CHAPTER 2
“Sorry to receive you this way, Your Grace,” Edward Loman said in a wheezy voice, his claw-like hand gesturing at his nightcap and wild Chinese silk banyan. “Won’t you sit?”
Beau lowered himself into the chair beside the massive four-poster bed, trying not to stare. He’d only met Loman once—when he’d arrived in England—and the changes those few days had wrought on the older man were shocking.
“I regret not making it to the ceremony.”
“Your presence was missed, sir. Your daughter is waiting below, most eager to see you.”
Loman coughed, his face spasming in pain, the pulpy rattle in his chest sounding like overripe fruit falling from a tree. His eyes, when he opened them, were red rimmed but as sharp as a saber blade. “You can send her up after we have one last word.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I have vaults full of money and mansions stuffed with costly frippery, but my daughter is my priceless treasure, Wroxton. And now she is yours to cherish.” The look he gave Beau must have been the one he’d used to intimidate business opponents in the course of accumulating one of the biggest fortunes in Britain.
Beau was not threatened, but he respected the sentiment behind the look.
“Everything is yours now, Wroxton. Everything,” Loman hissed, his eyes burning. “And I swear this, Your Grace: if you don’t do right by my daughter, I will come back from the grave and haunt you the rest of your days.”
Although Beau knew Loman’s words were nothing more than the hollow threat of a dying man, he felt a chill.
But the chill was nothing compared to the molten anger simmering in his belly: anger at his brother for dying and leaving this mess for Beau to clean up; anger at his family for expecting him to save them all; and anger at this crude, upstart Cit who’d wrapped Beau up in a marriage contract with his daughter as quickly and effortlessly as a butcher wrapped up a leg of mutton.
And now this—this unlettered oaf had the audacity to impugn Beau’s honor?
How dare Loman believe that he needed to threaten a Duke of Wroxton to live up to his part of a bargain?
“I am a gentleman, Mr. Loman,” Beau reminded him coolly. “I would never treat your daughter as anything less than a lady.” His brief discussion with the woman in question came back to him and he gritted his teeth against it. “As my duchess she will be received everywhere and treated with the utmost respect.” She would never be welcomed by the ton, of course, but then that was not something Beau had promised. “All that said, I do hope I’ve never given you—”
“I know you ain’t marrying my Josey for love.” Loman snorted rudely, the action sending him into another fit of coughing. “I might be an ignorant upstart Cit,” he said, grinning at whatever expression he saw on Beau’s face. “But I ain’t stupid. Nor is my girl—she’s been groomed for such a marriage.” Beau barely held his tongue at the old man’s outrageous claim. “She don’t expect love from you, so don’t fret about that. But she deserves your protection and respect. We struck our bargain fair and square: my girl and my money for your title and a grandson.” His bluish lips twisted into a mocking smile. “Don’t you forget that after I’m gone, Wroxton: my fortune for a few spurts from you.”
Beau’s mouth twisted with distaste at the vulgar allusion. “If it is within my power, your daughter shall have grandchildren.”
To his surprise, the old man gave a gurgle of a laugh. “Aye, I know that, lad, I know.” His voice was weary, his sunken eyes lined with pain. “I know you’re a man of your word—unlike your brother. And I’m—”
This round of coughing wracked his body so badly that Beau laid his hand on the bellpull. But Loman shook his head, lifting his hand in a staying gesture as he fought for breath.
So Beau waited, wishing he were anywhere else.
When Loman could speak again his voice was a frayed whisper. “I need your word on something.”
What now, for God’s sake?
Beau sighed. “Yes, sir?”
Loman swallowed, the sound so labored it made Beaumont’s own throat ache. “Don’t tell her about five years ago. She don’t know about it.”
Beau’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you trying to tell me that you never told your daughter you were negotiating a marriage contract—her marriage contract—with my brother?” he demanded, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“Aye, that’s what I’m tellin’ ye!” Loman’s pale, papery skin flushed with—Beau surmised—well-deserved shame. “I didn’t want to get ’er hopes up. I was just about to tell ’er after ’ee signed it. I was just waitin’ for the right moment.”
