“Do you know where I might find His Grace? Anne, is it not?” she asked, trying not to look as pathetic as she felt. She had no idea where he spent his time or even if he was in the house at all.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the girl said, flushing a bit. “In the library.”
Elsie thanked her, then stopped, realizing she didn’t know where the library was. In all the times she’d been in Warbeck Abbey, she’d never seen the room. It had been that kind of house; one in which one did not wander freely about exploring. Seeing her hesitation, the maid bobbed a quick curtsy and said, “This way, Your Grace.”
“Thank you. I still get quite lost here,” she said.
Anne led her to a large, carved door, gave her yet another curtsy, then went back the way she’d come, no doubt ready to efficiently complete some task. And there she came upon yet another servant. Elsie had grown up with a household of servants, but even she was unused to the number of servants Kingston employed. The footman, smartly dressed in livery, gave her a quick bow, then knocked on the door, his head cocked slightly so he could hear his employer’s command.
Elsie clearly heard Alexander calling for him to enter, and so she did, just as the young man was opening the door, flustering him and causing him to leap back or bang into her. “Thank you, James,” she said, and walked directly to the desk where Alexander sat glowering at her. He had also, apparently, mastered the art of the glower.
One look at his desk, and Elsie determined that the reason he was glowering was not because of her visit but rather because he had such an immense amount of work in front of him.
“You need a secretary,” she announced, eying the mountain of paper on his desk.
“I’m quite aware of that,” he said, sitting back and staring at her. “To what do I owe this interruption?”
Elsie beamed a smile at him, recognizing already he was trying to be difficult. “The expression, I believe is, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure’.”
Ignoring her, he scanned his desk with his gray eyes. “As you can see, Elsie, I am quite busy.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“I doubt it.”
“I used to help my father all the time, especially after my mother passed away. My father did not have, and did not need, a secretary, having far fewer holdings and interests than you. However, he neglected his duties for several weeks, and I helped him quite a bit.” Elsie walked over to his side of the desk, idly looking at the piles, noting that Alexander stiffened as she approached.
“What is all this?” Elsie asked, pointing to a rather large pile of expensive-looking stationery. It, in fact, looked like a large pile of invitations. She picked one up before he could protest and saw the unmistakable seal of the Duke of Newcastle. She gave Alexander a pensive look before snapping the seal and revealing a lovely invitation to a ball and house party during the House of Lords’ Easter break in just three weeks.
The Duke of Newcastle.
It was an amazing honor, one that they absolutely must accept. Oh, to be invited by Newcastle, to dance at Clumber Park, to be part of a house party there. It was something most young girls only dreamed of. Elsie, despite her informal engagement to Lord Hathwaite, had never garnered an invitation to any of Newcastle’s events. A small thrill went through her and she smiled, thinking how absolutely green her friends from Mansfield would be if they knew she was going ...
But, of course, they couldn’t go. Of course not. She looked up at Alexander and found him studying her face, before he quickly looked down again.
“These are all invitations, are they not?”
He nodded, his jaw set as he stared at the document before him. “They began arriving as soon as the announcement of our wedding appeared in the
Times
.” When Elsie raised her eyebrow in question, he said, “I assumed it was your father’s doing.”
“Ah. That does explain the pile. Even if we do not attend any of these events, we must send our regrets. I will do so, if you don’t mind.”
“I do not.”
Elsie went through the pile, her heart plummeting at the invitations she saw, all from the highest level of the
ton
, all of which would have to be rejected. It was not that Elsie was a shallow woman, one who only loved parties, some frivolous belle who flitted about from ball to ball. But she did adore socializing, and realized this was one thing she had not considered when she’d married Alexander. It had seemed the least of her concerns at the time.
Now, she faced a marriage of silence and a life of isolation and it seemed almost more than she could bear at the moment.
“How popular you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
Alexander closed his eyes slowly. “Even seeing that stack of requests makes me feel slightly ill,” he said with more than a touch of self-loathing.
“It’s not important. Goodness, most of those people who attend such amusements are rather dull, aren’t they? I daresay I’d send my regrets to most of these out of hand simply for that reason alone.”
“Don’t,” he said sharply and Elsie’s false smile disappeared.
