Chapter Forty-Three

“H ome at last, my dear.”

Bella glanced outside the carriage window. The familiar fa?ade of Ilverton Manor loomed dark against the evening sky, and she bit her lip to stem the flutter of dread in her stomach.

Her headache still lingered, and though she’d been beset by fatigue throughout the journey, sleep had eluded her.

Dunton had spent much of the journey asleep, his snores rattling through the carriage, accompanied by the stench of sour wine and bodily odors not completely disguised by an abundance of cologne. Why had she never noticed it before? Unless she had and her mind had buried her revulsion, smothering it with the prospect of being his duchess.

Only, perhaps she no longer wished to be a duchess. Perhaps, instead, she wanted to be valued, appreciated—and loved.

At times, during the journey, Bella had been drawn to the carriage door, the handle only needing a single turn to open it, leading to—where? Freedom, perhaps, but not love. Her love had been built on a foundation of deception and betrayal.

“Did you not hear me, my dear?”

She turned to see her fiancé leering at her. “Wh-what?”

He took her hand, and she suppressed a shudder as he lifted it to his lips. “I was saying that we’ll have the banns read on Sunday.”

“Oh.”

“And the following two Sundays after that. Then we can marry immediately—in three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“It’ll be the Society event of the year,” he said, ignoring—or choosing to ignore—the horror in her voice. “Everybody must be there.”

“Everybody?” She shuddered at the thought of the ton witnessing their union. Westbury with his overly assertive wife and her modern sensibilities. And Whitcombe…

Dear Lord, Whitcombe!

The man she’d set her cap at last Season—the man who, not two days ago, had called her a spiteful shrew .

“I-I’d prefer a quiet wedding,” she said. “Surely there’s no need for everyone to be there?”

“There’s every need,” Dunton said, a hard edge to his voice. “Your absence has been talked about. I’m anxious to show the world that our union brings me no shame.”

“But…the expense!” she said. “A small affair, with a handful of acquaintances is all we—”

“Now, now, my dear.” He patted her hand, his expression hardening. “I trust we’re not going to indulge in a disagreement. Money’s no object—or it won’t be once we’re married. You must trust my better judgment.”

“Because you’re a man?”

“Oh, how you amuse, my dear! Men possess a superior understanding to the fairer sex. You mustn’t worry about matters such as expenditure . You’ll have more important matters to concern yourself with, such as the duties of a duchess—which I’m sure you’ll carry out to my satisfaction.”

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm.

The carriage drew to a halt, and the door opened, revealing the thickset footman. Dunton climbed out of the carriage, which listed sideways under his weight. Then he pulled Bella after him and led her toward the main entrance of Ilverton Manor, where a row of servants stood waiting.

Bella smoothed her expression into the mask of Lady Arabella and approached the servants, who bowed and curtseyed as she glided past them and entered the building.

“Thomas, escort Lady Arabella to her chamber,” Dunton said. “Make sure she’s kept safe.”

What did he mean by safe ?

“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman turned to Bella. “Come with me, your ladyship.”

“I know the way to my chamber,” she said.

“The master wishes me to accompany you.”

There was little point in arguing when all she craved was the sanctuary of her chamber. She swept past the footman and climbed the staircase, aware of his heavy footsteps following her.

“I’ll expect you at dinner,” Dunton said. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late. Your maid will help you dress.”

Ignoring him, she continued her ascent.

“My dear!” he cried, an edge to his voice. A thick hand grasped her upper arm, and she drew in a sharp breath at the squeeze of pain.

“The master asked you a question, your ladyship,” the footman growled.

Quelling the tremor in her stomach, she stopped and turned. “Of course, Your Grace.” Bella forced a smile. “I’ll be there.”

Dunton gave a self-satisfied smile. “That’s better, my dear. I’m glad to see you’re coming to your senses. Thomas, I believe you can release Lady Arabella. She knows her place—do you not, my dear?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said coldly.

The footman released Bella’s arm, then followed her to her chamber.

“I’ll send for your maid, your ladyship,” he said as they reached the door.

“There’s no need—”

“Master’s orders. You’re not to be left unattended. For your safety.”

“Then bring her to me at once, Thomas.”

He ushered her inside, then closed the door behind her. Now alone, she let the fa?ade disintegrate. The tears she’d kept at bay formed hot, fat droplets that splashed onto her cheeks. She held a fist against her mouth to suppress her cry.

“Lawrence…” A sob escaped her. “Why did you make me fall in love with you?”

