.

"Oh dear,"
Hadrian's mistress said. "It's you! Oh dear!"

For another long moment,
Nicole did not move.

"Your Grace,"
Holland said breathlessly, "I am not sure what you want, but please, do
sit down!"

Nicole had seen enough.
Quickly, before the other woman might start to see the moisture forming in her
eyes, she moved past her and into the hall.

"Wait!"
Holland Dubois called. "Why did you come? Wait!"

But Nicole did not
pause. Her long strides carried her through the hall and out the front door in
a blurry haze.

Somehow she made it into
the hansom. She made it into the hansom before her tears fell, and with it, all
of her dreams, crumbling into the dust on the floor at her feet.

Hadrian shifted forward
in his seat. He peered out of the window of his coach and glimpsed his home.
Tension lanced through him.

He had left Clayborough
four days ago. Four agonizingly long days ago. He had not left in a fit of
anger, although he was still half-heartedly angry at Nicole for putting herself
in the danger that she had by riding alone with O'Henry on the public roads. He
had left in a moment of fright. He had, in fact, been running away.

But it had not worked.

He could no longer run
from himself, his feelings, or his wife.

The episode with the
ruffians—all of whom had been caught and dispatched forthright to the local
gaoler within an hour of Nicole's return to Clayborough—had brought Hadrian
into a violent confrontation with his deepest, most heartfelt feelings.
Knowledge he had sought to avoid— probably from the very start of his
relationship with Nicole—loomed up bluntly and inescapably in his mind. The
instant that he knew, without doubt, that he loved his wife, was the most
terrifying moment of his life.

He had spent a lifetime
maintaining cool control of himself and his passions. He had spent a lifetime
keeping his emotions rigorously in check. As a very young boy he had learned
how to hide his feelings, even from himself. For to feel was to be vulnerable.
To feel was to be hurt.

And now he was no longer
invulnerable. To the contrary, he had never been more vulnerable in his life.
He
loved Nicole so
passionately that it bordered on obsession. Those vagabonds had almost hurt
her, perhaps they might have murdered her. The mere thought, even now, four
days later, terrified him and consumed him.

After apprehending the
three men, he had quit Clayborough immediately for London. As if to outrun his
emotions. As if to outrun the knowledge he now faced. He had intended to regain
control of himself—and his heart—no matter the cost. Even if it meant
abandoning his wife indefinitely at his country home and seeking refuge in the
arms of other women.

Neither escape route had
succeeded. He had gone to Holland Dubois with the intention of bedding her so
soundly that he would never think about Nicole again, yet he had found himself
politely terminating their relationship instead. He had intended to remain in
London, immersed in his business affairs, yet instead he was heading home
eagerly.

The knowledge, so new,
so powerful, was still there within him, and it was still frightening. There
had been moments in the past few days when he had awakened in the middle of the
night feeling the kind of panic and aloneness he had felt as a very young boy.
As sleep had fled, so had the anxiety, but not before he had recognized it and
his own vulnerability. His own humanity.

He had finally given up,
and given in, to himself, to her. She was his wife and he was in love with her.
She had rejected him many times in the past, yet he had survived—just as he had
survived Francis' cruel rejections. Recently, though, she had no longer
rejected him. Recently there had been a truce between them by day, one that, at
night, vanished completely into the most compelling form of intimacy. There was
hope. Their marriage could succeed. The first week of their marriage promised
that. Yet Hadrian knew he would never be content with what they had shared so
far. Now he wanted so much more. He wanted her love, and he wanted it to be as
fullblown and passionate and obsessive as his.

As the coach rolled up
the long graveled drive he began to perspire. The last time he had seen her,
they had been in the midst of a furious confrontation. One that he had initiated,
due to his own heart-rending fear for her safety. He had probably compounded
matters by leaving without even a word about his plans. He was not sure what
kind of reception he was about to get.

He carried with him a
peace offering. A large box, gift-wrapped, lay on the seat opposite him. When
she saw its contents she would recognize his sincerity in wishing to make
amends for the extent of his rampaging anger and for his inconsiderate
departure from Clayborough.

The coach came to a halt
in front of Clayborough's oversized, engraved front doors. Hadrian alighted
from the carriage, the box under one arm. Mrs. Veig greeted him on the steps.
He inquired after his wife and was told that she was upstairs in her rooms.

Hadrian was as nervous
as he had been as a schoolboy being called before his principal. He moved
somewhat slowly up the two flights of stairs. In the corridor his stride
lengthened. His heart jack-hammered anxiously now.

Her door was open. He
stepped into her sitting room and heard sounds of movement coming from her
bedchamber. He walked to that doorway, a sudden fierce joy filling him. He
would always feel a rush of exhilaration upon seeing her, he realized. And
then, when he was standing on the threshold, his exhilaration died.

Nicole's back was to
him. One large trunk was on the floor, open and nearly filled with clothing,
none of which was folded neatly. On her bed were piles and piles of gowns,
petticoats, chemises, drawers, shoes, gloves, scarves and reticules. Annie
hovered anxiously by one side of the bed. As Nicole picked up another heaping
pile of garments, Annie saw him and froze. Nicole dumped the heap in the trunk
and saw him as well.

He stood very still.
"Madam," he said stiffly.

Her eyes snapped with
fury, but her tone was more than polite, it was formal and arctic cold.
"Your Grace." Abruptly she turned her back on him and grabbed another
pile of clothing.

The Duke set the box
down very carefully against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.
"May I ask what you are doing?" But he didn't have to ask, for it was
obvious. The curtains of numbness started to part a little, and pain pierced
through his chest.

