Page 12 of His Runaway Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #3)

CHAPTER 12

“ A re you ready, Miss Belmont? I’ve got a great deal to show you.”

Alex was in a fine, chirpy mood. Daphne, who had slept badly, was not. The little sleep she’d gotten had been haunted by dreams of Edward leaning close to her, his eyes flat and blank as he explained to her that his life would not change one iota after his marriage and that he did not want it to change.

The implication, of course, being that he did not care about her .

What did you expect, you fool? That’s what this marriage is going to be. A friendship at best, at worst, devoid of all care or emotion. He’s only telling you the truth, stripped of any airy-fairy nonsense.

The truth it may be, but it was still hard to swallow.

Still, it’s better to realize what I’m getting into now, rather than childishly imagining that he’d turn into a handsome prince after we were married.

“Miss Belmont? Are you listening?”

She jolted, waking up from her reverie, and glanced down at Alex, who was pouting up at her.

“I’m sorry, Alex, I’m just a little tired. So, where shall we start this tour?”

Already, preparations were being made for the wedding. Only that morning, Octavia, Anna, and Emily had gone to town to buy material for Daphne’s wedding dress. Daphne, of course, could not join them. She was under house arrest, more or less, until the wedding happened.

That was annoying.

Theo was wandering about the house somewhere—or perhaps he’d gone out, as he didn’t generally bother to explain his movements to Daphne—and Lady Clarissa was around somewhere. She hadn’t spoken to Daphne, or anyone, since that fateful dinner when the Duke had scolded her and made her apologize.

All in all, it looked set to be a boring day. Daphne had idled away the time while Alex did his morning lessons, and now it was at least mid-afternoon, and the day had slipped away while she wasn’t looking.

“I was wondering, Miss Belmont, if I could leave Master Alexander and yourself to take the tour yourselves?” Mrs. Trench asked. She was pale and heavy-eyed, and Daphne suspected it was the beginnings of a megrim. “I’m not feeling well. If I can lie down for an hour, then I’m sure…”

“Of course,” Daphne said at once, smiling. “Alex and I will entertain ourselves, won’t we?”

Mrs. Trench smiled in relief. “Thank you, Miss Belmont. I shall meet you both in the breakfast room for refreshments. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Daphne and Alex chorused.

A house tour conducted by a small boy was a good deal more interesting than Daphne had imagined. Alex did seem to have an impressive knowledge of the history of the house, but he mostly ignored the facts for more interesting bits of information.

“That corner is where I threw up a few years ago after Christmas dinner. I ate too many marzipans. Papa was not pleased. Oh, and you can’t see it, but there’s a hole in the rug where Papa knocked over a candle and it set fire to the carpet. It was quite a commotion. Ooh, and this hallway was said to be haunted. All the maids said that they felt a nasty, cold presence here, but it turned out to be a mousehole in the walls that let in a draft. And here…”

Daphne found that she was enjoying herself. Alex was a likable, little boy, precociously clever but not spoiled. They skipped through room after room, seemingly at random, until they finally stopped in front of a tall, brass-studded door with a key hanging on a hook high beside it.

“This is the gallery,” Alex said, suddenly hesitant. “I don’t go in here very often, but it has lots of pictures. It’s kept locked, but I can never reach the key.”

He shot her a quick, unreadable look, and Daphne smiled back at him.

“I’ll unlock the door, don’t you worry.”

She unhooked the key and pushed open the heavy door. A rush of cold air hit them, and Alex went skipping ahead.

The gallery was darker than Daphne had imagined, on account of most of the curtains being closed. She wondered if that was to stop the paintings from being damaged by the sun.

“Come look at this one!” Alex called from the bottom of the hall. “This one is my mother!”

Her throat tightened. The hallway suddenly seemed very long and empty, her footsteps echoing. Alex smiled at her, patient as she approached.

At last, Daphne was there, and there was nothing to do but turn and look up at Alex’s mother, and Edward’s first wife.

There was a brass plaque beneath the painting: Lady Jane Fitzgerald (nee Haversham), Duchess of Thornbridge.

The woman in the picture did not look much like Beatrice. There were some similarities—the coppery hair, the soft, pretty eyes—but not much else. The late Duchess had been petite, judging by the painting, with a long, dainty neck and delicate arms and hands. She wore a resplendent blue gown—velvet, by the looks of it—and diamonds glittered around her throat, on her fingers, and on her ears. She was remarkably pretty, and she was smiling in the portrait.

Daphne swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”

“She was,” Alex agreed with a sigh. “Everybody says so. And she was very kind and nice. Peter Tinn, the steward, knew her and said that everybody who met her loved her. She could get Papa to do anything. He’d go to balls and parties with her, and they even invited people here. They used to go to London together, although she didn’t much like London. She liked the countryside.”