The door burst open, and she jerked back, retreating further into the chamber until she collided with the bed.

Connie stood in the doorway.

“Lady Arabella!”

The maid stepped forward, arms outstretched. Bella’s heart almost cracked at the concern in Connie’s eyes—almost as if she cared for her—and she fought the urge to run into the girl’s arms.

Then the footman appeared, towering behind the maid.

“Connie, bring me a fresh gown,” Bella said. “And I require a bath. Immediately.”

Her smile fading, the maid addressed the footman. “Thomas, can you bring hot water for Lady Arabella’s bath, please? Quick as you can.”

She curtseyed to Bella. “I’ll bring you a fresh gown, Lady Arabella. Shall I choose one for you, or bring a selection?”

“Do I look as if I care, Connie?”

“Of course, Lady Arabella, forgive me. I’ll be back directly.”

The maid slipped through the adjoining door to the dressing room, while the footman remained in the doorway, his gaze wandering over Bella’s form, a flare of lust in his eyes.

“Don’t just stand there,” Bella said. “I want my bath.”

The footman’s mouth curled into a grin.

“I want it now ,” she said, hardening her voice to disguise her fear. “Shall I tell my fiancé that you’re refusing to obey my orders? He doesn’t respond well to disobedience.”

Fear flickered in the footman’s eyes, and he bowed then retreated.

She ought to have been relieved to have found a method by which to control him—fear of Dunton and what he might do to those who defied him.

But it was a fear she shared.

*

Bella approached the bath and shed her garments. As she lifted her chemise over her head, she paused, tracing her fingertips along her neckline, searching for her mother’s necklace.

But it was gone—sold to pay for Jonathan’s glasses. The one possession—among all the fine jewels and gowns at her disposal—that she had truly treasured.

She let out a sigh. She’d been glad to sell it, for she loved the little boy…

Her heart clenched, and she drew in a sharp breath to temper the swell of sorrow.

No, she didn’t love him—not any of them!

Yes, you did. You still do…

Ignoring the whispered voice in her head, she dropped her chemise and stepped into the bath. Wisps of steam and the aroma of lavender filled the air and, for the first time since her memory had so rudely crashed into her consciousness, the pain in her head began to ease.

She eased herself back, letting her body relax while the warmth from the water seeped into her bones.

How she’d missed a bath! The temperature of the water was just right—warm enough to soothe her aching body, but not so hot as to sting her skin. Connie must have taken pains to test the level of heat—and to sprinkle the water with lavender petals. Just how she liked it.

Lying back in the bath with her eyes closed, the only sounds the ticking of the clock in her chamber next door and the gentle movements of her maid, Bella could almost believe she was in paradise—a brief respite from the need to submit to the whims of others for the sake of propriety, or to concern herself with chores.

It was times like this that would provide respite in the years to come. A duchess taking her bath was a creature to be left in peace—if only for a moment.

The door creaked open, and Connie’s soft footsteps approached. But the maid knew better than to fill the silence with chatter. Instead, Bella heard a rustle of fabric as Connie kneeled beside the bath, then the splash of water as she began the ritual of bathing her mistress—first dipping the soap in to form a lather, then washing Bella’s limbs with gentle, sweeping movements of her hands. Bella surrendered to her maid’s touch, letting her arms relax while Connie moved the washcloth over her arm, massaging her shoulder and elbow with her fingertips.

“Oh, how I’ve missed this,” she murmured. “Thank you, Connie.”

The hand stilled.

“Y-you’re welcome, Lady Arabella.”

Bella’s heart ached at the frank astonishment in the maid’s voice. In all the years Connie had served her, she had never once given the maid a word of thanks.

“Oh, your poor hands!” Connie said, rubbing her fingertips over Bella’s palms. “How you must have suffered! They’re covered in callouses.”

“No more than yours,” Bella replied.

“But you’re a lady . A lady cannot be seen with the hands of a laborer. I’ve an ointment for softening the skin. That’ll get rid of those marks in no time. In the meantime, you can wear gloves—those lace ones I made you—then you won’t have to see them.”

Bella fought the urge to tell Connie that there were worse problems in the world than a few patches of roughened skin. Did her maid think her so frivolous that she’d faint at the sight of the evidence of hard work?

She opened her eyes and glanced at the bathwater, which had turned a faint shade of brown.

Her maid met her gaze, and the corners of her eyes creased with a smile of sympathy. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Arabella—and it’s not your fault you were abducted. Nobody need know about the dirt—I won’t tell.”