Beau snorted.
The old man shot him a venomous look. “Turned out to be a damned good thing I didn’t tell ’er, eh, my lad? Since your brother broke ’is word?”
Beau scowled, more furious at his dead brother than this wily old git.
“But that ain’t your fault,” Loman said soothingly. “You’re makin’ it right now, savin’ your family’s honor by takin’ on ’is obligation.”
Beau had no bloody intention of discussing his brother’s dishonorable behavior.
“Promise you won’t tell ’er.”
“I’m hardly eager to tell my new wife that my brother shabbed off on his contract with her to marry another woman, now am I?” Beau asked, allowing his fury to show: fury at the man’s audacity, fury at being made to remember that dreadful summer, and fury at his brother for his refusal to do his duty so now it was Beau who was stuck having to marry the girl.
“Thank ’ee,” Loman said with unconvincing meekness. “And there is one last thing.”
You mean another last last thing?
“And what would that be, Mr. Loman?”
“I don’t want her coming back after today. I want you to take her off to that pile of stone in the country—Wroxton Court.” He said the words with relish, his dulled eyes briefly glinting with acquisitive pleasure. “Immediately.”
Beau blinked. “Come again?”
“You heard me,” he wheezed. “She watched ’er ma die a slow, painful death; she don’t need to see me do the same thing.”
Beau couldn’t believe his bloody ears. “She will hate me for taking her away from you.”
Loman flashed him a crooked, roguish smile that gave Beau an idea of the charm this man must have once wielded. “It’s a dyin’ man’s last wish—and I know you’re a gentleman, so you’ll see it’s done.”
“My family is due in London in five days, Mr. Loman. Would you have me leave before they get here?” Beau demanded. “And I’ve already accepted a dinner invitation from Uxbridge when he passes through London. I am not leaving before then.”
Loman’s lips curled up at the corners and Beau knew the shameless old mushroom was smirking at the thought of his daughter rubbing shoulders with the one-legged hero of Waterloo.
“You got time to send word to your family an’ tell ’em to stay put. You didn’t want ’em in London, anyway—did ye?”
That was certainly true, not that Beau felt compelled to admit as much to his new father-in-law. These first few days—at least—with his new wife would be difficult enough without his meddling mother and ungovernable siblings adding to the chaos. And then there was his devious sister-in-law, Victoria; Beau’s head ached at the mere thought of her name. Yes, it would actually be a relief to tell his family to remain in Yorkshire.
“But you should stay for dinner with ’Is Lordship. With Uxbridge,” Loman added smugly—as if he were the one dining with the marquess.
“Why, thank you, sir.”
Loman ignored Beau’s sarcasm. “When’s the dinner?”
Beau rounded up. “A week.”
Loman grimaced but nodded. “All right. Get her out of here after that.”
Beau shook his head. “How the devil do you expect me to keep a woman away from her dying father? I shall have to tie her up to get her into the bloody carriage.”
“You’re her husband, ain’tcha?” Loman demanded, anger flaring in his rheumy eyes. “Didn’t you command thousands of soldiers? You bloody tell Josey when and where to go and she’ll do it. I raised ’er to ’ave ’er own mind, but she knows every house has only one master.” He sneered up at Beau. “Who’s that to be in your household, Your Grace?”
Beau opened his mouth to say something brutal and quelling to the obnoxious upstart when he noticed Loman’s eyes—which had been blazing only seconds earlier—had dulled with alarming speed.
Bloody hell. It would be just Beau’s luck if the old bastard went off while they were bickering.
“Well?” Loman persisted, dogged even though his face was lined with pain.
Beau glared down, not bothering to hide his intense dislike. “Fine. I shall do as you ask.”
Loman gave him a faint—but triumphant—smile. “Yer a good lad. Now open that top drawer.” He jerked his chin toward the nightstand and then winced from the effort. “Give ’er that letter when I’m gone. It will explain why you kept ’er from me.”
