Authors: Jane Goodger

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical

When a Duke Says I Do (13 page)

BOOK: When a Duke Says I Do

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“I fail to see what is so amusing,” Elsie said, completely taken aback by his reaction.

“Oh, God, Elsie. I’m a bloody idiot, did you know that?”

“I don’t understand.”

He walked up to her and for the first time she realized his eyes seemed almost feverish, as if he were tinged with madness. He then gave a most proper bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alexander Wilkinson, the son of Edgar Wilkinson, Duke of Kingston. And you, my dear,” he said, “are about to marry my brother. My
younger
brother.”

Chapter 11

Alexander felt as if his entire world had just collapsed in on itself and reformed here, in this ballroom, where he stood before the only woman he’d ever loved, knowing with a certainty he would never possess her.

He stepped back from her, back from her confusion, back from what he knew would be the inevitable conclusion in her very intelligent mind. Ah yes, he thought, as he saw her face move from confusion to something close to happy, here it comes.

“If that is the case, I am engaged to marry you,” she said, and gave him a smile that would have melted the heart of another man, a man who wasn’t painfully aware of the futility of those words.

“No,” he said with a clear note of finality. “You are not. And that’s the rub, you know. That’s the true cruelty of this. My God, it’s almost as if someone is having a grand joke with my life. First, let’s make him mentally deficient. Then, kill his brother, have him sent to an institution, and then for a sick twist, let’s have him fall in love with his brother’s fiancée.”

He knew his voice held a hard, maniacal bent, but he didn’t care... until he saw her tears, and his heart broke, truly broke. “Please, Elsie, don’t cry.”

“You’re frightening me.”

“I know,” he said, drawing her against him.

“Are you truly Kingston’s son?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I am, but I have no way to prove it. No one knows who I am. I left Warbeck Abbey when I was ten years old and no one has seen me since. Monsieur does not know who I am—only I do.”

“But surely your father would not deny his own son.”

He tugged her closer. “When I was twenty years old, Monsieur and I returned from Italy. One of the first things I did was go to Warbeck Abbey, to see my brother Henry’s grave. There was another gravestone there, as well. It was mine. A headstone carved with my name, my date of birth, and the date of my death. He let everyone believe I had died. I don’t even think my mother knows I live.”

“He is evil,” Elsie said, shaking her head. “Someone should expose him. The world should know what he has done to you.”

“No one would believe it. He is a very powerful man and I am no one.”

“You are his heir,” she said with such ferocity, Alexander kissed her forehead. She believed him, without question, and he loved her all the more for it. “This is horrible. Horrible, Alexander. Oh, I wish I didn’t know. It makes it all so much worse, to know I should have married you. Oh, God. How can you stand it? How can you sit by and let him do this to you?” She pushed away, her expression fierce. “If you love me as you say, we’ll find a way. Hire a solicitor, prove you are who you say you are. It’s not impossible. I will tell them the truth.”

“I could be lying to you,” he pointed out, and immediately saw a flicker of doubt that she quickly tried to hide. “Do you see how easy it is to instill doubt?” he asked gently. “My situation is impossible and we must accept it.”

“You must not give up. You have no choice.”

Anger hit him with unexpected force. “I do have a choice and I choose not to be the next Duke of Kingston. Just the thought of that title being attached to me makes me sick. Do you think I could stomach going to that man and begging for him to recognize me? Do you think I could go before the House of Lords and eloquently state my case when I can hardly order an ale in a taproom? It is beyond my capabilities. And beyond my concern.”

Elsie lifted her chin. “And what of me? Am I to be beyond your concern?”

“You must be.”

“Oh, you are maddening,” she said, and began to pace wildly in front of him, chewing on her thumb. “If you will not pursue this, then I will.”

“And become a laughingstock by claiming the mute assistant of your muralist is actually the heir to a duchy?”

Elsie stood in front of him, her small fists straight at her sides, looking like an avenging angel. “We can make them believe,” she said.