Bella sat up, trembling. “That’s enough, Connie,” she said coldly. “You dare comment on my ablutions?”

The maid blushed, her eyes bright with tears. “N-no. Forgive me, Lady Arabella. I was just saying—”

Bella rose to her feet, sloshing water from the bath. “In my experience, it’s better if a servant refrains from saying anything. Bring me a cloth, please, so I may dry myself.”

“But—”

“Now, please.”

“Very good, Lady Arabella,” Connie said in her more familiar, toneless voice. She handed a drying cloth to Bella, then bobbed a curtesy before exiting the room.

Fighting the urge to call her back, Bella rubbed the cloth over her limbs, pausing at the scars on her thigh, which had always been a source of shame—ugly blemishes to be hidden, lest they ruin her prospects for greatness in Society…

Until he had told her that they were beautiful.

He had peppered them with kisses, running the tip of his tongue across the marks on the flesh, while she lay before him, thighs parted in offering. Then he’d traced a path to the top of her thighs with his tongue, toward that wicked, secret part of her, before dipping it into…

Stop it!

Tempering the swell of need, she finished drying herself, dropped the cloth onto the floor, and donned the chemise Connie had set out. Then she returned to her bedchamber, where the maid waited with a pale-blue gown.

Bella stood in silence while Connie dressed her. First came the stays, and each tug of the laces removed her further from the world she yearned for, followed by the gown, which slipped over her head with the rustle of silk. Then Connie steered her to the dressing table, where she brushed Bella’s hair into a cascade of soft, dark waves framing her face.

“There!” the maid said, her reflection in the mirror smiling. “The lady is now restored to greatness. You’re so beautiful, Lady Arabella—the duke is the luckiest of men to have secured your hand. Everybody says so.”

In the past, such sycophancy would have elicited contempt, but now Bella felt only shame. Was that how the world viewed her—nothing more than a pretty thing for a duke to claim as his own?

That, together with her title and her dowry. Dunton did not value beauty alone. Juliette Howard—wherever she was—had learned that the day she gave herself to him, then was abandoned, carrying his bastard.

Were it not for her title, Bella might have suffered such a fate—pregnant with some man’s bastard, vilified by the world, most likely selling her body to survive…

Any life was better than that. Even marriage to Dunton.

Connie picked up Bella’s discarded gown. “Oh, you poor thing having to wear this—the hem’s all frayed. I’ll get rid of it, have it burned.”

“No!” Bella cried. “A-at least let me take the sash ribbon. There might be something I can do with it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. Give it here.” Bella snatched the dress and tore the ribbon from the bust line, rolling it up in her fingers. “I’ve taken a fancy to this particular shade of pink,” she said. “I-I want it in the garden—if His Grace’s gardener can find a rosebush to match.”

“But…”

“Did I ask your opinion?”

The maid hesitated, and for a moment, Bella feared she’d penetrate the veneer to reveal the desperate creature beneath.

Then Connie shook her head. “Forgive my impertinence, Lady Arabella. Here—let me finish your hair, then you can rest until the dinner gong.”

Bella sat in silence while Connie gathered tendrils of hair and twisted them into curls before pinning them in place. Before she finished, the chamber door burst open, and Bella’s aunt appeared, her sharp-nosed features creased into an expression of disdain.

Connie dipped into a curtsey. “Oh, ma’am—you gave me quite the fright coming in like that!”

“How else should I enter a chamber in my home, girl?” came the reply. “Insolent creature!”

The maid cringed and lowered her head—almost as if she were a dog expecting a beating. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“Yes, yes.” Aunt Kathleen swept into the room and stood before Bella. She waited, expectation in her gaze, then let out a huff. “Well, child? Get up! Or have you lost all decorum?”

“Sorry, Aunt.” Bella rose and forced herself to remain still while her aunt circled her, fingering her curls and peering at her face, as if she were a trader in horseflesh inspecting a mare.

“Has your mistress given you trouble, girl?” Aunt Kathleen asked.

“No, ma’am,” Connie said.

“Good.” Bella’s aunt wrinkled her nose as she spotted the discarded gown. “Get rid of that ,” she said. “And anything else my niece had about her person.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bella fisted the ribbon and placed it behind her back. Connie moved to stand behind her then took her hand, coaxing it open with her slim fingers. Bella’s heart ached at the betrayal—but what had she ever done to earn her maid’s loyalty?

“Show me your hands, Arabella,” her aunt said.