“Perhaps you might explain to me why I am taking her away, sir?”
Loman’s jaw worked angrily and Beau thought he was going to tell him to go to the devil. But instead he said, “I’ve not got long—maybe not even a few days—and right bloody now I’m in so much damned pain that I’ve soiled meself from it.” His eyes glowed with misery, rage, and shame. “Can you even imagine that kind of pain?”
Beau forbore to point out he’d been at Waterloo and a dozen other battles before that. Of course he knew about pain.
“As soon as you’re both gone today I’ll take as much of that”—he pointed to the green bottle that sat on a table beyond his reach—“as that quack will give me and I’ll go to sleep, and ’opefully never wake up. If my Josey knew any of that she’d want me to fight—to stay with ’er as long as possible. If she knew I was givin’ up, wild ’orses couldn’t keep her away. So, my lord duke, is that good enough reason for you?”
Beau yanked open the drawer, snatched up the letter, and shoved it into his coat pocket.
“Don’t give it to ’er on ’er wedding day, Yer Grace. Wait ’til tomorrow.”
“Anything else, sir?”
The pain in Loman’s eyes overshadowed any satisfaction he might have felt at ordering Beau about like a bloody servant. “I’ll extort no more promises from you, lad. Now, go on—” He made a weak shooing motion with his hand. “Send up my Josie.”
* * *
Jo paced a circuit around the horrifically gaudy room her father liked to call the Gold Salon—because he’d stuffed it with more gilt furniture than Versailles.
“Please, Your Grace,” Lady Constance said, flapping behind her like a lone duckling after its mother. “Won’t you—”
“It helps me to pace,” Jo snapped, and then immediately felt bad for snapping.
Lord. How quickly could she reasonably dispense with the other woman’s services? The countess wasn’t cruel or condescending, but she was an annoying fusser, and if there was one thing Jo abhorred, it was fussing.
“Perhaps if I rang for—”
The door opened and Jo whipped around; it was the duke.
Your husband, a gloating voice reminded her.
The thought left burning shame in its wake: What kind of selfish monster was gleeful about such a marriage when her father lay dying overhead?
Jo strode toward him, palms sweating and heart pounding. “Is he—?”
“No.” The full, beautiful lips she’d dreamed of kissing a thousand times compressed into a harsh pink line. His expression held none of the open dislike it had during their wedding ceremony but was a blend of pity, reserve, and—yes—disdain.
You’ve married a man who despises you.
Jo’s body went weak at the enormity of what she’d done and she swayed.
“Steady on.” His strong, warm hand gripped her elbow.
Even a small, impersonal gesture such as that sent a crippling wave of want through her body.
Jo snatched away her arm and the skin over Wroxton’s lovely, sculpted cheekbones darkened at her reaction: he believed she disliked his touch.
Good. Better that than his knowing the humiliating truth.
“I need to see him.” Jo forced the words between clenched jaws.
“And he wishes to see you,” Wroxton said coolly. “But he doesn’t need to see you this way.” He gestured to one of the many gilt mirrors that festooned the walls and Jo saw her plain, tear-stained face and mussed hair reflected. Right beside her was her beautiful, immaculate husband, who was regarding her with open censure.
But his expression gentled when he met her gaze. “Take a moment to dry your face and—”
“How dare you?” she hissed, glaring up at him, her body throbbing with rage toward this cold, unyielding god of a man who would never love—or even like—her and made no effort to hide it.
Jo shoved past him, not waiting for an answer. She vaguely registered Lady Constance’s voice calling for her to come back. By the time she reached the doors to her father’s room, her tears were streaming.
She stopped to look in the hall mirror and winced. Yes, there was the Duchess of Wroxton, a red-faced, tear-stained, splotchy little squab of a woman. No wonder her new husband had regarded her with such contempt. Even on her best days, Jo wasn’t much to look at. And today was far from her best.
He’d been right—at least about not arriving in her father’s room looking like a hysterical wreck.
