Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

T he bellowed name was still echoing around the ruined ballroom when Stephen heard hasty, running feet.

A man in his shirtsleeves, with a cup of tea still clutched in one hand, skidded through the doorway. With absolute consternation, Stephen realized that it was Mouse.

“Y-You’re not dressed properly,” Stephen managed. “Where is your livery?”

Perhaps it was a dream. That would explain a lot. He’d nodded off in the carriage—or perhaps bumped his head due to that clodhopping coachman’s terrible driving—and it was nothing more than a nonsensical dream.

Mouse flushed crimson. He shoved the teacup somewhere, smoothing down his rumpled waistcoat.

“Your Grace,” he muttered, frantically adjusting his sleeves. “I… we… you were not expected. There was no note to inform us of your… your arrival.”

Stephen stood a little straighter. “I wasn’t aware that a note was required for a gentleman to come home.”

Mouse wilted a little. “Of course, of course. A thousand apologies, Your Grace. It’s just that… that none of the servants are in this morning. Well, some of them are. Myself, of course, and Mrs. Jenkins.”

He seemed to turn redder at that name, and Stephen suddenly understood a little better.

Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, was a widow of about thirty-five, petite and straight-backed, who rarely smiled and kept her auburn hair pinned back and hidden under a cap. She was pretty, Stephen supposed—not that he would pay attention to such matters. He had long since suspected that Mouse felt something for the housekeeper beyond the brotherly affection a butler should have for a fellow worker.

It was, of course, none of Stephen’s business, but it explained why Mouse was down in the kitchen—or perhaps Mrs. Jenkins’ private parlor—instead of manning the front door.

“I see,” Stephen said. “All of them at once? With the house in such a state?”

Mouse grimaced. “Her Grace told us we could take the day off. There was a great deal of work for the servants last night. I myself only retired to bed at six o’clock in the morning. Her Grace told us to sleep in, to take a long morning off, and we would tackle the… ahem, mess tomorrow morning.”

“I see,” Stephen repeated.

He did, in fact, see. He could see the mess, the chaos, the stains left to sit on hardwood floors and smooth stone flags, the…

Was that a tear in the curtains?

Slowly, very slowly, as if their gazes were drawn by something, both men turned to look at the defaced portrait of Stephen. There was a long, taut silence.

“I am not sure which guest did that, Your Grace,” Mouse said faintly. “I’m sure that Her Grace did not see it happening, or else she would have intervened at once.”

“I think Her Grace might have been the one wielding the pen,” Stephen remarked sweetly. “Where is she, by the way?”

Mouse bit back a sigh. “She was still tired after breakfast and had something of a headache.”

“A hangover, you mean.”

Mouse flinched. “She retired to her room, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I shall find her. In the meantime, you can make a start on…” Stephen paused, glancing over at his butler in his shirtsleeves. “Never mind. Finish your tea and enjoy your day off. If Her Grace has given you time off, I shall not contradict her.”

Mouse executed a stiff bow, looking relieved. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

With that, he hurried off without being dismissed.

Stephen stood where he was, reeling.

The world really has turned upside down.

Shooting his defaced portrait a baleful glare, Stephen headed towards the stairs and began to stomp up. He would change out of his grimy traveling clothes and then set about finding which room Beatrice had settled on for her bedroom. It occurred to him that he should have asked Mouse that question, or at least asked him to bring in his boxes and bags from where they still lay on the ground outside.

First things first, however.

Stephen elbowed open the door to his room and stopped dead. Two things were immediately evident.

One, his bedroom had not escaped the carnage that had swept through the house.

Two, it seemed that he would not have to search the bedrooms for Beatrice, after all.

She was asleep in his bed.

Folding his arms tight across his chest, Stephen went to stand beside the bed, staring down at her.

Beatrice lay sprawled on top of the mattress, half-tangled in the sheets. She was not a graceful sleeper by any means. She lay on her side, one arm pillowed under her head, a white forearm peeking from beneath tangled reddish-gold locks.

She was snoring ever so slightly.

When the initial rush of his anger had worn off, Stephen began to notice that Beatrice was not exactly dressed for bed. Or for anything, as a matter of fact.

Instead of a nice, floor-length nightgown, she was wearing a plain, faintly transparent chemise. It barely reached her knees and had gotten twisted up around her thighs, showing an expanse of smooth, plump legs. The graceful curve of her hip was barely covered by the fabric, which stretched over her breasts, which were naturally loose under the garment.

With a flush of desire so intense it nearly made him stagger backward, Stephen found himself imagining running the pad of one finger over her nipples, which were visible under the fabric.

