A Duchess in Name Page 9

  The duchess said absolutely nothing to her as the duke shook his son’s hand.

  “Well done,” Waring mumbled, nearly drunk as usual.

  “I’d imagine you’d think so,” Dunnley said.

  “We’re going,” the duchess said. She hadn’t uttered a word of congratulations or welcomed her to the family. This was business, but the woman could at least pretend to have manners. She barely seemed to think herself part of the same family as Waring and Dunnley.

  Dunnley shot her a glare. “Of course you’re leaving. I expect nothing less of you at this point. Where is it this time, Mother? Paris or Nice?”

  “You know your mother,” the duke drawled, a malicious glint in his eye. “She can’t resist the temptations of the south of France.”

  The duchess narrowed her eyes, first at her son and then at her husband. “Of course not. How could I when it’s so much more satisfying than anything one can find here?”

  “I’m sure that’s true when one’s not particularly discerning.”

  The duchess dragged her eyes down her husband and back up. “I suppose I never was. It’s gotten me into trouble from the start.” Victoria flushed and averted her eyes from the embarrassing conversation unfolding.

  The duke turned nearly purple with rage, but made no comeback. Dunnley let out a humorless huff of laughter. It sounded as if they were all making allusions to the duchess having an affair, but surely they wouldn’t discuss such a thing openly...would they?

  “When you return to London, there will need to be a ball in your honor,” the duchess said disinterestedly. She wasn’t looking at Victoria when she said it, so it took her a moment to realize the sentence had been directed at her.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Dunnley replied for her. “We have no intention of spending much time in London.”

  “We don’t?” But her new husband wasn’t looking at her, and missed the look of mild panic she gave him.

  “No, we don’t,” Dunnley bit out, and then he said nothing else.

  Clearly he’d made plans for their future life he hadn’t shared with her. He didn’t have to, but still, it rankled. And now to find out she wouldn’t be living in London? She wouldn’t miss her parents, of course, but to be so far away from Genevieve, Amelia and Grace was dispiriting. What had he planned for them?

  “Best of luck, then,” the duke said, not sounding in the least as if he meant it.

  Dunnley nearly snarled at his father, his voice so filled with hatred Victoria actually fell back a step. “As if luck will help. It must kill you that it’s all down to this. Her, a bloody American. And me.”

  “Yes, well...” The duke stammered for a moment.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe our carriage is here.” Dunnley grabbed Victoria’s arm—the first time he’d voluntarily touched her today—and pulled her away toward the door. She opened her mouth to protest, or to make some attempt at a gracious goodbye to her new in-laws, but they’d already turned away.

  When he released her suddenly, she was caught off guard and stumbled slightly. He made no move to help her before he turned to a footman. “Call our carriage. We’re leaving.”

  What on earth was happening? And what sort of family had she married into? There was so much hatred and ill will, and not only Dunnley’s for her, but amongst the whole of them. And these cold, angry people were now her family. Was the rest of her life going to be as bad as this day?

  And now, on top of that confusing scene with the duke and duchess, her parents were bearing down on her. Suppressing a groan, she turned to get it over with.

  “Well, Andrew, my boy,” Phillip Carson began, slapping Dunnley on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’re eager to be off with this pretty little piece. We won’t keep you.”

  Her face flamed with mortification. When she glanced at Dunnley to see how he’d absorbed her father’s crass statement, it only made her feel worse. His lip curled in barely restrained disgust and that little muscle in his jaw was working as he gritted his teeth. She hardly knew him, but she was already well acquainted with that twitching jaw muscle. It seemed to portend nothing but misery for both of them.

  “I simply can’t wait for the two of you to return to London,” her mother simpered. “Society will fall at your feet. The dinner parties, the balls...”

  Wallowing in her misery would have to wait until later. It was time to launch her first salvo at her mother, the warning shot to let her know everything would change from this moment forward.

  “Oh, Mother,” she said with forced nonchalance. “Haven’t you heard? We aren’t to be residing in London at all. Honestly, I don’t know when I’ll be back in town. I’m afraid we must be off. Lord Dunnley is eager to get our journey underway.”

  Now it was her turn to grab him and shove him toward the door. Lord Dunnley shot her one surprised look before doing as she wished and leading her toward their dismal future together.

  Outside, a few more guests wished them well, but then a footman was handing her up into the duke’s fine carriage and Dunnley was following her and they were off. She waved out the window at the crowd, but her eyes were only on Genevieve, Amelia and Grace at the top of the steps. Tears stung her eyes, but she swallowed them back. Courage. She would need it.

  When she sat back, Dunnley was staring out the window, presenting his perfect profile to her and nothing else. Now it was just the two of them. Today had been awful, but perhaps she could improve how they went forward. She took a deep breath before she spoke.

  “May I ask where we’re going, Lord Dunnley?”

  She had used his title hoping he’d correct her now that they were alone and tell her she should call him by his Christian name. But it seemed he had no intention of easing the tension between them.

  He flicked one dismissive glance at her. “We’re going home, of course. To Briarwood Manor.”