So Jo yanked her handkerchief she’d tucked up the sleeve of her wedding dress and dried her cheeks. Her hair, which she wore in a short crop, had been flattened by her hat and she ran her fingers through it until it was its usual mass of springy brown curls.
Jo snorted at her reflection; now she resembled a curly-headed, tear-streaked boy.
So be it.
She fixed a smile on her face and wrenched open his door.
And her resolve dissolved like sugar in tea when she was confronted by his pale, shrunken form dwarfed by the huge bed.
“Oh, Papa!” Jo ran toward him, barely recalling herself and stopping from leaping up onto his bed and taking his fragile form into her arms.
Why was this happening? Why was he becoming so much worse, so fast? He was a shadow of her strapping father—worse even than this morning.
“Ah, Your Grace—why are you crying, Josie-girl? I’m not dead yet.” He gave a laugh that was supposed to reassure her but was so breathy and weak it left her terrified. “Don’t cry. It’s yer wedding day.” His mouth pulled into a shadow of his old smug, arrogant grin. “Yer a duchess, Jo—are you happy?”
Jo heard the worry in his voice and forced a smile. “Yes, Papa, it’s all I’ve ever dreamed of,” she lied. “But I’d be happier if you’d let me stay and—”
His loving, open expression vanished. “No. And I don’t want to argue about this again. I want you to go with Wroxton and be a duchess. If you can’t bring yourself to do so, I’ll leave and go—”
“No!” She squeezed his hands so hard he winced. “No, I’ll do as you say, Papa. Just promise me—”
“Aye, I’ll send word when it gets toward the end.”
Josey winced. “If, not when, Papa.”
He chuckled. “Aye, if. Now, yer duke is waitin’ for ye and I’m tired.”
“I’ll come see you in—”
“I’ll send word—don’t come before, Josie; I forbid it.” Jo hesitated, and he said, “Give me your word you’ll obey yer old pa.”
She ground her teeth and then gave a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. “Of course, Papa.”
“Good girl. I want ye to remember you’re as good as any of ’em, Josey—don’t ever forget that. Yer Eddie Loman’s daughter.”
“I know, Papa.”
“You’ve gotten used to bein’ yer own mistress these past years and I’m at fault for allowing ye to help yer old pa instead of bein’ a proper young lady with more Seasons, balls, parties—”
“But—”
“Hush and let me say my piece.”
Jo bit her lower lip.
“Your new husband ain’t a man to be bossed like yer old pa. His sort was bred to rule and he’ll expect you to obey. Today you pledged before God and accepted him as yer lord and master.” He paused, opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again with a slight grimace. “Rein in that temper o’ yers, girlie. Be respectful, ’cause Wroxton won’t appreciate you going at him hammer and tongs. I want yer promise you’ll forget all the bad habits and words and things you picked up knockin’ about in my shops—that ain’t for a duchess.”
Jo couldn’t help smiling. “I know how to behave, Papa.”
“I know you know—but I’ve seen how you get if you think you’re bein’ slighted.”
Jo wanted to argue, but he was right. Hadn’t she already needled the duke today—even before they were married?
“I’ll behave like a duchess. I promise.”
He gave her a weary smile. “That’s good, love. Now give us a kiss.”
Jo took care not to jostle him, inhaling the familiar scent of the person who loved her more than anyone else ever would. “I love you, Papa.”
When she pulled away, her cheeks were again wet.
“Go dry your tears and put a smile on for your new ’usband. No man likes a Friday-face,” he said in a gruff, thick voice.
Jo’s lips trembled as she forced them to obey his command. “Yes, Papa.”
“Off with ye.” His lids drifted closed and his body seemed to sag into the bed.
Jo tiptoed toward the door and closed it without making a sound, slumping back against it. She wanted to run down the hall to her old room and crawl into her own bed. But this wasn’t where she lived now. All her things were gone. Even her personal servants—her maid and footmen—were now at her new home.
Once again, Jo used her handkerchief to dry her tears. And then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
It was time to join the man her father had called her new lord and master.