Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Elizabeth’s parents and sister now occupied the north wing of Hamilton House on Grosvenor Place. The move from Great Marlborough Street had been a simple matter of transferring their clothing and personal items, since they owned no furniture.

Maria, grass-green with envy that her sister outranked her, sat watching Elizabeth being fitted for yet another costly gown. “You may have a grand title and a magnificent mansion, but you won’t have the one great advantage that marriage will bring me. You won’t be free of mother’s domination!”

Elizabeth’s lashes lowered, concealing the thoughts and emotions that raged within. The first week she had been dispirited because she thought she had traded one gaoler for another, but when her mother moved into Hamilton House she felt despair. It hadn’t taken her long to learn that Bridget reported every move she made to Hamilton. Now she had two people who intended to control her life.

“Elizabeth, your dancing master is here.” Bridget swept into her daughter’s suite with authority. “You can be fitted for the gown later. Maria, you too could benefit from the lessons.”

Elizabeth protested. “I never have a moment to myself. If I’m not being fitted for a dress or shoes, I have a music or dancing lesson, and tomorrow I must start sitting for my portrait. I have enough clothes, and I already know how to dance.”

“It is a privilege and an honor to have your portrait painted. You are the Duchess of Hamilton! You can never have enough clothes, and your husband wishes you to dance perfectly. You know the social invitations have been pouring in because every hostess in London wishes to have a good look at you. Hamilton lavishes you with love and gifts, yet you seem indifferent. If you are not careful, the duke will start to regret this marriage. He is a wealthy and powerful man, Elizabeth. If you do not please him, he could make life hell for you, to say nothing of what he could do to your father and I. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

Elizabeth thought of the gambling debts and knew with certainty the threat of Fleet Prison had been real. “I’m sorry, Mother. I will try to please him.” Nothing short of perfection will please him. “I will try to be a perfect duchess.”

Maria preened. “George is besotted with me. Once we are married, it will be he who must please me.”

“Most beautiful women know how to make a husband their slave through sexual favors. Your sister seems to be devoid of the sensual skills that come naturally to you and I, Maria. But I’m sure your husband will teach you all you need to know, Elizabeth. Try not to be cold. Remember that Hamilton owns your body.”

He owns my body because you sold it to him!Elizabeth veiled her eyes and made a vow that she would never complain about her situation again. The last thing she wanted was pity. Her mother and her sister thought her the most fortunate woman alive because she had not only a grand title but enjoyed every material comfort that great wealth could provide. Elizabeth swore that she would allow no one to ever suspect that she was desperately unhappy.

You enjoy acting, so here is your chance to play the role of beautiful, pampered wife. Smile. You are the Duchess of Hamilton.“Come, Maria, we mustn’t keep the dancing master waiting.”

John Campbell, garbed in impeccable black evening attire, entered White’s accompanied by his best friend, William Cavendish. He nodded curtly to George Coventry and Richard Boyle, who were playing faro. He was not surprised to see them and surmised that Will had alerted them that there would be trouble tonight. He sat down to play baccarat and noted with grim amusement that Will stuck closer than his shadow.

When James Hamilton arrived, he accepted the glass of whiskey proffered by a porter then came straight to the baccarat table, as John knew he would. The rivals greeted each other in a civil manner. George and Richard left the faro game and approached the baccarat table, closing ranks. Hamilton tossed back half the whiskey and set the glass down.

“Sorry to hear about Henry. My condolences to Argyll. How is your father holding up?”

“Amazingly well, under the circumstances.”

“Reckless young fools, squandering their lives in vainglory.”

Campbell’s eyes glittered with dark fury. He picked up the glass and threw the whiskey into Hamilton’s face. “You impugn my brother’s honor, calling him a vainglorious fool! Captain Campbell had great courage, while you are too cowardly to wear a uniform. I challenge you, Hamilton. Choose your weapons.”

Every man present knew the duel was about Elizabeth and had nothing to do with Henry.

Hamilton, taken off guard, wiped the stinging liquor from his eyes. He knew Campbell, who was taller with a longer reach, was formidable with a rapier. “Sabres,” he said decisively. He turned to Coventry. “Will you act as second?”

Coventry accepted. It was taken for granted that Cavendish would act as second for Campbell. The men conferred and agreed upon Green Park at dawn. “I’ll arrange for a surgeon,” Boyle said.

“He’ll need the services of an undertaker, not a surgeon,” Campbell muttered through bared teeth.

