An Ideal Duchess (54 page)

             
“Goddamnit, Vi,” He pushed a hand through his hair and flipped the leather ledger he was reading closed. “What the hell are you doing here at this time of night?”

             
“What are you doing?” His unwelcoming tone did not ruffle her feathers, and she closed the door behind her. “I can keep a secret, Bron.”

             
“Go back to bed, Vi,” His stance beside the desk remained closed and uninviting.

             
“I want to help, whatever it is that is plaguing you,” She stepped towards him, pleased that the wide neckline of her nightgown began to slip down her bare shoulder.

             
His eyes dipped to her shoulder, and all of the sudden, the tension in the room seemed to crackle and smolder instead of blow a wintry breeze. His hands were on her, pushing her up and against the door, fingers digging into her thighs as they parted and lifted against his hips.

             
“Is this what you want, Vi?” His mouth was harsh on hers. “Is this why you came here?”

             
“Always, Bron,” She said triumphantly, exulting in his ravishing. “Yes.”

             
It had been much too long—ten years—since he laid one hand on her in anything other than companionship, and this more than anything, confirmed he had only denied himself because she had not given him the signal of assent. To her surprise, he turned and forced her over the desk, the ledger whose contents he refused to share with her pressing into her chest as he pushed her legs apart and lifted her nightgown.

             
She was too smug to be unsettled by this unorthodox position and clutched the edge of the desk tightly when his fingers rasped between them as he opened his trousers, wincing with the first painful thrust. It was quick and silent, the jerk of his hips pinning her to the desk until he grunted in her ear, his fingers digging painfully into the skin of her hips.

             
He was out of her immediately, and Viola felt bereft for a moment, and straightened from the desk to push her nightgown down over her trembling legs and straighten her neckline. She turned to face him, smiling warmly in happiness and reached a hand to touch his face.

             
He closed his eyes tightly with a tortured sigh, his shoulders sagging as though he too were glad they had finally come to where they both rightfully belonged. His hand came up to cover the hand she held over his face, and she winced in surprise when he yanked her hand down so hard and fast, he nearly pulled her arm from its socket. It was only his hold on her hand, crushing her fingers tightly, that kept her from backing away when he opened his eyes and gave her a look of such loathing and disgust it made her mouth dry and her skin prickle in trepidation.

             
“Bron—” She stammered.

             
“Get the fuck out, Vi,” He said quietly, releasing her hand. “Go to bed and leave me be.”

             
Viola rushed from the study, her hands clapped to her ears to shut out his vulgar obscenities. He didn’t mean it, she was sure. He wouldn’t have touched her if he did not still love her or want her, because he certainly did not love or want his wife.

*          *          *

              The moment Viola departed, Bron fell to his hands and knees, stomach heaving as he retched up the contents of his supper and desert onto the newly-mended carpet of the drawing room. His body jerked and trembled as he bent over his vomit, mouth dry and tongue bitter with bile as he continued to heave, retching air from his empty stomach.

             
He sat back on his heels and wiped his face with his sleeve as he attempted to regain some measure of sanity. He caught a whiff of Viola’s toilet water on his skin and wanted to vomit again, almost in disbelief that he had touched her after all of these years. He shouldn’t have touched her the first time, he thought angrily, but they had been overwhelmed with grief over Alex’s death and he hadn’t thought out the consequence of such rashness.

             
He stomach turned again when the door opened to reveal Fowler standing in the doorframe wearing blue pajamas and black dressing gown, holding a candle aloft. The butler’s expression shifted into surprise before settling into its usual mild repose. Bron wondered what his butler thought as he looked at him, his clothing and hair disheveled and his face drawn and white. Fowler politely averted his eyes as Bron stood and straightened his clothing.

             
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I thought I heard a noise and came to investigate,” He lowered the candle. “One can never tell with these housemaids and their flirtations.”

             
“Yes, well as you can see, it is just I and not a lustful housemaid,” Bron said shortly. “I was sick over the carpet, so if you could direct me to the housemaids’ cleaning tools—”

             
Fowler’s eyebrows shot up after glancing downwards at the puddle of vomit. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I shall fetch a housemaid from her bed at once.”

             
“No,” Bron rubbed his face wearily. “I can do it, Fowler.”

             
“At least allow me—”

             
“I shall do it.” He said firmly.

             
So this is what it feels to be a housemaid
, Bron thought ruefully, as he made a game attempt to clean up his vomit from the carpet with Fowler hovering beside him, obviously ready to snatch the scrubbing brush and cleaning solution from his hands. The methodical brush and scrub across the carpet was a welcome distraction from the painful jumble of his thoughts, and he was almost regretful that he could not stave off the return of more unwelcome intrusions when he finished cleaning the carpet.

             
Not that he wanted to run about the entire six floors of Bledington and its innumerable rooms scrubbing and dusting, but the wild thought was something he could latch onto. He stood, suddenly weary as he stared down at the spot and then at Fowler.

             
“If you do not mind, Your Grace,” The butler winced delicately. “I shall have a housemaid down here in the morning.”

             
Bron laughed shortly and handed the housemaids’ supplies to the butler with the shake of his head. Fowler took the items and withdrew with a bow and murmured “Good night, Your Grace,” leaving Bron to his brooding thoughts.