“I see.”

Daphne’s neck was beginning to ache, looking up at the huge portrait. She could see traces of old black lace around the edges of the portrait. It had clearly been swathed in a veil at one point, no doubt as part of a mourning ceremony.

“Your Papa must have loved her very much.”

“I suppose so,” Alex conceded. “I wish I could have known her. Do you think she would have liked me?”

Daphne glanced sharply down at him. “ Liked you? Alex, she was your mother. She would have loved you more than anything in the world.”

Alex did not seem pleased by this. He scuffed the toe of his shoe along the floor.

“Liking and loving somebody are different things, I think,” he mumbled. “Papa loves me, or so he says, but I don’t think he likes me very much.”

Daphne’s chest clenched. She opened her mouth to say something—she wasn’t entirely sure what—but was interrupted by a bang at the other end of the hallway. They both spun around to see Edward marching towards them, his face set and angry. His footsteps echoed, and a bad mood rolled off him like mist.

“What are you doing in here?” he barked before he’d even gotten halfway down the hall.

Daphne put herself between Alex, who had shrunk back, and his father.

“Alex is giving me a tour of the house,” she shot back. “Why are you so angry about it?”

Edward stopped a few paces away from them. “This room is forbidden. Alex is not allowed in here, not ever. That’s why the door is kept locked. That is a rule. I’m surprised Mrs. Trench didn’t tell you. Where is she?”

“She’s ill,” Daphne responded. “And I didn’t know this room was off-limits.”

“I didn’t tell her, Papa,” Alex whispered, clutching at Daphne’s hand. “I just wanted to see inside. I wanted to show her Mama’s picture.”

Edward’s gaze flicked up to the portrait, who was smiling benignly down at them.

“Right. Well. You’ve seen it, so out you go. Go up to the schoolroom now, Alex. The tour is over.”

“But, Papa?—”

“Now, Alex!”

Alex’s face fell. He shuffled past Daphne and set off down the hallway, his head down. Daphne made to follow him, but Edward held out his hand, stopping her.

She glanced up at him, keeping her expression smooth. “What do you want?”

“I want you not to contradict the rules I’ve made for my son,” Edward responded coldly. “I want you to promise that you won’t.”

“I did not contradict you. I didn’t know! And why can’t he come in here? It’s just a gallery.”

Edward took a step closer. Daphne did not step back. She held his gaze defiantly.

She had expected anger, bluster, and perhaps a little shouting. She hadn’t expected him to sigh.

“He shouldn’t come in here,” he said in resignation, “because I’ve asked for it to be so. You can understand that, can’t you? A simple rule, easy enough to follow. It’s bad enough that my son seems to prefer your company to mine.”

She clenched her jaw. “That’s because his father avoids him and gives one-word answers.”

“I think that’s an exaggeration.”

She said nothing, holding his gaze. “Can I go, then?”

He stepped aside, holding out his hand. “You’re free to go wherever and whenever you like, Daphne. You aren’t a prisoner.”

“So then why do I feel like one?” she snapped.

Not waiting for a response, Daphne strode past him and hurried down the hallway. She half expected to hear him stomping after her, but there was nothing. He let her go. When she paused at the end of the hall, unable to resist turning around, she found him looking at her, a small figure in a large gallery.

Tingles ran down her spine, and she resolutely turned around.

Edward’s head was pounding.

You’re a fool . You’ve estranged your son, and now your wife-to-be can’t stand you. It’s a miracle, really, how you manage to turn everybody against you.

Last night had been a disaster. And it had all been going so well , too. They’d reached an almost comfortable accord.

And then he’d ruined it, speaking without thinking again.

It’s for the best, though . Curse or not, I’m not fit to be a husband. Our marriage is just a piece of bad luck. She needs to see that.

He turned to go but found himself glancing up at Jane’s portrait instead. She stared down, benevolent and so very unaccusing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said aloud. “I’m doing my best. The license has arrived, and the wedding is set for tomorrow. I’ll leave it to her mother to tell her that. It feels like I’m bringing news of the plague or something. Alex likes her, though. I think you’d like her if you met her.”

Jane, of course, said nothing.

Sighing, Edward turned to leave. Tapping footsteps approached, and he flinched, pausing.

For one mad moment, he thought it might be Daphne, come to throw herself dramatically into his arms and do something ridiculous, like claiming that she loved him. Why she would do that, he did not know.

It wasn’t Daphne. It was Peter Tinn.

“Your Grace,” he puffed, red-faced. “There’s… there’s another pair of guests.”

Edward blinked, frowning. “What? Guests? Who is it?”