After Hamilton departed with Coventry at his heels, Will said, “He chose sabres because of your reputation with a rapier and because he’s heavier than you, but I wonder if he realizes your experience with a battle sabre?”

“No matter the weapon, he’s a dead man.”

“As your second it’s my duty to ask you to reconsider, but I can see that’s rather futile.” Will checked his watch. “It’s barely eleven. I’ll be at Half-Moon Street by four o’clock.”

Coventry walked briskly beside Hamilton to his carriage. “James, it is in your best interests to cry off. Christ, did you see John’s face? He looked like a feral wolf!”

“Ask Campbell to reconsider. I meant no dishonor to Henry.”

“It isn’t about Henry.”

“I know that, damn you, George!”

“You saw him. I don’t dare approach him with such a suggestion. I shall come for you at four o’clock. Have your weapon ready.”

Hamilton surprised his coachman when he told him to drive to Grosvenor Place. He’d never taken the duke home at eleven since he had been in his employ. “Don’t unharness the horses.”

Morton too was startled. He took the duke’s cloak and poured him a double whiskey. He wasn’t yet drunk, but he didn’t look well.

“I’ll be with the duchess. See that we are not disturbed. If anyone comes, have them wait.” He picked up the decanter and took it with him. Hamilton was not afraid. He was terrified. The duke entered his wife’s suite and walked into her bedchamber without knocking. He saw the fleeting look of panic on her face before she could disguise it. This usually gave him a heady feeling of control, but not tonight. His control was in danger of slipping away. You still control her, he sternly reminded himself.

Elizabeth, who had been about to undress for bed, was gripped by fear when Hamilton walked in. They had attended a musical evening given by the new Prime Minister and his wife the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, which was over by ten o’clock. Hamilton had dropped her at home then gone his own way, and she thought she was free of him for the night. When he dismissed Kate Agnew, her knees turned to water, and she sank down into a chair before the fire. She watched him pour and drink a glass of whiskey before he spoke.

“Did you know that I came into my dukedom at eighteen because my father was killed in a duel?”

“No, Your Grace, I had no idea.”

“He fought Lord Charles Mohun. They killed each other . . . both of them died on the field. The Field of Honor,” he emphasized bitterly. “There is no honor in dying!” He poured another glass and held it up so the light from the fire reflected through it. “I have an overwhelming revulsion toward duels, Elizabeth.”

“That is understandable . . . your aversion is to be expected.”

He withdrew his gaze from the amber liquor and looked into her eyes. “What I didn’t expect was to be challenged by John Campbell.”

Her hand flew to her heart in a protective gesture. “Challenged to a duel, Your Grace?” She felt the blood drain from her face. Dear God, I am to blame for this . . . they are fighting over me!

“I want you to go to Half-Moon Street and ask him to cry off.”

Her hand moved up to her throat. “I cannot go to him.” John must hate me! The minute he left London, you forced my parents to marry me to you. I cannot face him!

“You can and you will.” He drew close and loomed over her. He set down the glass and took firm possession of her hand. “This duel is about you, Elizabeth. I stole the prize from under his nose. Now he is mad with jealousy that you are my wife.”

“But I am married to you . . . there is no need for jealousy!”

“There is every need. One of the reasons I made you my duchess was because Campbell desired you. Now that I own you, his desire will have doubled. You don’t know much about men, Elizabeth, and that’s the way I want it. The sheer pleasure in possessing an object of rare beauty is that other men will covet it.”

I am not an object! You do not own me—you will never own the least part of me!“I cannot go to him, Your Grace.”

“You must. I am deathly superstitious! Have you never heard that history always has a way of repeating itself? We are to fight with sabres. If there is a duel, we will kill each other.”

Elizabeth felt her hand being squeezed cruelly. His spatulate fingers tightened on hers, crushing the delicate bones.

“Remember the night your father was wounded, Elizabeth? Surely, you wouldn’t wish him to have another unfortunate accident?”

She thought of the night her father arrived home covered with blood and shivered as she remembered that Hamilton had been with him. “I will go. I will try.”

He released her, and she rubbed her fingers to ease the throbbing pain. She saw the light of victory in his eyes. “The carriage is ready and waiting. He will be able to refuse you nothing.”

Inside the coach Elizabeth began to tremble. The thought of seeing John filled her with panic. She loved him so much, and her heart ached that she was another man’s wife. Somehow she must stop this duel. If John was killed, she would not want to live. If he was wounded, the blame would be hers. What would she say? What would he say to her? She suddenly remembered his military button that she had sewn into the lining of her cloak. As her fingers found it they stopped trembling. It will be all right. John will make everything all right. She relived what it felt like to have his powerful arms about her. It lent her strength. It filled her with courage. He would do what she asked because he loved her.