“Perhaps we can select one. Just one ...” She stopped when his expression closed. She gathered up the invitations, pressing them to her chest, and hurried toward the door.
“One,” Alexander called, sounding as if the Devil himself had ripped that syllable from his throat.
Guilt assaulted her. She knew more than anyone how difficult it was for Alexander to attend social events. She shouldn’t—and wouldn’t—ask it of him even if it meant becoming a recluse. “No, it’s perfectly fine, Alexander, and perfectly wretched of me even to ask. Please.”
“Pick one or I shall,” he said angrily. “Perhaps the least offensive of the bunch. The shortest event?”
Elsie smiled at him, feeling her heart lift a bit. Not only at the prospect of going somewhere, but at the fact that her husband was actually talking to her and obviously cared enough to put himself through torture simply to please her.
“If you insist,” she said, guilt warring with real pleasure at the thought of appearing in public for the first time as a duchess.
“I do,” he said, staring at her. “And, of course, you may attend anything you like without me. Attend them all if you like.”
Her brow furrowed. “You don’t mind if I go alone?”
“I would not want to keep you from your fun. You should not suffer simply because your husband is a hermit.”
“While that is quite thoughtful of you, I really wouldn’t want my friends to think my marriage is an unhappy one. We really should keep that truth close to the vest, don’t you think?” With that, she did leave the room, even when she heard what sounded like a growl coming from behind her.
Alexander felt his lips tug into a smile, wondering how his wife could evoke such an emotion when she was clearly insulting him. When she’d smiled at him, he’d felt that smile to his very soul. It was the kind of smile that could heal a different sort of man than he. Elsie’s smile, instead, was just another knife to his heart.
What the hell had he done, forcing her to marry him? How could he have sentenced her to such a life? He knew it had nothing to do with revenge and everything to do with his own selfish heart. And now, he’d done it. He’d said he would attend some social event at which he would no doubt make a complete ass of himself and embarrass Elsie.
But he knew he’d go, if only to see her smile like that just one more time.
Chapter 28
The ducal carriage was third in line when they arrived at the one and only social event Alexander would be forced to suffer through. Suffer was a rather apt description of what he had been going through since Elsie had barged into his library not an hour after he’d given her license to find a social event that would not kill him.
“A concert,” she’d announced, holding the offending invitation in hand. “Lord and Lady Brower, in two weeks, at their home, which I personally know cannot hold more than twenty people at a time. Apparently they have lured Camillo Sivori, the violinist, from London for the night. How does that sound?”
“Do you want the truth or a lie?”
“A lie, please.”
“Then I’m delighted.” He had not been delighted, but being a man of his word and frankly sick to death of his all-consuming fear, he would take his bloody wife to this bloody concert whether he bloody liked it or not. For two weeks he’d suffered through episodes of anxiety so violent he’d thought he was literally dying. What the deuce was wrong with him? What masochistic bent had prompted him to promise his wife that he would gladly take her to the concert?
He knew the answer and didn’t like it. His ridiculous efforts to remain detached from Elsie were killing him as surely as the thought of attending the concert. She was ever smiling, ever coming into his library and reading a bit of a letter she’d received or one she’d written. She insisted that they at least eat together since they were man and wife—stressing “at least” without even the subtlest attempt to disguise her meaning. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want her. God knew that was yet another thing that was slowly killing him—not having his wife in his bed. He wanted her, yes, good Lord yes, but he didn’t want to want her.
And so he sat in the carriage with his beautiful young wife, who was bubbling over with happiness, waiting in line to disembark into a roomful of people he’d never met and frankly never wanted to meet. He would smile and nod and lift old ladies’ hands for a charming kiss. He would make polite conversation and pray no one noticed he was drenched in sweat, his heart was pounding painfully in his chest, and he was on the verge of vomiting on their highly polished shoes.
He could do this. It was simply a matter of mind over matter. In fact, he was so successful at masking his terror, that when the evening was over and they were safely in their carriage again, Elsie looked quite angry.
“You were quite charming tonight,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Thank you.”
“Many people noted it. How handsome the new duke is. How charming. What a nice smile he has.”
“And yet you’re angry.”
Elsie put her hands on her hips even though she was sitting on the leather bench seat and such an action wasn’t at all easy. “Of course I’m angry. You didn’t seem the least bit nervous.”