  Her mind flashed back over all the things Genevieve had told her about the ancestral home of the Waring family. Nearly a ruin. Only a skeleton staff to keep it going. Neglected for more than a generation. This forgotten estate in Hampshire was where he intended they should live. If she required any further proof as to why she was there, she had it. They needed her funds to save the estate, so that’s where they would go.

  “Isn’t Briarwood your father’s home?” she ventured.

  The earl let out a sharp bark of humorless laughter. “He hasn’t set foot on the estate in at least a decade, and he has no intention of returning. Ever.”

  “I see.”

  Dunnley opened the case at his side and drew out a journal, signaling an end to the conversation. From where she sat, she could make out the title. The Journal of the British Archaeological Society.

  “Have you had any new discoveries in your dig?”

  His gaze snapped to her and he scowled. “No.”

  “Oh. That must be discouraging.”

  That was met with silence. His work was all she had to go on, however, so she pressed on.

  “Do you plan to work on this project for much longer?”

  The look he shot her was so cold, so hard, that it was clear he welcomed no further inquiries. “Yes,” he snapped. He raised the journal until his face was hidden.

  Out of questions, Victoria gave up, at least for the moment. Leaving him to his journal, she turned her attention to the London streets slipping by outside the carriage windows. How long would it be until she would see them again?

  * * *

  It was nearly twilight when the hired coach passed through the rusted iron gates at the entrance to Briarwood Manor. The Waring coach, which had departed her parents’ townhouse, deposited them at Waterloo Station. From there it had been a train ride to Basingstoke, and at the train station, they took a hired hack for the rest of the journey, as Briarwood Manor kept no coach
of its own, of course. It had been a long day, both physically and emotionally trying. She tried to surreptitiously stretch her limbs as the coach rounded a curve in the rutted, bumpy drive and the house came into view.

  It was enormous, three proper floors plus attics and tower rooms, similar in style to ones she’d seen from the time of Queen Elizabeth. It was solid and well-proportioned, without the disparate later additions one often found in great houses, and built out of a pale gold stone glowing in the setting sun. The myriad mullioned windows, grimed with decades of dirt, gleamed dully in the last light of the day.

  Victoria was so overawed by her initial impression, it took several moments to notice that the attic windows had all been boarded up, or that choking brown vines grew halfway up the exterior walls, or that the lawn in front of the house was entirely overgrown with dead weeds, looking brown and broken on this early spring evening. Depression settled over her. What a dreadful place.

  As the coach drew near the house, the large oak front door was pulled open and a slight, dark figure appeared alone on the steps. The carriage rolled to a stop and no one else came outside. It was apparent that was all the welcome they were to receive from the great house.

  The woman who stood straight as a reed on the gravel drive was perhaps fifty and very thin, with graying hair pulled up into a tidy knot. She wore a simple black dress and a crisply ironed white pinafore. The earl helped himself down from the carriage since no footman appeared to assist him, then turned back to offer a hand to Victoria. He released her as soon as her feet were safely on the gravel.

  The servant now stepped forward and dipped into a curtsy.

  “Your Lordship. Mrs. Palmer at your service. I’m the housekeeper here at Briarwood Manor now. I apologize for there being no footmen or butler to assist you. We’ve not had the family in residence for these many years now, and we only received your note from London this morning.”

  Dunnley held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Palmer. I understand how lightly staffed Briarwood is these days, and I gave you precious little warning of my arrival. I don’t expect a full staff of servants or the usual comforts.”

  Victoria blinked at her husband. It was the most he’d said the entire day. And his tone, far from the forbidding, glacial one he used with her, was gentle, even friendly. He’d spoken to her once or twice that way, but not today.

  “That’s very kind of you, Your Lordship.”

  Mrs. Palmer looked expectantly at Victoria, waiting for Lord Dunnley to introduce her. After a moment, he caught on and waved a hand in her direction. “This is my wife, Lady Dunnley.”

  Mrs. Palmer stepped forward and dipped a curtsy to her, as well. “It’s an honor, Your Ladyship. It’s been ever so long since we’ve had a lady of the house in residence. You’re most welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. I’m sure you have much to tell me about the running of this lovely estate.”

  Mrs. Palmer threw the earl a brief, distressed glance since it was clear there wasn’t much about Briarwood Manor that was in any way lovely anymore.

  “Do come in,” Mrs. Palmer said as she recovered. “Leave the bags. There’s a boy who works in the kitchens. I’ll have him come up to fetch them in a bit.”

  Lord Dunnley followed Mrs. Palmer up the low steps and into the entrance hall. Victoria trailed after, noting the rusted hinges on the great oak front door and the lichen growing over the stone walls. Inside, Mrs. Palmer took their coats and hats and deposited them on a bench since there were no other servants to see to them. There was a small candelabra lit on a side table and two lonely candles in wall sconces casting meager light in the hall and through the arched entry on her left leading to the parlor. Victoria realized with growing horror the house had no electricity or even gas lights. Of course not. There had been no money to modernize anything. Good heavens. Was there even indoor plumbing?

  Even in the shadowy gloom, she could see chipping plaster and peeling wall papers. The larger pieces of furniture were shrouded in muslin as if awaiting a move. A muffled flapping came from some distant corner. It wouldn’t be at all surprising to find a sparrow or two roosting in the upper corners of the rooms. A near-ruin was putting it kindly.