In Half-Moon Street the servant who opened the door looked startled, but the sight of John at the top of the stairs with a sabre in his hand propelled her up the steps.

“Elizabeth! What the devil are you doing here?” He led the way into the room where they had dined so intimately before the fire.

“John, I came to stop you from doing this thing.”

He set down his weapon, removed her cloak, and stood looking down at her. He had thought of her as his. The next time he saw her he had fully intended to ask her to marry him. Now all his plans for the future had been snatched away. He felt as if he had taken a sabre thrust to the heart. John had never seen a woman more elegantly gowned in his life. She was a vision in pale lavender with a collar of amethysts blazing at her throat above half-exposed breasts. Her glorious hair had been styled by a coiffeuse and her maquillage was flawless. She looked a duchess down to her fingertips. His jaw clenched. “Did Hamilton send you?”

“Yes. His father was killed in a duel, and he is superstitious that history will repeat itself.”

“He is right! History will repeat itself. I have every intention of killing him.”

“John, you must not! You must cry off. Please!”

He could not believe what he was hearing. She was actually pleading with him. Pleading on behalf of Hamilton! “Cry off?” His eyes hardened and swept her from head to foot with contempt. “I see. ’Tis obvious you enjoy being a duchess. I must do nothing to rob you of being the wife of the Duke of Hamilton.”

“That’s not true! I was forced to marry him. How can you say such cruel things to me?”

His eyes were hard, angry, and unforgiving. “You are the one who inflicted cruelty, Elizabeth. The minute my back was turned, you sold yourself to the highest bidder. What a bloody fool I was. I should have known the Gorgeous Gunnings stepped out of an Irish bog and came to London to secure their fortune. ’Tis clear you had only one purpose in mind: to seek out a nobleman with wealth and title and trap him into marriage. Seems I’ve had a miraculous escape!”

She was wounded by his hateful accusation, and her hurt quickly turned to anger. “And ’tis clear to me that you had only one purpose in mind: From the moment you saw me step out of that Irish bog you intended to seduce me.” And you succeeded. Damn you to hellfire!

“Who seduced whom?” he asked with irony. “You are a born actress, Elizabeth, playing the role of beautiful innocent to perfection, while setting your sights on the wealth and power of Argyll. You wasted little time! When I didn’t offer marriage you immediately moved to the next powerful man. Straight from my bed to Hamilton’s. The Gunning sisters are the most flagrant pair of fortune hunters to ever set foot in London and gull Society.”

She flew at him with passion, raking her perfectly polished nails down his dark, arrogant face. Her breasts rose and fell with her agitation. My God, all men are created vile!

He captured her wrists in his ironlike grip, forcing her hands from his face. “Beneath that gentle fa?ade you hide the temper of an Irish wildcat,” he said with contempt.

Her uncivilized behavior shocked her. This man had the ability to provoke her to madness. When he loosened his powerful fingers she withdrew her hands and lifted her chin with regal disdain. “It seems, Lord Sundridge, that we have both had a miraculous escape.”

Elizabeth picked up her cloak. On the outside she appeared serene, but inside she was in a total panic. Her midnight visit had gone wrong from the moment she arrived with her heart in her mouth. She had said all the wrong things, and they had savaged each other with accusations. He still intended to fight—to kill, or be killed. She made one last desperate attempt. “You are acting like a barbarian. Dueling on the so-called ‘Field of Honor’ has nothing to do with honor and everything to do with arrogant male pride.”

John Campbell stood motionless for a long time after Elizabeth left. Finally, reluctantly, he admitted that she had skewered him with the truth. He had challenged Hamilton because his pride had been mauled. His arrogant, male pride. He had not offered Elizabeth marriage, he had offered her carte blanche. Regrettably, he had only himself to blame that she had accepted an honorable offer and become another man’s wife. If he killed James Hamilton in a duel, he would disgrace the name of Argyll. Worse than that, he would bring scandal down upon Elizabeth. A need to protect her rose up in him, and it was greater than his thirst for vengeance. She had begged him to cry off. It was the only thing she had ever asked of him, and he could refuse her nothing.