“How?” he demanded, then shook his head in frustration. “My love, please. Don’t you think I have thought of this for years? And I have come to the same conclusion each time I torture myself with such thoughts. It is impossible. I am no one. I don’t even exist.” She started to speak but he held up a hand to stop her. “Even if I could prove it, I wouldn’t.”

She paled and took a step back as if he’d physically pushed her away. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I could never perform my duties as a duke. I could not take my seat in the House of Lords. I cannot manage the estates, the business interests, the employees, the tenants. My brother has been trained to do that since the day Henry died. It is his right, not mine,
his
duty, not mine. I am incapable of taking up the responsibilities required of the title. For that reason alone, I could have the title stripped from me.”

“You could do it, I know you could,” Elsie cried.

He gave her a small smile, gratified that she had such blind faith in him. But she didn’t know what it was like, what he was like, and God willing, she would never know, never see him shaking, never see him vomit because the thought of speaking to someone was so overwhelming. She would think him such a coward, a failure. And she would be right.

“I am not whole,” he said with painful honesty.

“You should have more faith in yourself, Alexander. I will be there. I will help.”

He looked at her bleakly. “Before or after you marry my brother?”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if I was able to gather the proof of my identity, which could take months, I still would need to file a petition with the Queen. Then the House of Lords would need to hear it and make a decision. Surely you will have been married by then. Even if the title is put into abeyance, you will be married to my brother. So, I ask you. Would you still try to help me obtain the title after you are my brother’s marchioness?”

“I would still help you.”

“Would you? How altruistic of you, my love.”

Elsie wrapped her arms around herself. “Please don’t speak to me that way. I don’t like it.”

“One of us has to be a realist. Is that not what you once told me? Now it is my turn. I will never be the Duke of Kingston. And, therefore, you will never be my bride.” He walked from the room, ignoring her when she called to him, because he didn’t much care for the thought of Elsie seeing him cry.

Elsie stemmed the urge to chase after him. She was so tired, and now heartbroken beyond what she’d thought was possible. It hurt, physically hurt, to think of how cruel fate was to have her fall in love with a man she was meant to marry but now never would.

He’d said he loved her, and usually such a declaration would make a girl’s heart sing with happiness. But that knowledge only made this entire situation more maddening, more impossible. He was the Earl of Hathwaite and she was legally contracted to marry him. And yet, she couldn’t. It was as cruel as holding out a morsel of food to a starving man and then yanking it away each time he opened his mouth for it.

But beyond the heartbreak, she was angry, with the duke, of course, but also with Alexander. For if he loved her, if he truly wanted to marry her, wouldn’t he fight for them? Wouldn’t he do everything in his power to make her his? Wouldn’t he face the very devil himself if it meant they could be together? He said he loved her, but clearly he didn’t love her enough.

And what of her? Was she willing to put her father and sister, her very home, in jeopardy by marrying a man who was not heir to the duchy? Was she so very different from him? Elsie always tried to be fair, but she felt that her decision was not selfish and his was. She was marrying Hathwaite because to renege would put the people she loved most in harm’s way. He refused to seek his title for purely selfish reasons, even though obtaining his title meant they could be married.

By the time Elsie reached her room, she was far more angry than heartbroken. How dare he claim to love her when he was completely unwilling to sacrifice anything to be with her? She would talk to him tomorrow after he’d had a chance to think things over. She knew he would come ’round. Alexander said he loved her, and if he did, he would present himself before his father and claim the title.

Elsie walked in her room to find Missy fast asleep on her bed, apparently waiting for her mistress to come home so she could assist her. She was snoring softly, her brown hair in a loose braid peeking beneath a nightcap.

“Missy,” she said, giving her maid a good shake. “Missy, I’m sorry, but I need your help.”

Missy opened her eyes and scowled. “I was havin’ myself such a lovely dream, miss. I was in a field o’ pretty flowers an’ there was a party goin’ on and I was just about to have myself some food when you shook me awake.”

Elsie smiled. “Sorry. But it’s practically morning and I need to get out of my gown.”