  “I can put together a bit of supper for you. Just some cold ham and bread. We’ll have to send to the village tomorrow for proper stores. Will you wish to eat in the dining room or—”

  Dunnley stopped her. “You can bring it up to our rooms, please. If baths are beyond the ability of the current staff, I’d appreciate a bit of hot water and fresh towels. Her Ladyship, as well.”

  Victoria bit back her displeasure at being moved about like another piece of luggage. Tonight wasn’t the night to begin that battle. She turned to Mrs. Palmer.

  “My maid is following us in another carriage with the trunks. Please send her up when she arrives.”

  Mrs. Palmer bowed her head and smiled. “Of course, Your Ladyship. We’ll see to the water as soon as possible, and I’ll bring your dinner right up.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Palmer.”

  Victoria turned to follow her husband up the stairs and into the gloomy darkness of her new home.

  * * *

  Molly arrived shortly after the dinner tray did, and Victoria had never been so happy to see her. In no time at all, Molly had unpacked a few outfits and her toiletries so she could help Victoria into a sheer nightgown and peignoir ordered especially for her wedding trousseau.

  When she caught sight of herself in the speckled, grimed mirror over the vanity, she blushed to the roots of her hair. The firelight from the hearth played across the fine, creamy lawn, showing her body in soft silhouette. Her legs, her hips, the small dip of her waist, even her breasts were visible through the thin fabric. She yanked the peignoir closed, but the insubstantial fabric and lace did absolutely nothing to conceal her. Indeed, it seemed designed to draw further attention to the peaks of her breasts and the dark shadow between her legs.

  “Haven’t I anything heavier, Molly?”

  Molly shook her head. “All we brought were the things ordered for your trousseau, Your Ladyship. Shall I send back to London for the rest of your wardrobe?”

  “Yes, please,” Victoria said with a sigh. “I fear Briarwood will require at least a few more practical items in my wardrobe.”

  “There does seem to be a quite a lot to be done, Your Ladyship.”

  “Molly, please. None of that ‘Your Ladyship’ business. I’m still me.”

  “No, ma’am. You’re now mistress of this house. I mean to address you as I wish the rest of the staff to address you, so it’ll be Your Ladyship, if you please.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you, Molly. Why don’t you go and get settled in? This has been a long day for you, too.”

  “Are you sure, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I have everything I need for tonight. We’ll start fresh tomorrow. We have quite a task ahead of us.”

  Molly gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll manage it just fine, ma’am. I know you will.”

  Once Molly had let herself out, Victoria exhaled and turned in a slow circle, taking in the room. At one time, it had been quite fine. The decor dated from a century earlier, in the classical style, in shades of pale blue and cream with delicate gilt accents. The wall papers were faded and peeling, though, and the plaster in one corner of the ceiling showed evidence of a substantial leak. The sky blue bed hangings were full of dust. The flowered carpets were threadbare and frayed. Thank heaven for the dim light. If she saw the true state of the room, she might never sleep.

  The tray of food Mrs. Palmer had brought up earlier remained untouched on the table by the fire. Victoria was too anxious to manage eating. Her eyes skated across the room, to the closed door separating hers from her husband’s. He’d disappeared into his chamber when she’d been shown into
hers, and she’d neither seen nor heard him since.

  Would he open that door tonight and come to her bed? As horrible as the day had been, this was their wedding day. And on one’s wedding night, one usually...did that.

  Pressing her palms to her face, she squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, this was awful. If he was some impersonal stranger who would come to her bed and do his husbandly duty by her, she could handle it better than the prospect of doing that with him. Because he wasn’t a stranger, not entirely. And he’d touched her once before, with purpose and desire. He’d stirred her up so much she’d been ready to complete the act there and then, in her parents’ drawing room, before the wedding.

  So why was the thought of it now so unpleasant? Because some instinct she didn’t understand told her he wouldn’t come to her that way tonight. Whatever tiny connection they’d forged at the ball had been crushed beneath his hatred. The man she married this morning had transformed into an enemy. That was worse than a stranger.

  Victoria doubted the man she’d married this morning cared enough to make it pleasant for her. But perhaps, if she was very lucky, a child would result from their union, and that was all she wanted. Letting him have his way with her body for a few minutes in the dark was a price she was willing to pay.

  How was this supposed to work? Should she stay up? Should she snuff the candles and go to bed? Or was she expected to go to him? Her fortitude abandoned her at that thought. Surely that wasn’t required, was it? She settled in one of the lumpy armchairs before the fire. The chimney smoked, which burned her eyes, and the fire was insufficient to ward off the late-night chill. Briarwood was drafty and poorly insulated, and her insubstantial nightclothes didn’t help matters. She listened for any sign of life next door but heard nothing. He might not even be in there. Perhaps he’d gone back downstairs.

  Finally, the cold proved to be too much. If he wanted her, he’d find her easily enough in the bed. The sheets had been turned back, but still smelled faintly musty. Briarwood probably hadn’t had visitors in at least a decade, and with so little staff, the linens hadn’t been aired in quite some time.