Chapter Three
March 1818—Four Years Later
Woburn Abbey, England
Dressed in full uniform, His Grace, the Eighth Duke of Bedford, stood at the gravesite of His Grace, the Seventh Duke of Bedford. The rain that had threatened all morning had finally let loose, but no more than a steady drizzle.
The other mourners had left the site to return to Woburn Abbey to enjoy the repast that Cook had no doubt been preparing for two days.
Stationed in the United States for the past year, Alex had been on his way back with a member of the House of Lords accused of treason when he received word of his brother’s death. He’d spent a month on a ship, fighting boredom and anxiety, depending on the weather. When he’d arrived at Liverpool, he’d been met by a messenger from the War Department with the news. He had written a quick note and placed the prisoner into the hands of the messenger, then hired a horse to take him to Woburn Abbey to see Cyrus laid to rest.
Rest in peace, you bastard.
Not in the legal sense, of course, but certainly in behavior.
What a mess Alex had been thrown into. He wiped the water from his face and turned to face the Abbey.
His home.
The building he had not laid eyes on in four years. The Abbey was not a place he held dear to his heart. His thoughts wandered back to the angry young man he’d been when he’d packed his belongings and walked away from his family and his life.
Away from Patience, the only woman he had ever loved.
Once the betrothal announcement had been made on that ghastly night, Alex had excused himself and left the room, never turning back to see if Patience watched him. There was no reason, since there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. His father had never backed down from a decision in his entire life.
He’d ridden to his maternal grandparents’ home in London, only stopping to eat and change horses. After a week of roaming the streets of London and cursing his fate, he’d asked his grandfather to purchase colors for him, and he’d left for the military. He’d sent a note to his parents, which they responded to with the expected anger and threats.
Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he walked from the church graveyard where all the Dukes of Bedford were buried in the family mausoleum, to the Abbey, his boots making a sucking sound in the mud.
He stopped on the stone pathway and studied the building. It looked exactly as it had all his life, and for generations before that. He, however, had changed significantly from the angry, brokenhearted young man who had left. War had carved him into a bitter, bedeviled-by-ghosts man. No softness remained from that addlepated young man in love.
Precisely how he liked it.
Patience, otherwise known as the Duchess of Bedford, would be holding court for the mourners who had come to comfort her on the death of her husband. Since he’d had no contact with his family in the four years he’d been gone, he had no idea if she and Cyrus had children. Of course, there wasn’t a son, or Alex would not have been summoned home to take up his duties as the new Duke of Bedford.
He snorted. One could only hope the pater was spinning in his grave as the prodigal son returned to assume the title he’d held so dear. He no more desired to be the duke than his father would have wanted him to be.
His thoughts returned to the Duchess of Bedford. It seemed nothing had changed since he left. Under the law, as his brother’s widow, Patience was just as off-limits to him as she had been as Cyrus’s betrothed. Of course, he had no reason to believe he still felt the same about her as he had four years ago. That Alex was dead, and he had the vile memories and dark dreams to prove it.
Before he could reach for the front door latch, the door opened. A new butler, unknown to him, stood there, stiff as a board. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Your Grace.
“You seem to be wet, Your Grace. Is your valet with you?”
Excellent observation on the man’s part, since Alex was dripping water on the floor. “My batman is on his way. I will need no assistance. Please have a hot bath sent up.” Alex headed to the stairs, then stopped and turned. “Your name?”
“Coombs, Your Grace.”
Alex nodded. “What room?”
A slight flush rose on the butler’s face. “I am afraid the only room prepared for you presently is your old room, Your Grace.”
“Fine.” He preferred it that way. He wasn’t quite ready to enter the duke’s bedchamber. Most likely Patience still had her things in the adjoining duchess’s bedchamber. The last thing he wanted was a mere door separating them, and a bed available on either side.
After a bath, and changing into clothes still left in the wardrobe from his departure four years before, he decided to join the mourners downstairs and at least make his presence known to his mother.