Right. Well. Enough of that, I think.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Beatrice’s eyelids fluttered, and she stirred a little.

“Is it time for the opera already?” she mumbled, rolling onto her back.

Her eyes fluttered open, and there was a soft, sleepy expression in them that was somehow tremendously endearing.

Then she saw who was looming over her, and all soft sleepiness vanished from her gaze.

With a strangled yelp, Beatrice flew out of bed with remarkable agility. She stood on the other side of the room, the bed between them, and glared furiously at him.

“What are you doing here, Stephen?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” he snapped. “This is my room.”

She colored. “I like this room. Does it matter where I stay?”

“You had quite literally dozens of excellent bedrooms to choose from, and yet?—”

“This room’s location is very convenient .”

“Oh, is it? Is it?”

“Yes! Why are you home, Stephen? I had no idea you were coming back. Last I heard, you were in France.”

“I wasn’t aware we were meant to share details of our lives with each other,” Stephen retorted. “In fact, I am fairly sure I advised against it.”

Beatrice gave a huff of annoyance. “Well, what are you doing here? I thought you were off cavorting with opera singers and the like.”

Stephen pressed his lips together. “I have kept myself entertained, yes. Would you care to explain why my house is a wreck and the servants all but dismissed?”

She scowled. “I think you mean our house . The servants are not dismissed, I only gave them some time off in recognition of their hard work last night. It was a rather energetic party, you see.”

“I did see. There is a portrait of me with whiskers and spectacles drawn on it.”

Beatrice couldn’t quite fight back a smile. “It looks funny, you must admit.”

“I must admit nothing of the sort.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very good likeness, anyway.”

There was a moment of silence, with the two of them glaring at each other across the tangled expanse of the bed. Try as he might, Stephen found his gaze drawn downwards constantly, to where Beatrice’s full breasts heaved with each breath.

Perhaps she noticed it too. The color rushed to her face, and she abruptly snatched up a creased sheet, holding it under her chin.

“What would you like me to say, Stephen? I thought we agreed to lead separate lives, to entertain ourselves and do as we please. That is exactly what I have done. It was my birthday, after all.”

She stomped away from the bed, heading to a low dresser. It was a new piece of furniture, Stephen noticed. There were several new pieces in the room— his room—and things had been rearranged.

Beatrice yanked open a drawer and began to rummage around in it, keeping her back to him.

Curse the woman . I just wanted to rest after my hellish journey. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

Biting back a sigh, he crossed the room to stand behind her.

“I’ve had a long journey,” Stephen said flatly.

It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it was the closest thing she would get, and so she’d better appreciate it.

“Why did you not tell me that yesterday was your birthday?”

Beatrice straightened, whipping around to face him. Stephen realized then that he was standing far too close. He could not, of course, back away—it was a sign of weakness, everybody knew that— so he was obliged to stand where he was, squinting down at her.

“I wasn’t aware we were meant to share details of our lives with each other,” she said, deliberately echoing his earlier words. “In fact, I am fairly sure you advised against it.”

I deserved that, I suppose.

Was that hurt in Beatrice’s eyes? No, he must be mistaken. Beatrice—the redoubtable Duchess of Blackwood, whose exploits he’d read about with horror and admiration in the scandal sheets over the past few months—would never be hurt by anything he could do. After all, he was only her husband.

“I knew you would do this,” she said, her voice quiet and shaky. “I knew you’d come back and ruin everything.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

She made to move around him, but his hand automatically shot out, gripping her shoulder. Not hard, of course, but enough to keep her in place.

“I am not here to ruin anything,” he said. She was avoiding his gaze.

“You came back to make sure I act like a proper wife,” she said bitterly. “I knew the freedom wouldn’t last. Legally, as my husband, you can oblige me to act however you like. I always knew you were a liar.”

That was too much. Stephen turned her around to face him, and when she insisted on averting her gaze, he gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned her face up to his. Her breath hitched. He heard it, and it made him shiver.

“I am not here to ruin anything,” he repeated. “I am not here to stop you in any way, do you understand?”

She jerked her chin away. “I’ll never understand you for as long as I live.”

“No,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I suppose you won’t.”

He wound his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He could feel the warmth of her body against his, making the blood pound frantically under his skin.

“Although,” he said, his voice a little raspy at the edges, “would you like to understand me? Because frankly, I am not sure I can understand myself.”

She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, and he had the strangest feeling that if she looked away, he might actually die.

“I can’t understand myself,” he repeated, “because all I could think of these past few months is… is…”

It wasn’t like him to stammer, to not be able to form words.