Peter breathed out slowly. “It’s… Well, it’s the Duke and Duchess of Blackwood, Your Grace.”

Edward went very still. He could almost feel Jane’s painted eyes boring into him.

“Wait. Beatrice is here?”

She hadn’t changed. Edward established that as soon as he saw her. She and her husband—tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, and with a reputation for having eyes and ears everywhere—were lounging in one of the parlors, talking in low voices.

Edward paused at the door, nerves suddenly eating him up.

Come on, man. Don’t be a coward.

Breathing out slowly, he stepped inside.

The Duke and Duchess both turned to look at him.

Beatrice rose to her feet.

“Edward,” she said, her voice soft and a little wobbly. “I… We… That is, I just came on account of everything. We came post-haste as soon as we heard. The Belmonts are close friends of ours, and I’ve known Daphne and Emily since they were little girls. I thought of writing to you, but we can travel just as fast as a letter. And anyway, I thought you might say no,” she added.

Edward smiled despite himself. “Well, you’re both welcome here, of course. Rooms are being prepared.”

“Are we welcome here?” the Duke of Blackwood spoke up. “Because Beatrice didn’t think that we were. It seems that since your late Duchess’s demise, you all but vanished from Society. We had no idea what might await us here.”

“Stephen, hush,” Beatrice scolded, shooting her husband a glare.

She was with child, Edward noticed, her belly pushing out the front of her gown. Almost subconsciously, her hand hovered over her stomach protectively.

Edward swallowed hard. “Congratulations, by the way. On the marriage. On the…” He paused, gesturing towards Beatrice’s belly.

He met her gaze and knew that she was thinking the same thing—Jane’s screams, echoing through the house. Her pale face, her eyes closed, the bed soaked with blood.

Beatrice lifted her chin. “I won’t die, Edward. I won’t.”

“I hope you don’t. I’ll pray for it,” he murmured, although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed for anything.

“You didn’t come to the wedding,” Stephen remarked, lifting one well-polished Hessian and admiring its shine. “We invited you. Beatrice hoped you’d come.”

“Never mind that now,” Beatrice said, shooting him another glare. He flashed her a mischievous smile. “Edward, I hope you’re glad to see us because I’m glad to see you . It’s been too long.”

Edward swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. “Yes, I suppose it has. But you’re here now. I imagine you’ve heard about… about everything.”

“About the scandal? Yes, we have, along with the whole of the country,” Stephen said, yawning and stretching like a cat. “I’d congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, but I don’t think they’d be well received.”

Beatrice sighed, rolling her eyes. “I am sorry about him , Edward. You’ll have to be forgiving because I’m unfortunately very fond of him.”

“I’ll try not to harm him.”

“Good. Now that we’re here, I was hoping…” She hesitated, fidgeting with the cuffs of her sleeves. “I thought perhaps… Well, I want to meet him. My nephew. Alexander.”

Edward nodded. “I thought you might. I sent for him before I came here. He should be here at any moment.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath.

On cue, footsteps and a high, childish voice sounded outside, and she reflexively began to fidget with her clothes, smoothing out her hair as if an eight-year-old boy was going to notice.

The Duke of Blackwood was on his feet in an instant, standing beside his wife. He smiled down at her, winking.

“Don’t worry, love. Everything will be fine, I promise,” he murmured, barely loud enough for Edward to hear.

Beatrice smiled up at him affectionately, and he kissed her forehead.

Feeling as though he were witnessing a private moment, Edward turned away.

The door opened. One of the maids stepped inside, hand in hand with Alex.

Alex paused, obviously disconcerted to see strangers standing in the room, and blinked around at them. Nobody spoke for a long minute.

Edward nodded at the maid, dismissing her.

Alex glanced up at his father. “Papa? What is it? Who are these people?”

Edward crouched down beside his son.

I wish I had time to prepare for this.

“Alex, you won’t know this woman,” he began hesitantly. “But this is the Duchess of Blackwood. She is your mother’s sister. Alex, this is your aunt Beatrice.”

Beatrice stepped forward, staring down at Alex.

“He looks so much like her,” she breathed.

Alex nervously lifted his little hand to his face. “Do I? Do I look like Mama?”

Beatrice carefully knelt down before the boy, supported by her husband.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Alex,” she said solemnly, holding out her hand. “I was there when you were born.”

Alex’s eyes widened, and he took his aunt’s hand.

Edward bit his lip, getting to his feet. It was a sweet moment, and he almost felt that?—

He froze as a dark figure in a white, flimsy gown flitted past the window, swathed in twilight.

Surely that wasn’t…

It is her. Of course, it’s her. The wretched girl is trying to escape.

“Do excuse me,” he said smoothly and glided out of the room.