Page 44 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and peered down into the driveway.

Who was that standing there? Diccon, tall and upright, close by Atkins, who seemed more bowed and bent than usual, as though the weight of the world was bearing down on him.

She well knew that feeling. Difficult to see their faces from here, but by their demeanor, she guessed they were deep in conversation.

Or at least, Atkins was talking and Diccon, darling, wonderful Diccon, was listening.

Diccon, to whom she longed to open her heart and tell the truth.

An inescapable sense of foreboding crept over her. Something bad had happened.

Without stopping to put on any more clothing, nor even slide her feet into her slippers, she ran across the room and out onto the galleried landing.

The house was silent. No sign of any of the servants.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. Where was Isabella?

She turned her head to right and left, questing like a hound. Nothing. Light spilled in through the open front door, but the house remained mute. This house was well versed at holding its secrets to its bosom.

On bare feet, she sped down the stairs and across the hall, her peignoir trailing behind her in gossamer strands.

At the door, she halted, hand on the jamb.

Diccon and Atkins were still deep in conversation and hadn’t seen her.

For a moment, all she could do was watch them as she fought to catch her lost breath.

She could see Diccon’s face, his beloved face, as emotions flitted over it: anger, disgust, impotence, and finally compassion.

Atkins was telling him the truth. The truth she’d so wanted to share but been too afraid to.

As she watched, he ran a hand across his eyes as though he could wipe away what he was being told.

Impossible. She’d tried it often enough herself and failed. Nothing could ever wipe this away.

He knew. The secret was no longer just theirs.

With a little, frantic cry, she felt her legs fold beneath her as the ground seemed to come rushing up to meet her body. With a bang, her head hit the flagstones, she saw stars for a moment, and then merciful darkness enveloped her.

Sound returned first. Voices, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying because they were echoing as though in a huge bell chamber, the sound reverberating and hammering on her pounding skull.

She blinked open her eyes. At first, all was blurry, and then she saw the familiar ceiling of her bedroom, with its decorative plaster and the crack that ran across one corner.

“Dora.” Diccon’s voice, gentle, comforting, compassionate.

She remembered.

She blinked some more and his anxious face came into focus.

He knew.

She turned her head away as tears of shame welled, screwing her eyes tight shut against the light. She couldn’t look at him. Not ever. What must he be thinking?

His hand covered hers, warm and reassuring. “It’s all right, Dora. I know.”

She kept her eyes screwed tight shut. “Go away. I don’t want to see you. Please. Just leave me alone.” A sob broke through. “Oh God, I want to die. Let me die.”

“Shall I fetch Mrs. Barnes, Your Grace?” Atkins’s voice, low as though he were in the sick room. Of course. He was the one who’d betrayed them all to Diccon.

“No. We don’t need her.” Diccon’s voice again, kind, gentle still, as though what he’d just discovered didn’t matter at all.

He tightened his hold on her hand and she let herself take a peek at his beloved face.

“I’m here, Dora. I know what you did, and I don’t blame you for it. You couldn’t have done anything else.”

The import of his words began to sink in. He didn’t blame her. But that didn’t count, because she blamed herself. What she’d done was too terrible for words.

No. She screwed her eyes tight shut again. In an instant, she’d left the safety of her bedroom behind and was back on that fateful night.

Candles lit the gloomy library. Marcus, standing beside the large oak desk, was pouring a generous measure of brandy for himself.

Not his first by a long chalk, and he’d already been well foxed when they returned from the party.

The oppressive silence magnified the sound of the brandy slopping into the glass.

Isabella stood in front of the desk, upright and rigid, dressed in her cream evening gown, fury contorting her face.

From the door, her hand on the ornate knob, Dora watched, transfixed by a fear that seared through her body from her toes to the top of her head.

Not again. Please don’t let him hurt them.

Please. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

Isabella’s words cut into the silence like a hot knife slicing through butter.

“If you must disport yourself with that slut, kindly do so in private, or keep it to the salons of London where I cannot see it. Do not bring her into our circle of friends and expect me to tolerate your peccadilloes without saying anything.”

Marcus knocked back the brandy. “I had no idea she’d be there. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh really? No idea? When she is an especial friend of that dreadful Brocklebank woman who you know hates me? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you hadn’t asked her to invite the slut.”

Marcus laughed. If a laugh could ever have been called menacing, then this would have been it.

“So what? I can do whatever I like and you can’t prevent me.

And don’t you call her a slut. That’s a bit rich coming from the daughter of a shopkeeper.

