Page 34 of Unraveled by the Duke (Scandalous Duchesses #1)

T he house on Pall Mall was a handsome edifice with a white London stucco facade. Wide sash windows framed the door, which stood under a stone portico. Through those windows, and those of the upper floors, ladies and gentlemen could be seen moving slowly among the paintings.

Alexander offered his hand after he had alighted from the carriage, and Celia smiled as she accepted it. Gentlemen passing by lifted their hats, and both Celia and Alexander acknowledged each greeting politely.

“I think our charade is becoming more firmly cemented,” Celia murmured.

“That is how things appear,” Alexander replied. “I should say that we look like a happily married couple.”

“There may be something in that,” Celia said.

Alexander looked at her quizzically, but she hid behind the courteous smile she put on for the public.

They entered the building. The paintings from the collection hung on the walls, and the house itself seemed unchanged from when it had been the private residence of Mr. Angerstein.

“It is as though someone has opened their home to the public,” Celia remarked, taking in the old masters all around.

“That is precisely what has happened, though the owner is no longer with us,” came a feminine voice from the crowd filling the room.

The Dowager Duchess of Cheverton emerged, smiling politely at Celia and warmly at her stepson.

“What a surprise to see the two of you here.”

“I am quite the devotee of art, as I believe I have mentioned,” Celia said.

“Indeed, I had quite forgotten. Have you visited before?”

“I have not, and I now regret the omission. Oh my, is that the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba?” she exclaimed, seeing a painting on the other side of the hallway.

“By Lorrain. Yes, it is,” Violet confirmed.

“And The Woman Taken in Adultery!” Celia exclaimed, spotting another painting.

To Alexander, the second seemed dark and dreary, but his stepmother’s face lit up.

“You have a refined taste, indeed. I had no idea. Come. I have visited before—allow me to be your guide.”

She took Celia’s arm and steered her towards the first of the paintings that had elicited such a reaction.

Alexander followed slowly, mulling over the pictures and trying to find the passion that both Celia and his stepmother seemed to share.

“Your Grace, I did not deem you a patron of the arts.” Wainwright emerged from the crowd at Alexander’s elbow, speaking softly.

“I am not. My wife is,” Alexander replied. “Do you have news? If so, this is hardly the time or place. It is rather crowded.”

That was an understatement. The room was becoming increasingly hot due to the number of people filing in. The footfall of those on the stairs, moving in both directions, slowed almost to a halt.

Alexander found that despite this, he was enjoying watching Celia and Violet talk animatedly about the paintings.

Why, I cannot explain it, but I do enjoy seeing her happy. Perhaps because there has been so much friction between us. Neither of us deserves misery.

“Then shall we retire to somewhere more private. The gardens are well maintained and considerably quieter, Your Grace.”

Alexander nodded sharply. It would pass the time, and he hoped to hear good news.

Wainwright led the way through the throng, out of a door, and along a passageway. The crowds thinned, and eventually they were able to step through a door marked private and into a section of the house that was not being used for the gallery.

“Are you here by coincidence?” Alexander asked.

“Not entirely. I find the best way to keep my finger on the pulse of the ton is to frequent the places they do. Talk and be talked to. Listen, most of all. It is fortunate that I chose to come here today, and you are here as well.”

They walked through what had clearly once been the servants’ quarters and into a paved yard. Beyond was a brick arch that led out to a neat lawn with a riot of colorful bushes at the far end. A path disappeared into those bushes.

“Very well, Wainwright. What do I need to know?”

They continued walking across the lawn, leaving the babble leaking out of the gallery's windows behind them.

“Initial success with the seeds that I have been planting. I have heard my own tales repeated back to me as gospel truth. That the Duke of Cheverton had married, either for love or as a result of negotiations with the Earl of Scovell, and found happiness in the union.”

“Exactly what we wanted. So, why am I reading scurrilous rumors about my wife in scandal sheets?” Alexander demanded.

“I have seen the same gossip and heard it repeated in salons and coffee houses. I have tried to track the source of the gossip and failed, but I recognize the signs.”

Alexander stopped, glaring at the American, who looked back stolidly.

“What signs?”

“The signs of my work. I think there is another, employed by someone who means you ill, doing the same job. The same but opposite. As I quell the rumors, he or she starts them.”

Alexander snarled in frustration, clenching his fists. “She?”

“It could just as easily be a woman as a man in this particular arena, Your Grace,” Wainwright said smoothly.

“And you have no idea who it is? What am I paying you for, man?” Alexander scoffed.

“To look after your name and defeat those who want to drag it through the mud. But the one I am up against has resources that I do not.”

Alexander saw someone emerging from the house and strode away across the lawn. After a moment’s hesitation, Wainwright followed him.

“Then I should be employing them, not you. They are clearly your superior,” Alexander muttered.

“Now, yes. But I will win. Believe me, I will find who conspires against you and bring them down,” Wainwright declared, a note of determination in his voice.

Alexander liked it. This man was pivotal to the success of his plans.

“You said that they had resources you didn’t,” Alexander murmured as they stepped onto a path that wound between towering rhododendrons on either side.