Subdued conversation led him to the room where they had all gathered. At least sixty people were assembled in small groups, plates of food in their hands. His eyes immediately scanned the area, landing first on his mother, and then on Patience.
He drew in a quick breath. She was as beautiful as he’d remembered. Marriage had not damaged her, or so it appeared. Her young girl’s figure had matured into full woman’s curves. Her breasts were larger, her hips more voluptuous. He immediately looked away when she raised her head to glance in his direction.
Refusing the food a footman offered, he walked across the room to approach his mother. He bowed in her direction. “Mother.”
Her raised eyebrows were her only greeting.
So that was how it was going to be. “My condolences on the loss of the Duke and Cyrus.”
“Cyrus was the duke.”
He flushed at her rebuke, his stomach muscles tightening, feeling once again the animosity that had been always present in his relationship with his parents. “I referred to my father.”
“Ah yes. You did ignore our message, did you not?”
He offered her a slight smile. “Indeed. I was busy in His Majesty’s service where we do not have the luxury of correspondence on demand.”
She waved her hand in dismissal, as if fighting Boney had been a mere garden party. “You must make your way around the room and greet everyone. You are the duke, now.”
He studied her for a minute. “Yes. I am the duke now. Much to your chagrin, I am sure.”
Her lips tightened, and her chin rose. He gave her a slight bow, and turning on his heel, left the room.
And the house.
…
Patience watched the cold exchange between Alex and the duchess. Then, to her surprise, he turned and left. He hadn’t even spoken to her.
Well, what had she expected? He’d had no contact that she was aware of, with his family, since the night he’d walked out on her betrothal announcement.
She remembered that night as the beginning of days, months, and years of unhappiness. Days spent in her bedchamber, draped across the bed, weeping. Upon their return home from the Abbey, she’d gathered the courage to ask her father to cancel the betrothal. When he’d brushed her off, she had stood two feet from him and declared she would never marry the Marquess of Tavistock.
Patience never saw the back of his hand coming. He hit her so hard she fell to her knees, black dots dancing in her eyes. She shook her head, but before she regained her senses, he reached down and gripped her arm to pull her up, practically ripping it from her shoulder.
“You will marry whomever I tell you to marry.” His eyes bulged and the vein at his temple throbbed. When she didn’t answer him, he slapped her again, but this time she didn’t fall since he still had her in his grip.
He shoved her away from him, and she again landed on her knees. “Get up and go to your room.”
Patience climbed to her feet and unsteadily walked away. Mother stood outside the library door, wringing her hands, and helped her to her bedchamber. Once she applied a cold cloth to her face, she led Patience to the bed where they both sat.
“It is best not to anger your father. He wants this marriage, and I have learned over the years that what he wants generally comes his way.”
“But, Mother, I don’t want to marry the marquess. He scares me.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked. “Besides, Lord Alex and I have made plans.”
Her mother sucked in a sharp breath. “I never should have allowed the two of you to spend so much time together.” She placed her hand on Patience’s chin and turned her toward her. “Please do not tell me anything happened, the result of which could thwart your father’s plans for this marriage?”
“No, of course not. He is too much of a gentleman.” She wished, at this point, that she and Alex had done more than kiss. If she were carrying his child, her father would be forced to break the betrothal. Along with most of her bones, she imagined.
Just to be sure Father’s demands were firmly fixed in her mind, Patience had been forced to spend a week in her bedchamber, behind a locked door, with only bread and water twice a day. She shuddered, even now, remembering the depression of spirits she’d suffered for months after that.
“Lady Patience, may I offer my condolences on the passing of your betrothed.” Lord and Lady Sterling stood in front of her, interrupting Patience’s musings.
She offered them what she hoped was a semblance of a despondent expression. What could she say? That she was so happy Cyrus had died that she insisted on going to the funeral, even though ladies did not attend funerals? That she had to make sure he was dead and placed into his grave to plague her no more? That she had spent the last four years dreading the day she would find herself joined to him for life?