Missy sat up and looked toward the window, seeing the glow of dawn in the crack left by the heavy drapes. “Goodness, I should be gettin’ up now anyway. You must be plum tired, yourself, Miss.”

“I am,” Elsie said. “I think I’m even tired enough to fall asleep on my bed.” She was, indeed, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. It almost felt as if she’d been drugged, so sleepy was she.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Missy grumbled, as she started to attack the long row of buttons down Elsie’s back.

Missy had her mistress undressed down to her shift in no time, then left to fetch her nightgown from her large wardrobe. After draping the ball gown across a chair, she turned, then stopped in midstride, holding the nightgown in her hand and stared at Miss Elizabeth. For the first time in more years than Missy could count, Miss Elsie was on her own bed, sound asleep.

Chapter 12

Alexander got a late start the next day, for Monsieur suffered from an aching headache and sick stomach from too much drinking the night before. He was in an unusually foul mood, which did nothing to help Alexander’s own temper. At the moment, all he wanted to do was to finish this mural as quickly as possible, leave Mansfield Hall and never return. He wanted to wipe it from his brain, forget about Elsie and her smile and the way she looked when she was sound asleep.

Nothing had changed. He’d never allowed himself to be foolish enough to think he could have her as his wife, not really. If the thought had come, it was put away like so many other unattainable dreams of home and family. He used to dream that his father loved him, too, but he knew that would never happen either.

Which was why he didn’t understand this feeling of impotent rage he felt at the unfairness of his fate. It was almost as if he’d actually thought he could have her as his wife, could wake up beside her every day of his life, as if that silly little cottage of his imagination had a chance in hell of being real.

The day his father had put him in that asylum, he hadn’t felt anger, but a piercing yearning for a life that never existed. He wanted a father who loved him, a mother who would not allow him to be thrown away. He’d never suffered from the loss of what was rightfully his, simply because he’d never wanted it before. And perhaps, he’d believe on some primal level, that he didn’t deserve it, wasn’t worthy of the title and all that came with it.

He would go on, he always did. He would love Elsie, yes, for the rest of his life, but he would not allow himself to dwell on this pain, this nearly unendurable ache in the pit of his stomach. In time, it would fade. All the other pain he’d suffered had faded. Eventually. He would not dwell on the fact that if he’d been a whole man, she would be his wife.

He would not dwell. He would not.

Monsieur sat at the small table, a cup of strong coffee between his hands, looking blearily out the window where the wind caused the branches to move madly about. “The day, it fits my mood,” he said.

Alexander had had enough of sitting about, waiting. He got Monsieur’s attention, then jerked his thumb, telling him he was going to work.

“Okay, okay. I will come later, oui? When this stomach of mine stops rolling. And be careful, mon fils.”

Alexander nodded, knowing that the older man still feared discovery. Walking across the lawn toward the house, he prayed Elsie was still asleep somewhere other than the ballroom where he had left her the night before. There had been more than one occasion when he’d come to work and found her there, asleep on the couch. More than once, when it was empty, he’d thought about that night they’d fallen asleep in one another’s arms and he allowed himself to dream of a time they could do that every night.

It was not to be, as he’d known even when he’d been foolish enough to indulge such fancy.

Alexander was not a man who fell into bouts of self-pity, but he was a man who frequently allowed himself a good bit of self-loathing. For he knew Elsie was right. If he loved her enough, he would go to the ends of the earth to find a way for them to be together. It was fear, nothing more, that stopped him. And that recognition made him feel as if he were falling into an all-too-familiar black abyss.

He had on more than one occasion in his life contemplated the beautiful release that death would bring. When he became so tired of living with the pain that scraped him raw, it seemed to be the perfect answer. The day he’d stood at the foot of his own false grave, knowing his father had ordered someone to carve the stone, had perhaps even pretended grief, had pushed Alexander close to the end of his endurance. As a boy, Alexander had dreamed constantly of coming home, of being well, of showing his father that he could be good and be all that was expected of him. He dreamed of standing before his father and talking to him, talking and talking and talking. As he’d stood before that tombstone set above an empty coffin, that grave became a metaphor for his life. He was dead. Alexander Wilkinson was dead to everyone he’d ever loved. Why not make it the truth?

