Page 29 of A Tale of Two Dukes
Richard had developed a useful habit of coming wide awake very early in the morning, fully alert in an instant and ready for anything the day might bring at the sort of ungodly hour when most people were fast asleep, dreaming and defenceless.
Often, the path he had chosen in life – or perhaps it had chosen him – meant that he was obliged to sneak away when nobody else was up and about to catch him.
Sometimes, he needed to explore and map the place he happened to be staying in, unobserved; sometimes, there was a vital object or objects – papers, usually – that must be stolen and concealed, or copied and put back, as the case might be.
Once or twice, there’d been violence to be done: a smothering cloth, a blade in the dark, and then an innocent return to bed.
This late February morning brought a different kind of anxiety; though he had not the least desire in the world to drive her away, Viola had to be awakened and sent back to her cold chamber, so that she could make a credible pretence of sleeping in it once more to ensure that the servants suspected nothing.
Or, to be painfully accurate, if indeed they suspected something already, as well they might, given the Duke’s recent peculiar behaviour, she must make certain that their suspicions couldn’t be proved correct by any physical evidence, such as a missing duchess and an empty bed.
God knows he wished she could stay. If she were his wife, he wouldn’t be on the other side of the county peering at sickly sheep in a freezing field.
Let some other poor bastard do that. She was warm and glorious in his arms, and when he kissed her tenderly awake, she responded with such instant trust and passion that they made love again, fast and urgent and fiercely, heart-shakingly moving.
And then she slipped reluctantly from his embrace, dressed herself in the dark and left him, after more lingering kisses, not forgetting to take her burnt-down candle with her so that it too would be in its proper place if anyone thought to check.
He rolled over to where her warmth lingered and buried his face in the pillow that held the scent of her hair.
Which, of course, had much better be gone by the time the maid came to make the bed.
They did not meet at breakfast. He ate alone, but when she did appear, they went riding together as they had so often done before, and later took luncheon.
It was bitterly cold today, an icy wind cutting across the frozen landscape and sneaking into the house here and there to make one shiver.
They spent the afternoon reading quietly in the library rather than going out onto the ice or for a walk.
They didn’t have a great deal to say to each other in this semi-public place, and anyone who happened to see them together would have sensed a certain constraint between them, such as might easily fall between a young married woman and a male relative she didn’t know very well with whom she had unexpectedly and awkwardly been left unchaperoned in her home.
That wasn’t the true cause of their discomfort, of course – in reality, it was the shared knowledge that tonight would be the last that they could be sure of spending together.
Tomorrow was Friday, and Edward had said he would be back.
Perhaps they might have a final stolen night, if he failed to return, but they could not assume as much until late the next evening, and perhaps not even then.
They neither of them wished to grow complacent, or to play out some farce where he caught them together because they had been careless.
Would he simply turn and walk away, or would he be hypocrite enough to pretend he minded?
Would they be disgusted by his falseness and tell him that they knew what he was about, provoke an argument – and what then?
Viola, who was nothing less than trapped here, should not be put in such a precarious position.
‘I think I should leave tomorrow,’ he told her soberly after dinner.
‘I hate to go, but I do not see what else is to be done. I’ll write to Edward, tell him I have been called back to work unexpectedly, and apologise for my discourtesy in not waiting to say farewell to him, and in leaving you alone in his absence.
I don’t think I can face him; I think if he sees me, he will know straight away. ’
‘It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?’ she responded with a trace of bitterness.
‘He should be pleased if he thinks something has happened between us. Though he’ll be sorry you have gone so soon, and not stayed and made sure…
Oh, don’t look at me like that, Richard.
I know you are right. I agree, in fact. It would be unbearable, the three of us alone together in such a false situation, pretending nothing was wrong.
If you did not give our secret away by looking conscious, I would.
My nature is deplorably hasty, my mother is always telling me so; I’d lose my temper and cause a scene, and things would be said on all sides that could never be taken back.
However much I want to upbraid him as he deserves, I know I cannot risk it. ’
‘This way,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘if… nothing happens, if there are no consequences of our lovemaking, then he will never know for sure. He may suspect, but he cannot know. Perhaps that will be easier for you? Though I know there is no real comfort for you in any of this, my love.’
‘Easier? Perhaps. Even he, we must hope, cannot really be angry with me just because he thinks I have failed to play him false. As soon as I put it into words, it’s plain how ridiculous it is.
He certainly can’t say anything on the subject to me, not even a hint, if he believes I may possibly still be ignorant of his plans, and innocent.
Yes, it might be easier for me. Safer, certainly, to have his suspicions unconfirmed, until and unless… ’
‘We will have tonight.’
‘And I must be content with that, I know. I should not be greedy and want more of you than I can have.’
‘If there was any way?—’
She cut him off. ‘There is not. We both know it. I don’t need to be soothed with childish fantasies, my dear. I can face up to the truth. I have no choice.’
They repeated the farce of saying goodnight like virtual strangers and going off to their separate chambers, and once again, she crept along the silent corridors to join him an agonising while later.
Their lovemaking tonight was desperate, almost frantic – they both knew without speaking of it that it was possible that they’d never see each other again after this, or only meet very rarely, in public, where no private communication would be possible.
It was not quite true to say that the future was uncertain, because the possibilities were not infinite: Viola would either have a child or she would not, and from there, the road forked to two very different destinations, but neither of the lives that she might have as a consequence would ever include him.
It occurred to him now while they lay silent in his bed, their bodies touching but their thoughts private and unshared, that he really might in a few short months have a son or daughter in the world whom he would never get to know, never be a father to, possibly never even see as they grew.
Edward would be his or her father, in law and in day-to-day life.
He’d never considered the question of fatherhood before, except to take trouble to avoid it – he was still only one and twenty, after all – and the sense of anticipatory loss, almost of pain that swept over him took him entirely by surprise.
It seemed so wrong, he might even have said obscene.
How could Edward, who had so much already, steal his child from him, the child of the woman he loved that they’d made together?
But he didn’t mention any of it to Viola; what was the point?
They were both the losers here, but he had a great deal to do in the world, a great deal of danger to face that might easily bring his life to a premature conclusion before he could even know if a child was to be born, while she would remain here with Edward whatever happened.
It would be nothing more than selfish and cruel to make matters worse for her than they already were by babbling about his own potential hurt and loss.