“Thank you. I appreciate your thoughts.” Ever the lady, Patience said all the proper words to everyone who approached her, despite the humiliating circumstances surrounding Cyrus’s death, and her joy at his demise. Most of the mourners who presented themselves regarded her with sympathy and curiosity. But she held up.
The hours passed slowly by. She kept her eyes riveted on the drawing room door, waiting to see if Alex returned. She still could not believe he hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Surely, he didn’t blame her for the betrothal? She’d known nothing about it until her mother had given her the horrendous news on the very last day she’d seen Alex.
“My dear, it would be best if you stayed with me by the door as the guests leave.” The Duchess of Bedford, who Patience had always thought of in those terms, touched her on the arm.
“Yes, of course.”
A slow, steady stream of people left the house, patting her hand, offering condolences, and smirking when they thought she wasn’t looking. Frankly, she was so pleased by Cyrus’s death, she didn’t care about the circumstances that drew sneers and raised eyebrows. She was rid of him. Were it not totally scandalous, she might have danced on his grave.
What had happened to her over the years that had turned her into a woman who wanted to celebrate someone’s death? She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but as long as no one could see into her heart, it would remain her secret and gratification.
The door had barely closed on the last guest when the duchess spoke. “I hope you intend to stay at the Abbey for a while.” She always made her requests sound like an order.
“I had not really thought about it. I find I am quite weary, and would beg Your Grace to excuse me so I may retire to my bedchamber.”
“Of course. I am sure the distress of the last week has exhausted you. Perhaps it is best if you retire and we will converse in the morning.” Although her words were kind, her eyes held enough coldness to freeze a pond in summer.
Patience’s parents joined them at the entrance hall. “I would have a word with you, daughter.” Her father’s tone once again brooked no argument. He turned to the duchess. “May we use your library, Your Grace?”
“Of course. If you will all excuse me, I believe I will retire to my bedchamber myself. It has been a long day.”
Patience followed her father to the Abbey’s library. What could the man possibly want with her now? Cyrus was dead, and she was free.
Once they entered the room, he motioned to the settee next to the fireplace. Patience sat and adjusted her skirts. Her father stood in front of her, his large frame blocking out the rest of the room. Something about the expression on his face started her stomach tightening. There was no point in asking him what he wanted with her, because he would speak in his own time.
“It is unfortunate that your betrothed is dead.”
Since it was not a question but a statement, she merely nodded.
“Be aware that I have no intention of allowing my connection to the Bedford Dukedom to cease.”
Tired and confused, she merely stared at him. “I’m afraid I do not understand, Father.”
He leaned in close, the brandy from his breath making her want to turn her head, but knowing ’twas better not to do that. “You will marry the new duke.”
“Lord Alex?” All the breath in her body left her in one fell swoop.
“No, my dear. Not Lord Alex. His Grace, the Eighth Duke of Bedford. Your former lover. The very one your mother said you cried your eyes out over the night of your betrothal.”
…
After leaving the Abbey, Alex arrived at the Bedford townhouse in London having stopped only to switch horses and eat. He dragged his weary body upstairs then collapsed into bed and slept for hours, after which he bathed and left the house, seeking something familiar to anchor himself in this new world into which he’d been so unexpectedly thrust.
He removed his wet greatcoat and handed it to the footman at the door of White’s. There was a great deal of work to be done in the transition of his brother’s affairs into Alex’s name. Since Alex had never been trained for the role of duke, the great deal of work had turned into an overwhelming nightmare. A short visit to London—to finalize the sale of his commission and meet with his solicitors, and to get his bearings before he returned to the Abbey to take up his duties—would help clear his head.
And get him far away from Patience.
As Cyrus’s widow, she would probably remain at the Abbey, but he hoped to move her into the dower house. Day in and day out living, with her completely unavailable to him by law, would make him a candidate for Bedlam in no time.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he looked around the club. It had been years since he’d been inside the familiar walls. So much remained the same, yet so much had changed within him.