“Come here,” he said.
She was immediately suspicious. “Why?”
“Please come here,” he repeated. With some reluctance, Elsie moved to sit next to him and he grabbed one hand. Though she resisted a bit, he placed her hand on his shirt beneath his coat. It was wet—so wet it felt as if he’d doused himself with water. Elsie knew immediately what she was feeling was sweat, cold sweat that plastered his fine lawn shirt to his skin.
“Oh,” she said, her voice small. “I must say you hid it well.”
“I did try, though it was one of the most difficult nights of my life.”
“Truly?” she asked, feeling dreadful.
He held his hand up as if to stave off her sympathy. “But I did survive and proved something to myself. I can do it. I can pretend my way through almost anything and I don’t think I would have been able to a short while ago. These past months have made it easier for me to deal with my affliction. I will never enjoy socializing, but I do believe I won’t become violently ill each time.”
Elsie gave him a weak smile. “That’s nice to know.” She was quiet for a while, her hands in her lap, feeling rather small at the moment. Were parties, concerts and balls more important than her husband’s well-being?
“In London during the Season, we shall attend one ball of your choosing,” he said. Elsie began shaking her head. “We must. I worked hard to obtain this title and I will not have it disgraced in any way. If I must attend some events, I will. I think I realized tonight that it can be a vital part of my position.”
Elsie smiled and kissed his cheek, noting he immediately clenched his jaw as if the kiss were somehow offensive. “I will help in any way I can,” she said, wishing that jaw-clenching had not hurt quite so much.
“You need not concern yourself,” he said, his voice clipped, as if he were angry.
“I’m just acting like a good wife.”
“There is no need,” he repeated. “You need only concern yourself with selecting a social engagement and appearing by my side as a dutiful wife should.”
Elsie stared at him, wondering why he was suddenly being so cold. “So I am a well-dressed escort and nothing more?”
“Precisely.”
Elsie quickly crossed over to the opposite side of the carriage and sat there, fuming, for many long minutes. “You are being hateful,” she said, unable to keep her anger to herself.
“I am being practical.”
“Practical,” she shouted. “Is that what this is, this marriage of ours, practical? Is that all this is to you?”
She got her answer when he jerked his head in a sharp nod, then proceeded to stare out the window.
That night, Elsie sat at the edge of her bed having a fierce debate with herself. Her brave self had decided she would march into her husband’s room and demand her wifely rights. Her angry self had decided that pigs would fly before she set one foot into his room. And so she sat, conducting an internal battle with those two sides, clutching the edge of the bed and swinging her legs back and forth.
She stood suddenly, and just as suddenly sat back down. And then she stood again, slowly, thoughtfully, and walked out her door quietly and headed toward his rooms. Alexander had not acted coldly to her until she’d kissed his cheek. She was not foolish enough to believe he didn’t want her physically. She’d caught him looking at her quite often, a brooding, dark look that was so filled with desire she would shiver from it. But if that was true, why had he been so hurtful on the way home that evening? Did he still hate her so much for almost marrying Oscar?
The house was quiet; no violent piano music marred the silence. When she reached Alexander’s rooms, she found no light lining the edges of the door and wondered if he were already abed. Perhaps she would tip-toe in and look at him while he slept. He couldn’t scowl at her if he were sleeping.
As quietly as possible, Elsie opened the door and slipped inside, listening intently for any sound that would indicate he was awake. The rooms were completely dark, the door to his bedroom open. Her heart pounding in her chest, Elsie moved silently toward the shadowed outline of the door and peeked inside to the bedroom.
“Why are you here, Elsie?” he asked calmly, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Recovering quickly, she went to his bed, where she could now see he lay with his hands tucked beneath his head, as if he’d been waiting for her. “I want to know what I need to do to make you love me again,” she said. It was not what she’d meant to say, not what she’d planned, but there it was, the agonizing truth of why she needed to sneak into his room in the dead of night.
“I never said I did not love you,” came his low reply.
Elsie sat down at the very edge of the bed, balancing rather precariously. “Then why are you making this so difficult for me?”
“Difficult. For you.”
“Yes. Because there is nothing I can do to prove myself. You have made your judgment and found me guilty and now I must endure this sentence.” She reached out and clutched his hand.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t do this. Not now.” Though he sounded angry, he did not remove his hand, and in fact pressed her fingers against his palm.