He’d foolishly cried standing there, mourning for his brother and also for the other little boy, whom his father had killed without compunction. That betrayal had scorched him, and deadened him for a long while afterward.

The only thing that had stopped him from suicide was knowing the grief his death would bring Monsieur. And the only thing that had brought him out of that dark place was the knowledge that Monsieur was suffering for him. “You are well, mon fils?” he would ask worriedly, and Alexander would always nod his head until finally it was the truth.

Now, he could feel himself standing at the edge of the kind of despair that killed men. “Coward,” he said softly to himself as he stared at the mural, at the two boys who played so full of joy by that lake. “You goddamned coward.”

In a frenzy, he began mixing paint usually used for a mural’s base, the sharp scent of solvent making his nostrils flare. Perhaps he would suffer this pain for the rest of his life, but he would not allow his mother to suffer it. He knew that when his father announced Oscar’s engagement at Elsie’s birthday ball, it was almost a certainty that his mother would be there. Taking up his largest brush, he began slashing at the scene, once, twice, before stopping to look once more at his beloved brother’s face.

He reached up and touched him, as if he were touching flesh and bone instead of the cold paint and plaster. That day, up until the moment of his brother’s death, had been the happiest of Alexander’s life. Any day spent frolicking about with Henry was a happy day, but this one in particular, had been marvelously joyous.

The two boys, ages twelve and ten, swam in the lake within site of Warbeck Abbey, the principal residence of their father, His Grace, the Duke of Kingston. They were not supposed to be in the lake, not at that time of the morning, when Henry was supposed to have been in the classroom with their frazzled tutor Mr. Thoresby. And this secret made swimming in the cold water all that much more enticing.

The idea to swim had been Henry’s, of course, for Alexander tried with all his being never to do anything that would cause him to be the center of attention. He lived in paralyzing fear of being called before their father, for it always ended the same way. Henry would charm his father and Alexander would enrage him, which resulted in a severe beating handed out by His Grace’s poor beleaguered secretary, Mr. Farnsworth. The only time he saw his father, other than rare glimpses through his office door, was when one of them did something wrong—and it was usually Alexander who bore the brunt of their punishment simply because he could not argue his case with the eloquence of his older brother.

Henry always defended him, raising him to heroic levels in Alexander’s eyes, but it did nothing to save the younger boy from his father’s scathing wrath. Inevitably, His Grace would demand to hear Alexander’s side of things, and that was when the trouble would start. For Alexander could not speak in front of his father, could not utter a word, no matter how hard he tried, no matter the consequences, which only enraged his father all the more.

He’d stand there, feeling his throat fill with something thick and dark, while he trembled with the effort to answer his father’s shouted question. And then, for his stubbornness and insubordination, for having the audacity to refuse to answer his father’s questions, he would receive a beating. Worse, though, was receiving his father’s look of pure disgust.

But spending time with Henry was almost worth having to go before his father and suffer in silence as his father spat venom at him while he shook and gasped for breath, trying with all his might to say one word, just one, that his father wanted him to say.

“Race me to the rock,” Alexander shouted, running into the lake, his pale backside naked for all to see. Henry gave his brother the head start he needed to make a race of it, then ran full tilt, water splashing about, laughing with abandon, before he dove into the water and started swimming to his younger brother.

The boys reached the rock at about the same time, scrambling up its slippery surface. More of the rock was showing this time of year, for the area had suffered a minor drought, which made climbing to the top all the more difficult.

“Thoresby will see us if we stay on top,” Alexander said, slightly out of breath from the swim and the climb. He held his hand out to Henry and heaved him up, even though Henry could easily make the climb himself.