” The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

He laughed some more as he poured himself another measure of brandy, some of it slopping over the glass’s rim and spilling onto the polished surface of the desk.

“A shopkeeper’s daughter whose fortune allows you to live the life you seem to prefer,” Isabella, upright as a young sapling, snapped back at him.

“A fortune which allows you to support a mistress, to gamble at high stakes, to indulge every whim you fancy.” Her lip curled.

“You think I can’t prevent you?” Isabella’s fists were clenched.

“I refuse to have you show me up in public the way you did tonight.”

Marcus, who had been well on the way to being drunk even before he’d broached the brandy, swayed a little and put a hand out to steady himself.

“Don’t make me laugh. Me, showing you up?

What about you with your coterie of tongue-lolling men, all anxious to get a hand up your skirts and your hand on their cocks.

For how many of them have you spread your legs and cuckolded me?

For that fop Wyndham, who can’t seem to leave your side?

I’d have his throat slit in a dark alley if I even cared.

But I don’t. Has old Brocklebank had you yet?

He was slavering to get his hands on you all night, so I think you haven’t let him in yet, but give it time.

A bitch in heat like you won’t be able to wait long.

You’re ready enough to give them what you won’t give me.

And you have the gall to wonder why I look elsewhere for what I should be getting at home.

” He laughed again. “I can tell you now that Barbara Dangerfield knows how to please a man in bed—not like you, just lying there with a look of scorn on your pretty face, waiting for it to be over.”

Dora clapped a hand over her mouth. She wanted to leave, but didn’t dare. And besides, she couldn’t leave Bella when Marcus was like this. She’d seen the bruises far too often. Worse than any he’d ever given her. She had to stay, for Bella’s sake.

Isabella’s hand shot out, fist still clenched, striking Marcus on the jaw.

He staggered backwards but remained upright.

His hand went up to rub his jaw. “Got a sting in your tail, have you?” And he lunged forwards.

But he was drunk, and Isabella dodged his grasping hand.

Instead, he caught the skirt of her gown. The delicate fabric ripped.

Isabella laughed. “You’ve drunk too much to catch me, husband.” Her lip curled in a sneer every bit as malicious as his. “I’ll leave you to rot your insides a little bit more, I think. Much more of that and you might do me a favor and turn up your toes.” She turned away from him.

Even half cut, he could be fast. This time she couldn’t have seen him coming.

He caught her by the shoulders and wrenched her round to face him, the top of her gown ripping this time.

His left hand came back and he struck her hard across the face.

He was a lot stronger than she was. She fell, catching her arm on the edge of the desk, and he followed her, looming over her in threat.

She curled herself into a ball in an attempt to protect herself.

“No one will miss you if you’re gone,” he grunted.

“I’m a duke. No one’s ever going to dare to question me about your disappearance.

” He leaned over her. “I’ll tell them you’ve gone abroad for your health.

” He laughed again. “No one’ll look for you. Mark my words.”

Dora cowered back in terror. He meant it this time. She’d seen his violence to Isabella so many times, but this time there was something terrifyingly different about it. He was far too drunk, and his eyes were mad, madder than usual, the pupils dilated. Had he taken something more than just brandy?

Dora glanced about herself in desperation. On the side table near the door lay his two dueling pistols, left ready for him by his valet so he could indulge his whim of target practice whenever he wanted.

Marcus kicked Isabella. She was scrabbling away across the floor, now, and he was following her, towering over her, the light of bloodlust hot in his eyes, his hair awry, spit drooling from his mouth. He’d never looked so ugly.

Dora blinked. She was beside the desk but had no idea how she’d got there. Her hand was reaching out of its own volition to pick up the nearest of the dueling pistols. It felt heavy in her hand as she lifted it.

“You little bitch,” Marcus snarled at Isabella.

“I don’t know why I ever married you. Oh yes, it was for your father’s money.

Well, I’ve got that now, and I don’t need you any longer.

And you couldn’t even give me the heir I needed.

You had to have a useless girl. A girl that didn’t even live.

Thank God. A useless girl I didn’t want. That was all you were ever good for.”

Dora floated across the library on legs that worked without any effort on her part. She was beside Marcus, on his right as he glared down at Isabella. He raised his foot above her beloved friend’s head, ready to stamp it down. Isabella glared back up at him, her face bloody, defiant to the last.

Dora pulled the trigger.

The pistol’s report brought her back into the present with a jerk.

“I didn’t mean to do it. I’ll tell you everything,” she whispered, and burst into tears.