“I did. But you can change that, Your Grace,” Wainwright said carefully, “if you wish success in this venture.”

“How much?” Alexander asked impatiently, seeing a lady and a gentleman walking arm in arm towards them.

Wainwright named a figure that made his eyebrows rise to his hairline.

The American looked back calmly and shrugged. “It is an expensive business, changing people’s minds. Many have already made up their minds about you. I did a good job on that score, remember?”

Alexander held back a scowl and forced a smile. “I know what I asked you to do and why I did it. You will get your money. I expect this gossip to be utterly quashed.”

He returned to the house, feeling disgruntled. The lady and gentleman who had passed him in the garden had barely spared him a glance, exchanging the most perfunctory of pleasantries. Wainwright had left with a pointed look in their direction.

His message was clear—some had accepted the Duke and Duchess of Cheverton, some had not.

It took Alexander some time to find Celia and Violet in the throng that seemed to have thickened since he had stepped outside.

Sweat dampened his face by the time he found them on the third floor, examining some portraits. He stopped in the doorway, letting the crowd flow by him.

Celia was talking animatedly, gesturing to the painting.

Violet’s responses were just as enthusiastic.

Alexander caught a glimpse of his wife’s face.

Her cheeks were red, and her eyes were bright as stars.

There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead, darkening her hairline.

It reminded him of how she had looked when they had made love.

That thought stirred an odd mix of rough desire and tenderness.

Enough tenderness that it put him on his guard.

He wanted to look away, but he could not. She drew him in like a magnet. He could accept the desire, but not the tenderness. Desire was a primal emotion, driven by base urges. Tenderness came from love, and he wanted no part of it.

“A fine woman you have there, Cheverton,” said a man who stepped up to his side.

Alexander turned to find the Duke of Westminster, a man older than him and statesmanlike with silver running through his dark hair.

He inclined his head. “Thank you for the compliment, Westminster.”

“I’m not one to dabble in gossip, but I’ve heard rumors about you that I do not like. I’m glad to see they are not true,” Westminster admitted. “Your wife is a delight. I don’t know her family, but she is a credit to them.”

Alexander felt a surge of pride at the praise.

She is my wife, and she is well regarded. My wife.

“The two of you should join us for luncheon some time soon. I will send you a card.”

The Duke of Westminster moved on, and Alexander turned his attention back to his wife. She was looking at him. Her eyes held his with the irresistible force of gravity.

At that moment, he realized that he had no right to take pride in the praise he had been given by one of his peers. Because the praise was unearned. She was not his wife, not in any real sense. It was all false.

But that is why we got married. To fool everyone into believing there is no scandal. And it is working, at least partially.

But it did nothing to quiet the voice at the back of his mind that insisted he did not deserve to feel pride. Worse, if he gave in to that feeling, if he embraced it, then maybe their marriage would become real .

Which I do not want and have never wanted. I will not fall in love. I will not be weakened and taken advantage of.

Celia and Violet were making their way towards him, arm in arm.

“Have you had your fill of over-crowded, over-heated rooms?” he asked.

“We have, and we have gorged our souls on some of the finest works of art,” Violet gushed.

“Excellent. Now, let us get out into the fresh air. I am suffocating,” Alexander said.

He allowed Celia to take his arm and guided them both out of 100 Pall Mall, feeling relief at the cool, fresh air on his face and the space around him.

Their carriage arrived, and Violet leaned out of the window to the driver.

“Cheverton,” she commanded.

“We should go to Finsbury first,” Alexander said.

“No, we will not. I have decided that Celia should reside in Cheverton, as is proper. I will have her things brought over, and then you may recall Peggy and Samuels,” Violet declared.

“So, you have accepted her as Duchess,” Alexander murmured.

“I have. I had my reservations in the beginning, I must admit, but today has reassured me. I think Celia will make a fine duchess.”

“Congratulations,” Alexander said to Celia, “you have broken through one of the last lines of my defense. The Dowager Duchess was always going to be the harshest critic of any wife I take, particularly under these circumstances.”

“I have not tried to do anything other than be myself,” Celia stated. “I did not know Lady Violet was going to be here.”

“You knew she was fond of art,” Alexander countered.

“As am I. But if you think I knew which gallery among all of those that exist in London Lady Violet was going to attend today, then you ascribe to me magical powers that I do not have.”

That is a matter of debate. You are bewitching me no matter how hard I try to keep you away.

“I think not, Violet. I think it best that Celia continue to reside at Finsbury,” Alexander said.

He saw the disappointment on Celia’s face and turned away, refusing to acknowledge how it cut him.

This was my father’s mistake. He allowed himself to be taken advantage of, exploited by those who saw him as easy meat. The same will not happen to me.

“Do not be difficult, Alexander. Just because your marriage did not begin in the most ideal fashion does not mean it cannot end that way. I want her to reside with us at Cheverton,” Violet insisted.

“I am the master of Cheverton now. And I refuse,” Alexander said flatly.

When his stepmother drew in a breath to protest once more, he spoke over her.

“Enough. I will speak no more on it.” He thumped the roof of the carriage. “Driver, we will go to Finsbury House first. Then, take the Dowager Duchess home to Cheverton.”