He didn’t wish to dwell on the memories of war that lived with him day and night. The nights were the worst. Tortured dreams of bodies falling, dying young men crying for sweethearts and mothers, and the screams of horses as they stumbled and collapsed on top of wounded and dead men. The mud, the blood, the overwhelming stench of death. It awaited him most nights, as he attempted to lose himself in slumber.
No man could emerge unscathed from the effects of war, surrounded by so much death. Death he had a hand in causing.
The betting book sat in the same place with several gentlemen surrounding it, calling out names and writing in the notorious tome. He smiled, remembering the few times he’d written his name in there. It seemed so many years ago, almost as if he’d been a mere lad then.
“Pemberton!” Alex turned at the sound of his name. He broke into a huge smile at the sight of Lord Campbell—better known as Cam, sitting with Lord Hawkins—the famous “Hawk,” and Mr. Giles Templeton—merely Templeton to the group of four friends who had gone through Eton and university together. Hawk had fought beside him at Waterloo, but had sold out a few months later.
“I guess we should be bowing and scraping and calling you ‘Your Grace.’” Hawk stood and slapped him on his back. Then he lowered his voice. “Seriously, I’m sorry about your brother’s death.”
Should he accept condolences when he wasn’t sorry his brother had suffered from an early demise? The man who had hated him, tortured him, and made his life miserable from the cradle until he’d walked out the door for the last time? Rather than go into all of that, which he’d kept from his friends, he merely nodded.
He took a seat across from Cam and signaled for a footman to bring him a brandy. Cam and Templeton nodded their condolences, and Alex was happy to be done with it.
“So, what has kept you busy until you gained the title? And with all your new duties, what are you doing in London?” Templeton leaned back in his chair, crossing a booted foot over his knee.
The tall lanky friend had always been the bane of the ton’s existence. Handsome, charming, wealthy, but with no title, the daughters loved him, and the mothers just wanted to pass him by. In the marriage-minded mamas’ eyes, nothing surpassed a title. The higher, the better.
“After Waterloo, I spent some time in France cleaning up a few things, then a year ago, I was dispatched to America on a special mission. I was returning from there when I received word of my brother’s death.” He nodded his thanks to the footman who handed him a drink. “I headed to the Abbey for the funeral, but still had to tie up military business here in London, as well as meet with solicitors and my brother’s man of business.” He took a sip of his drink. “I also needed a breather. I wasn’t ready to delve into all of it right away.”
“And how does the lovely Lady Patience fare?” Cam asked.
“You mean the Duchess of Bedford?” He snorted. Even saying the words tightened the muscles in his stomach.
Cam frowned. “No. Not your mother. Lady Patience Browning, your brother’s betrothed.”
“Betrothed? They were married!”
Hawk and Cam exchanged glances. “No. They were not married. I take it you did not hear the story of the late duke’s demise?”
Alex was stunned. They were not married? After four years? What had happened to delay the nuptials? True, Patience had not yet been out when they were betrothed, but certainly in the last two years since she had become of age, a wedding would have taken place.
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “As I say, I received word of his death and immediately left to arrive at the burial. I’m afraid I did not stick around long enough to hear any tales.” He gulped the last of his drink. “What story is there of Cyrus’s death?”
Alex signaled the footman, and once the four men held fresh drinks in their hands, Hawk spoke. “The story goes that even though your brother and Lady Patience had an agreement between them fostered by their fathers, for various reasons, a formal announcement only happened at a ball the night of his death.”
“The night of his death?” The story grew more confusing. “How?”
Hawk continued, “A betrothal ball was held at the Abbey, and once all the guests left, the duke returned to London. To his mistress’s bed.”
Bloody, bloody hell. The man was worse than a bastard. The night of his betrothal?
“Continue,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Apparently, all the activity caused some sort of strain on his heart, and your brother expired, right on top of…”
Shocked into silence for a moment, Alex groaned and dropped his head into his hands.