Connie snatched the ribbon, and Bella waited for the axe to fall.

“Well?” Aunt Kathleen stepped closer, and Bella held out her hands. “Palms up , if your please.”

Bella turned her hands, and her aunt let out a snort.

“I feared as much. You’ve the hands of a commoner. We must ensure Dunton never has to look at them.” She gestured to Connie. “Girl, find some gloves for your mistress.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good. Finish your duties, then go.”

The maid bustled about the chamber, tidying the bed, then she slipped her hand beneath a pillow. Bella caught sight of a flash of pink ribbon as Connie met her gaze and gave her a quick, tight smile. Then the maid resumed her attention on the bed, smoothing the sheets, after which she bobbed a curtsey and left.

As soon as she’d gone, Aunt Kathleen raised her arm and backhanded Bella across the face.

Bella let out a cry at the sting of pain. She stumbled back and rubbed her cheek. “Aunt…”

“Silence, you slut!”

“ What did you call me?”

“You heard! Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused our family name—the name of Ponsford?”

“It’s not even your name, Aunt. You’re Lady Smith-Green—or, at least, that’s what you want the world to know. Much better than plain old Mrs. Green, isn’t it?”

“Why, you little…” She rounded on her niece again, but Bella stood firm.

“Go on, Aunt,” she said. “I dare you. But what would it do to the Ponsford name if I turned up to dinner with a marked face? Would Dunton still want me?”

“ You should be more concerned about that than me, girl.”

“It seems as if the prospect of being the aunt of a duchess is of more value to you than the prospect of being a duchess will ever be for me,” Bella sneered.

“Ungrateful child! To think, all I have sacrificed for you.”

“What sacrifice, Aunt?” Bella asked. “It was my fortune that paid for everything—the house in London, even the gown you’re wearing now.”

“Your fortune will mean nothing if the world learns of your ruination.”

“What ruination?”

“You may have fooled Dunton, but I’m not so out of my wits that I cannot recognize a whore when I see one.”

“Will you be so bold as to call me a whore when I’m a duchess?” Bella said. “I could have you thrown out in a heartbeat. Best pack your things— I’ll be mistress of this house in three weeks.”

“Oh no you won’t, girl. I’ve persuaded the duke to wait.”

Bella suppressed the joy at the notion of delaying her condemnation to a life with Dunton. “What for?” she asked.

“Even you must understand the necessity of a delay.”

“No, Aunt.”

“Then you’re a fool as well as a slut. We must wait until we know whether you’re carrying some man’s bastard.”

Bella recoiled at the loathing in her aunt’s voice.

“H-he didn’t defile me,” she said. “I—Oh!” She let out a cry as her aunt gripped her by the neck, pressing her bony fingers into the base of Bella’s throat.

“Did you spread your filthy legs like a bitch in heat to satisfy your base urges, with little thought for the disgrace you bring upon me ?” With her free hand, she clawed at Bella’s stomach. “If some rutting beast has planted his seed in your belly, then it must be dealt with before you can marry the duke.”

“Dealt with?”

“I know a physician who’ll undertake the task. He’ll want payment for his discretion, but that’s a small price to pay. Should you survive, you can reflect on the folly of your disobedience.”

“Aunt, I—”

“Silence! I’ll not hear another word. You will remain here until this sordid little affair is settled. Do not distress me any more than you already have by discussing it. And do not discuss it at all in the duke’s presence.”

Bella’s aunt released her, then retreated to the door.

“You’re to remain here until supper. I’ll send Thomas to escort you to the dining room, and I expect you to behave in the manner expected of a woman of your rank.”

She exited the bedchamber, closing the door. Shortly after, Bella heard the key turn in the lock.

She stood, her mind shifting in and out of focus. Then it sharpened into a single thought.

If some rutting beast has planted his seed in your belly…

Sweet Lord —was she…?

She placed a hand over her stomach, nursing the nugget of hope.

“Lawrence’s child…”

Someone to love, without condition or requirement, to cherish and nurture—someone to hold in her arms, to kiss goodnight and read stories to. If it were a boy, she could teach him to love; a girl, she could teach to be strong, like Roberta…

Then her resolve faltered as she recalled Roberta’s wail of desperation, her tear-streaked face. She might never see Roberta again—or William, or Jonathan—but it would be some consolation if she had a child to love.

Only she wouldn’t.

A problem to be dealt with , Aunt had said.

Bella stumbled toward the bed and sank back, holding a protective hand over her belly while she surrendered to despair and grief.