Beatrice gave a wry smile. “Go on, Your Grace . Tell me what you’ve been thinking of.”

And then he kissed her.

Stephen himself was not entirely sure where the kiss came from, only that Beatrice’s plump, pink lips had been dragging his gaze downwards even more than her remarkable bosom had done. Their lips met in a harsh, ungenteel press, and he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her tight against him.

She wasn’t wriggling away, wasn’t struggling. In fact, he could feel her fingertips on his lapels, one hand inching up and up his chest, coming dangerously close to the bare, vulnerable skin at the side of his neck. He wanted to crush her against him even more, to make her feel the growing hardness that was already driving him wild, to touch her and make her see …

They must have moved back, and Beatrice bumped against the dresser—that hideous new thing she’d bought for herself—and she let out a choked little moan, her teeth scraping his lower lip.

And then she pushed him away.

Stephen staggered backward, more surprised than anything. He’d been so sure that she felt… Well, enough about that.

Beatrice was paler than ever and shaking slightly. She cleared her throat, not meeting his eyes.

“That,” she said carefully, “is against the rules.”

“Not exactly.”

“Have your opera girls deserted you?”

He rolled his eyes. “You are rather adept at killing the mood, my dear.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. Snatching up a loose, disappointingly opaque robe from a hanger, she wrapped it around herself, like armor.

“And how long are you staying, or have you not decided?”

He paused, biting his lip. “I thought I would come back for good.”

There was a little pause.

“For good?” Beatrice echoed. “What, and we’ll live in the same house? How will that work?”

He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. It felt good to have some distance between them again. Whatever it was that Beatrice did to him, it was not going to help them maintain the terms of their marriage.

Rules were rules, after all.

“It will be fine,” he said firmly. “Although I must insist on having my bedroom back. A room of one’s own is a fine thing.”

She barely smothered an irritated sigh. “Six months. You disappeared for six months, Stephen. Not a single letter. Not even a note did I receive in that time.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were yearning for my correspondence.”

“Oh, don’t be so obtuse. Do you know how embarrassing it has been for me, having everybody look at me with such pity? Oh, there goes that poor little bluestocking spinster, they say. She married a fine duke who can’t stand her and spends all of his time abroad. It is humiliating. ”

“And you’ve been consoling yourself by having orgies,” he responded, more snappishly than he had intended.

There was another silence during which Beatrice stared at him as if he’d grown two heads.

“I’m sorry, did you say… did you say orgies ? Do you think I’ve been having orgies here?”

An uncomfortable feeling that seemed entirely too much like embarrassment welled up inside him, no matter how energetically he tried to tamp it down.

“Yes, well, according to what I read…”

“I am a scholar , Stephen! I host book clubs and reading parties at my house! Just because I drank a little too much at a rather raucous birthday party?—”

“Aha! You are hungover! I knew it!”

“What are you accusing me of? I was not hiding it!”

“I merely?—”

“Excuse me, Your Graces.”

They both stopped mid-argument and turned to the doorway. Mouse stood there, still in his shirtsleeves, looking embarrassed yet determined.

“What is it?” Stephen barked, with a little more sharpness than the loyal servant deserved. “I am talking with the Duchess, Mouse. What is so important it cannot wait?”

Mouse cleared his throat. “The message is for the Duchess, Your Grace. A note has just arrived from the Duke of Langdon.”

Beatrice sucked in a breath, and Stephen was conscious of a sinking feeling in his gut.

The baby.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt that he had forgotten about Anna and Theo, his oldest friend, and their firstborn child. A quick glance at Beatrice showed that she was every bit as terrified. Her face was pale, her hands shaking.

Her sister…

He recalled that particular tragedy. Most people in Society knew about the Duke of Thornbridge’s odd seclusion, and they had all read the Duchess’s obituary in the papers, as Stephen had. A man like Stephen, of course, had connected the dots and drawn his own conclusion.

“What is it, Mouse? Is it Anna? Has she gone into labor?”

Mouse nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace. She has summoned the Duchess, and I daresay the Duke would be glad to see you there, too, if I may be so bold.”

“Yes, you’re right. Now, a carriage… Wait, are any of the coachmen in?”

Mouse grimaced. “I… I am not sure.”

Stephen let out a long, regretful sigh. “Then go outside. You’ll find a hackney cab there. I daresay the coachman’s still waiting, as I have not yet paid him. Tell him I have another job for him. Oh, and while you’re at it, take my boxes inside, won’t you?”

Mouse gave a graceless bow. “At once. At once.”