             
The spot, he knew, would be clean and spotless on the morrow, as though he had never mucked it up, and his valet would press his clothing as though he had never crumpled them during his mad, furious rutting with Viola. Everything within Bledington’s walls existed to cover any disturbance or trouble that may occur to rattle the foundations, and lift all responsibility for his actions from his shoulders.

             
When he reached his bedroom, he paused just outside his bedroom, staring at Amanda’s closed door. His lip curled as the stench of Viola’s body and their coupling seemed to waft about his nose, and he pushed his bedroom door open, kicking it closed as he tore his soiled, disheveled clothes from his body.

             
He scrubbed his skin with the icy cold water in the basin until he felt raw and pink, like a freshly skinned rabbit hanging in Mrs. Alcock’s game pantry. But this could not be scrubbed clean or pressed flat of a heinous mistake, of all that he had destroyed and lost, and he lay awake with a surge of self-loathing he knew he could ever ignore.

August 4, 1914, Bledington

             
There seemed to be a pall cast over the house since news of England’s ultimatum to Germany reached the papers. Even the dowager duchess’s waspish tongue, grown even sharper since her riding accident a year ago had curtailed her mobility, stilled under the weight of apprehension. Maggie, now first housemaid, exchanged worried glances with her fellow servants, defying the edict to bow their heads as Fowler said prayer over breakfast. She ate her bowl of porridge slowly, half-concerned over the events of them upstairs and half-irritated that she continued to care.

             
Her Grace had never sent for her.

             
She had realized that she was not going to join the duchess in New York, that she was instead stuck at Bledington with no lady to lady’s maid, when Mr. Fowler informed her that she was to be demoted back to housemaid. First housemaid, he conceded, but housemaid nonetheless. For the past two years, she had wondered why. Why had Her Grace not kept her promise? Why had she not even sent for her when she returned to England and fought for a legal separation from the duke? She supposed she could have written to Her Grace, or even quit her position at Bledington to seek another position as lady’s maid, but despite her resentment, a larger part of her was fearful of leaving the familiar surroundings of Bledington Park.

             
And so she remained, Maggie Wilcox, first housemaid.

             
The uncertainty surrounding the prospect of war gave her the freedom to slip away from the house and visit her family in their cottage. To her horror, Lucas and Paul had already enlisted, and proudly showed off their uniforms.

             
“War hasn’t even been declared,” She argued, their tall, brawny figures in the khaki seeming a portrait of death.

             
“Aye, but it will be,” Lucas said tersely, narrowing his eyes. “And we shall give the Huns all we’ve got.”

             
“Mum, it’s pure madness,” She reached for her mother’s hand.

             
“Don’t you worry your head about this, Maggie,” Her mum patted her hand. “I’m proud to have sons eager to defend our nation against those wretched Germans.”

             
“Da?” She turned to her father, who had shrunken more since his accident.

             
“I agree with your mither, Maggie dear,” He coughed. “Lucas and Paul be fine sons for a man who cannot fight himself.”

             
“Unlike our Jacky.” Paul said dismissively. “He says he won’t enlist.”

             
“He’s not mad like the two of you, that’s all,” Maggie said fiercely.

             
“Leave them be, Maggie, leave them be,” Her Mum then patted her cheek. “They have enough to worry them without their sister nagging at them.”

             
Maggie opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when she saw the pride shining in her parents’ eyes, and the excitement in her brothers’. Perhaps they were right…they would be alright—everyone would be alright.             

*         *          *

              Pettingell’s sniff of disdain as he helped Bron don his RFC uniform brought a rare, brief smile to his face. The old valet, still doddering around after twenty years of service to his father, and then fifteen to him, was unimpressed by the thought of uniforms replacing crisp evening wear and expertly tailored Norfolk suits. And what of the hunting? Pettingell had exclaimed in horror.

             
War would disrupt the year-round sporting events that his valet loved for their various sartorial needs. He shook his head in exasperation, ignoring the valet’s mutterings, and placed his peaked cap firmly on his head. He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the grim lines that had seemed to creep across his face without his knowledge.

             
He looked older, harder, warier, and he turned away from the mirror before it revealed more than he wanted to examine. He stared at the connecting door, which had been closed for over two years, the empty bed and wardrobe mocking him. She had filed for a legal separation—with custody of their sons—before he could have even made plans to follow her across the Atlantic.

             
Seeing it slide across his table at breakfast had felt as though she had reached out to slap him again. His cheek stung with the memory of that first slap and then his regrettable push that had sent her sprawling, bleeding to the floor. It was unforgivable what he had done, it was unforgivable what he had done for most of their marriage, and it was painful to probe what and when they had gone wrong. There was nothing he could do now, of course; the separation had placed a legal finality to the end of their marriage.

             
He pulled out of his reverie when Pettingell slammed the door of his wardrobe closed. He straightened the tie tucked into his jacket, and then went upstairs to the schoolroom to fetch his sons. They were playing with toy aeroplanes, he saw with a start, and their zooming and crashing were an uncomfortable reminder of his soon-to-be reality. Their governess, Miss Snowden, looked up with a gasp. His sons immediately quieted and stood still and straight in front of him.

             
“Pack their best clothes and their school uniforms,” He said to the woman.

             
She curtseyed and then left the schoolroom to do as he bid. He looked back at his sons, who stared solemnly at him.