“Why?”
He released her hand abruptly and swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed so that his back faced her. She could see only his dim outline, his head turned slightly toward her in profile. “It may kill me the next time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I don’t want to discuss this now, Elsie. I’m not ready.”
“And yet you were ready to marry me.”
“Only to prevent you from leaving me,” he shouted, turning half toward her, making her cringe at the violence in his voice.
“I’ll go, then,” Elsie said, feeling like a child running away from a darkened room with hidden demons inside.
“Elsie. Stop.”
She did, her breathing heavy, as if, indeed, she had been running.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please come back. Come here.”
Elsie stared at the entrance to his room for a long moment before turning slowly back to face her husband, this man who seemed to hate her but professed to love her.
“I’m not angry. I am frightened,” he said so softly she wasn’t entirely certain she’d heard him right. “I cannot bear to lose you again.”
“You won’t have to.”
“You don’t understand,” he said harshly.
“Then help me. Tell me.”
He hung his head and kneaded his neck with one hand as she stood at the foot of the bed. “Two days after your thwarted wedding, I sat in a hotel room with the barrel of a pistol jammed into my mouth.”
She couldn’t stop the gasp of horror. “No, Alexander.”
“The only thing that saved me was a knock on the door. My solicitor bearing a legal document declaring me heir to Kingston. I looked at my father’s signature and realized if I killed myself, he would win. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
Elsie padded over to him and sat down next to him on the bed, not touching, her hands folded on her lap, hurting so much for him it was almost beyond bearing.
“I know, more than anyone, my father’s power, his arrogance. I know you had no chance against such a man, never mind your own father. I understand it was difficult for you. But at that moment, when I held that gun, it didn’t matter. I just wanted it to be over. I just wanted the pain to end.”
They sat silently for a long moment before Elsie launched herself against him, pressed her face against his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, as tears coursed down her face. “Don’t you
ever
contemplate such a thing again, do you hear me, Alexander?” she said fiercely. “You cannot leave me. You cannot.”
He did not embrace her, did not even acknowledge that she held him.
“You needn’t worry,” he said, sounding dull and unconvincing. “I’ve been fighting this thing my whole life and it hasn’t won yet.”
“Alexander, look at me,” she said, pulling his face ’round forcefully. “I love you. I have always loved you. If I had married Oscar, I still would have loved you. My heart was broken that day. I felt nothing as I walked down that aisle except complete and utter despair. But I’ve been taught well to hide my feelings, to put on my best face in public. I could not disgrace Oscar with tears, even though it hurt so badly I could hardly walk. All this sadness and fear and despair has done one thing, Alexander.” She held his face between her hands and gave him a small shake. “It has brought us together.
We
have won. We still love each other and we are married. It’s what we wanted. No matter how bad things are, there is always a light. Always. And that’s the one thing you should always remember when you feel that blackness. It passes. It does. Just look at us. We’re sitting in the same bed, married. Of course, I am crying and you are terribly angry and sad, but we’re together just as we planned. Don’t you see? Don’t you see that everything passes?”
“You do like to talk, don’t you?” he said, with the barest hint of a smile.
Elsie let out a watery laugh. “You do see, don’t you?”
“I see you,” he said. “For now, that’s enough.”
With a low sound, he pulled her to him and kissed her, pressing his mouth almost painfully hard against her lips. He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, his hands on her shoulders.
“Make love to me, Alexander,” Elsie said. “You’re my husband and I love you. Let me show you how much.”
She wanted so much from him, his Elsie. She wanted him to throw away that thick, black blanket of despair that had become so familiar to him it was almost a comfort. To do as she asked, to make love to his wife, would be to open himself up again, to take the terrible chance of being swallowed up by that blanket once again.
“I love you,” she said, peppering his cheek with kisses, kisses he’d missed and longed for so desperately. “Let me love you. Let me be your wife.”
Oh, God, he could never refuse her, and probably never would. If she told him he could fly to the moon, no doubt he’d believe it because that was what she did to him. She was his light and his darkness, and that was too, too much. But, he realized with a tinge of fear, he really had no choice in the matter. He’d never really had a choice when it came to Elsie.