Elizabeth dreaded returning to Grosvenor Place. She pictured herself jumping from the carriage and fleeing into the night, rather than facing Hamilton. Where could she go? The house in Great Marlborough Street was no longer leased to the Gunnings. She could take refuge with her friend Charlie, but come morning she would have to return to her husband, or embroil her friends in her desperate situation. She had sworn that she would allow no one to ever suspect she was desperately unhappy; besides that, Charlie was going into her fifth month, and Elizabeth refused to upset her. She gathered her courage as the carriage stopped at Grosvenor Place.

Hamilton awaited her in the vaulted reception hall. “Well?”

As she swept past him into the salon, all she could smell was whiskey. He reeked of it. She turned to face him, veiling her eyes so he would not see the contempt. “I saw Sundridge and asked him to cry off, but I am afraid my wishes had little influence.”

“You dare return without dissuading him? The most beautiful woman in London, and you did not use your feminine wiles on him?” Hamilton’s face was purple with fear and anger.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry I am married to a drunken coward who is not man enough to fight his own battles. Sorry I ever left Ireland and came to this accursed city. Sorry I am the Duchess of Hamilton!

He lifted his arm in fury and backhanded her across her face. It was as if the night exploded. She saw stars and felt the searing pain in her cheekbone. Slowly, she got up from her knees and raised her lashes so that he could see her disgust. “Perhaps when Joshua Reynolds comes to paint my portrait tomorrow, he can leave out the bruises on my face. If you destroy my beauty, men will not envy you—they will pity you.”

At four o’clock William Cavendish arrived in Half-Moon Street. “As second it is my responsibility to examine the weapon. May I have your sabre, John?”

“No need for that, Will. I have decided to cry off. Sorry to stick you with the distasteful job of calling on Hamilton and informing him that your best friend is a coward.”

“Coward? You don’t have a cowardly bone in your body, John. You are a total stranger to fear, and everyone knows it. It takes a great deal of courage to cry off. I expect you are doing it for Elizabeth’s sake.”

My God, am I so transparent?“It’s after four. Better make haste to Grosvenor Place before Hamilton leaves for Green Park.”

“He won’t be that eager. He’ll hang on till the last possible minute, hoping against hope that you will let him off.”

Alone in her chamber, Elizabeth bathed her face with cold water, hoping it would take down the swelling. She did not want the humiliation of anyone in Hamilton House learning that her husband had struck her. She may live in a hell, but she vowed it would be a private hell. Presently, she heard a carriage stop outside and went to the window. She saw William Cavendish leave the coach and come to the front door. She was surprised that Will was involved in this, then realized he must be acting as second. How reckless and selfish men were to indulge in killing games. She stayed at the window waiting to see Hamilton leave. Perhaps it would be for the last time. Yet, much as she loathed him, it was wicked to wish death upon him. Especially by John Campbell’s hand.

To her amazement and relief William Cavendish departed without Hamilton. Did this mean there would be no duel? She realized that Will had brought a message from John—he had done exactly as she asked and cried off! Her heart did not fill with joy. Instead, she felt infinitely sad. It meant that in spite of the angry accusations he had flung at her, he still had feelings for her. Ne obliviscaris. No, no. Forget me, John. Forget me.

A short time later, she stiffened as she heard a low knock at the chamber door. There was no one she wished to speak with, not mother, nor sister, nor ladies’ maid. She moved to the door. “Yes?” she asked guardedly.

“It’s Morton, Your Grace.”

She hesitated then opened the door a crack. Morton’s voice was so low that she had to strain to hear the words.

“He’s unconscious. Tomorrow, he won’t remember much.”

Her heart lifted with a ray of hope. Someone in the house wished her well. “Thank you, Morton,” she whispered gratefully.

The next morning Elizabeth applied some of the white-lead face paint, which her sister constantly used, to conceal the purple bruise that marred her cheekbone. When Sir Joshua Reynolds arrived, her morning was taken up by selecting the most favorable setting for her portrait. Then she posed for the artist for more than an hour before he was satisfied that her hands were in the right position, her head was tilted at the proper angle, and her smile was just right.

It was the hour of noon before Hamilton made his appearance. He was in high spirits and acted as if last night had never happened. He set down the box he was carrying and opened the lid. “I want my duchess to wear this special robe I have had made. It falls straight from the shoulder and forms a train. It is decorated with ermine tails to show her ducal rank.”

“What a delightful touch, Your Grace,” Reynolds said politely.

Elizabeth repressed her shudders as Hamilton held out the sleeveless robe while she slipped her arms into it. He was playing the devoted husband, besotted by his beautiful wife. Morton may be right. When he drinks himself unconscious, perhaps he remembers little. She tucked the information away for future use.