"Can you not
see?" she retorted, dumping the clothing in the trunk. "I am
packing."

"That is obvious.
Where are you going?"

She stared at him, her
gray eyes as brilliant as diamonds, and equally hard. "I am leaving."

There was no numbness
now. Yet because the Duke had spent a lifetime learning to keep his reactions
masked, nothing showed on the exquisitely chiseled planes of his face.
"Leaving?"

"
I
am
leaving you."

"I see." His
composure threatened to crack. Quickly, he walked into the room and to the
window, staring unseeingly out of it, his back to her. He heard her resume her
packing. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he fought to get an iron grip on
the panic swirling in him. He turned. "May I ask why?"

She whirled. "You
dare to ask me why!" It was a scream. As the words erupted, she reached
him in three agile strides and slammed her open palm across his face as hard as
she could. He reeled back under the impact.

She did not move away.
She waited, eyes glittering wildly, eager to do violent battle with him. But he
would never hurt the woman he loved. "That is, I believe, the fourth time
you have struck me."

"And the last."

No words could have
given greater testimony to her irrevocable intentions. Her irrevocable resolve.
To leave him.
The panic was there, lurking beneath the surface, a black mist
threatening to choke him, to drag him down.

When she saw that he
would not rise to the challenge, she nearly snickered, with great bitterness.
With hate. She turned her back on him abruptly and slammed the lid down on the
trunk. "Annie. Get two servants up here to bring this down."

Annie could not speak.
She fled the room. The Duke had not even been aware of her presence during
their exchange.

He reached deep within
himself for more strength than he had ever required of himself for any
endeavor, and miraculously, he found it. With apparent casualness, he moved
towards his wife. She did not back away, and he dispassionately comprehended
that she still wanted a confrontation with him. He was not about to give her
one. Not now. Not when he was in complete control. He took her chin between his
fingertips.

"A warning,
Madam," he said dispassionately. "If you leave me now, you will not
be welcome back. Not ever. Do I make myself clear?"

She laughed, the sound
maniacal. "I am never coming back! Not ever!"

He still did not know
why, but he no longer cared.
For the colors were all gone now, and the
blackness had consumed him. But it was familiar, almost soothing.
"Very
well," he released her. His smile was cold. "You have been
forewarned. This time, Madam, your reckless nature will lead you where it will,
and you will not be rescued by me."

"Good."

He turned on his heel.
He quit the room. He was more than numb now, but it did not matter. He had left
behind the splintered pieces of his heart, so he was incapable of feeling, and
that suited the Duke of Clayborough as well as anything could.

Life quickly returned to
normal. The Duke forgot that he had even had a wife, that his wife even
existed. He slipped back into a routine he had adhered to for too many years to
count. He rose with the sun and tended to the many operations that required his
supervision on his vast estates. He spent his afternoons and evenings locked in
his study with his papers or his managers. He slept heavily, dreamlessly.

Except he always awoke
in the middle of the night. Always, he felt like a boy of six, not a man
nearing thirty. In the dark midnight hours, panic engulfed him, and it was
real. It was only then that he remembered her, and hated her. Again, hatred was
his refuge, his strength.

One week later, the Duke
rose from his desk to greet his mother. Her visit was unexpected. He was not
pleased to see her; he was in the middle of a meeting with the manager of his
timber farms who had spent an entire day traveling south for this appointment.
The manager was told to wait, and the Duke closed the door behind his mother. "Mother,
this is a surprise." His tone was polite but nothing more.

"Hadrian, what is
going on? I have heard the most impossible rumor! That your wife has taken up
residence with the Serles at Cobley House!"

"My wife?" He
was cool. "Ah, the Duchess." He shrugged, distinctly disinterested in
the topic of conversation. But a sudden throbbing began behind his temples.

"Have you two had a
row? Or is she really just visiting the Serles? I pray the latter is the
answer, but what bride of a few weeks runs off to visit a friend and leaves her
husband?"

"Mother, this is a
matter I do not wish to discuss. However, I shall answer your question this
once—and then we shall drop it. We have chosen to live apart."

"To live
apart!" Isobel was horrified.

Sudden anger swept him.
It was so strong and consuming that it almost knocked the Duke off of his feet.
"It is done all the time," he said coldly. "Indeed, I must thank
you for reminding me. I must see that a proper residence is provided for
her."

"A proper
residence! Hadrian—what has happened?"

His brow lifted.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." But a part of his mind clicked, and a
thought materialized, its vast meaning condensed into one word:
everything.
He
quickly shut his eyes, not wanting to be conscious of what his subconscious
mind already knew.

"This is
ridiculous,?" Isobel cried. "Go and fetch her back. The two of you
are meant for each other! If she has left you, forget your pride—put your foot
down!"

Instead of answering,
the Duke walked around his mother and opened the door for her. "I am in
the middle of a meeting," he said bluntly. "I believe that this
discussion is over."

Nicole dressed for
dinner. She did so with vast concentration. She did every minor thing with vast
concentration. Even the simplest tasks consumed her mentally, wholly, such as
brushing her hair or drinking a cup of tea. She found that by focusing
completely on whatever it was that she was doing, she could survive each and
every day.

She had arrived at the
Serles' country home a week ago unexpectedly. Martha had taken one look' at her
face—tear-stained, her eyes swollen—and hurried her upstairs into a guest
bedroom. Nicole, having no facade to maintain, had wept copiously in her best
friend's arms. In between the tears were bouts of near violence, where she had
punched at the pillows with all the strength she had, wishing it were Hadrian
she were pummeling into shreds instead. And she had told Martha everything.