“I don’t care,” Henry said bravely, though he did sneak a look toward the grand house to see if Thoresby was running toward the lake. “I’m off to school in a week, so I deserve a break.”

Alexander scowled, not liking the reminder that his brother would be leaving for school in a matter of days. He’d be left here with their younger brother, Oscar, who at three years old was nothing more than a baby to pester him. He could not go to school with Henry. He had tried, but could not speak to the professors. Thoresby had been with the boys since they were small, and Alexander had no trouble speaking to him, which only proved to his father that his inability to talk to his new professors was pure obstinacy.

“I wish I could go with you,” Alexander said, not for the first time.

Henry wiped his wet hair from his face and grinned. “You’re not missing anything, but you could go if you wanted to.”

Alexander felt that familiar burning in his gut whenever anyone mentioned his defect. No one understood, least of all him, why he could only speak to some people, why he would stand in front of others like an idiot and open his mouth futilely, looking like some sort of imbecile. He hated it, hated himself, hated every human in England.

“I can’t,” he said, turning away from his brother.

“I’ll give you a million pounds.”

“You don’t have a million pounds,” Alexander said, and found himself smiling.

“I will some day. When I’m the duke.” Henry stood up and shook himself like a dog, droplets of water falling on Alexander’s face like cool rain. “Race you to the gazebo,” he said, right before diving in.

Alexander stood and jumped in. He didn’t like diving from so high, something Henry had teased him about more than once. The cold water covered his head, his ears filled with the rush of water and bubbles, and he burst to the surface, ready to follow his brother to the distant shore, where the whitewashed gazebo sat a few yards from the beach.

Except Henry was not there, swimming strongly ahead of him. The water was calm. Silent. Alexander wasn’t immediately worried, for Henry had played this game before, rushing to the surface just as Alexander was beginning to think that no one, not even Henry, could stay under for so long. He waited, treading the surface, telling himself Henry was fine, that he’d pop up laughing, spitting lake water onto him.

And he waited.

Until the panic set in, until he knew that not even Henry could stay under as long as this. He dove under, his eyes wide open, straining to see anything in the clear water. He rose to the surface, gasping for breath, and called out Henry’s name, before diving down again. On the third try, he saw his brother’s pale form on the bottom of the lake near an underwater rock outcropping. Grabbing his hair, he pulled up, swimming frantically toward the rock, crying, screaming, his lungs burning, his throat raw. His hand grasped the rock and he pulled up with all his might so that Henry’shead would be above the surface.

Thoresby was on shore, shucking his shoes, swimming toward him, taking Henry from him, swimming to shore, dragging his brother behind. Alexander stayed at the rock, staring at Thoresby as he dragged Henry onto the beach and shook him, pleading with his brother to awaken, crying. As Alexander clutched the rock, shivering, it seemed as if the entire house emptied of all occupants, and among them, his mother. And his father.

He swam to shore slowly, unnoticed, until he stepped up, dripping and naked, next to the now-covered, still body of his brother.

“Not Henry,” his father said, his voice harsh. “By God, not
him
.” And then his father raised his eyes and looked at his second son with such pure loathing, Alexander fell to his knees, shaking his head as if denying his brother’s death, his father’s hatred.

“What happened?” his father shouted, stepping toward his son. “What happened?”

Alexander had covered his ears, still shaking his head, but he could hear his father shouting, shouting, shouting and his own silence screaming in his head.

A few more deft strokes of the brush, and the scene was gone, those two smiling boys obliterated forever. The ballroom door opened and he heard his mentor gasp.

“What have you done, mon fils? The mademoiselle, she will be angry, non?”

Alexander stared bleakly at the mess he’d made, feeling hollow and so very tired.

“It is all right. It is still the most beautiful mural,” Monsieur said, his tone soothing, like it was when he’d awaken from a nightmare as a boy. “You can fix it and it will be beautiful. Perhaps a swan or two? A big frog, eh?”

Alexander forced a smile and gave Monsieur what he needed, a small nod.

“You are well, non?”

BOOK: When a Duke Says I Do

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