Chapter Thirteen
The snow showed no sign of melting and Isobel resigned herself to the fact Alexander could not depart for several more days. Gradually she became accustomed to sharing her meals and her home with him once more. He was so pleasant, so charming and such lively company that being incarcerated with him was no hardship.
The fourth night of his visit they had been playing an entertaining game of Piquet, which he had won, when he tossed his cards on the table and walked over to the window. “I believe it’s raining, the snow will be gone by tomorrow.” He peered behind the heavy curtains and nodded.
“Listen, you can hear the flames spitting. It must be decidedly heavy to come down the chimney like this. The roads will be a quagmire; I think you had best wait until the carriage arrives. Your leg isn’t sufficiently recovered for you to ride back to Grosvenor Square,” Isobel said.
He grinned and stared ruefully at his injury. “As always, my dear, you’re quite correct. In which case, you must endure my presence for a further day or two.”
Resuming his seat he stared into the flames while she picked up her novel. Unexpectedly Sam appeared at the door his face creased with concern. He looked from one to the other and then addressed his mistress. “Excuse me for interrupting, my lady, but I’ve to tell you the ceiling has just collapsed in your bed chamber.”
“Good grief! How can that be? The roof was sound when I moved in, and we have had several heavy downpours since with no leaks at all.”
“I reckon the weight of the snow cracked the tiles and with all that melting and then this downpour it came right through.”
Alexander got to his feet. “Is it just this one room or are others affected?”
“There’s leaks springing up all down that side of the building, your grace.”
“The tiles are ancient. There’s been nothing done to this place for generations, small wonder they have given out under these extreme conditions. Move her grace’s belongings into my bed chamber.”
Isobel shot up sending her novel flying into the grate. Alexander grabbed the poker and flicked it from the flames before it burnt. Picking up the book he extinguished the remaining sparks with his fingers. “Not seriously damaged, a trifle pungent but definitely still readable.”
Her protest about his highhanded suggestion that she move into his bed chamber remained unspoken. “But what about your hand? Have you hurt it?”
He waggled his fingers in front of her face. “See, no damage to them either. I must go and see—”
“Alexander, I’m quite sure my staff are capable of placing buckets under the drips where necessary. There’s something I wish to say that’s more important than you overseeing the positioning of receptacles.”
Shrugging he returned to his chair and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Well, my dear, what’s it you wish to say to me?”
“If you think that I…”
“There’s no need to fly into the boughs, Isobel. I’ve no intention of remaining in my bed chamber once you’re safely installed there. You can be quite certain Watkins will be moving my belongings as we speak—after all he knows exactly how things are between us, does he not?”
Isobel ignored his comment. “Oh! There is something I’ve been meaning to say to you about the settlement we agreed to the other day.” His eyes were watchful but he made no comment. Emboldened by his silence she continued. “Sam was under the erroneous impression that you were sending him details of the estates you own and I did not disabuse him. On reflection I think it might be better if I moved somewhere within your demesne, I’ve no wish to cause unnecessary scandal for you or the child.”
He thumped the table scattering the cards on the floor. “Devil take it! Why did I not think of that myself? There’s already an estate you have undisputed claim to. Highfield House in Epping is held for each duchess in her lifetime. The revenue from the farms, which is substantial, will have been banked in your name since our marriage.”
“Why does this estate not pass down to the eldest daughter? It seems strange an estate should move from one duchess to the next like this.”
Alexander glanced down at his boots. “This estate comes down through my maternal great-great grandmother. You are not the first duchess to wish to live apart from her husband.”
“Are you telling me unhappy marriages are expected in this family?”
“I believe the Dukes of Rochester are infamous for their infidelities. My grandmother died at Highfield House, as did my own mama.”
Her stomach curdled, she stared at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time all week. Was he incapable of being the kind of man she wanted because he was genetically disposed to philander and abuse? Tears pricked her eyes as she recalled what Bentley had said about Lady Fulbright.
Carefully placing her singed book on the table she stood up and walked across to pull the bell strap. When the footman appeared she gave her instructions. “Go upstairs and see if the bed chamber being prepared for me is ready, I wish to retire.”
She could not resume her place, needed to be as far away as possible from her husband. Music would soothe her and the pianoforte was at the far end of the drawing-room. She needed no extra candlelight, she could play her favourite sonata from memory. Settling onto the piano stool she raised the lid and ran her fingers over the keys. Soon she was lost in the melody, her distress slipping away as the beauty of the music enveloped her.
Alexander slumped back into his chair. He’d seen the accusation in her eyes. That little bastard Bentley had told her about Gloria. When Lady Fulbright had invited him back to her home he had accompanied her, gone inside and dismissed his carriage. However that was as far as it had got, he’d changed his mind and told her the liaison was over, irrevocably so.
He’d not even removed his beaver or his topcoat, had left the house no more than three minutes after entering it and walked home regretting the impulse that had made him accept the offer in the first place. Someone had seen him go in and drawn their own conclusions. He did not blame Isobel for believing the worst, had he not just told her he came from a long line of philandering dukes?
He closed his eyes letting the sound of the piano wash over him. Then he was on his feet limping softly towards the far end of the room from which the glorious sound was coming. Why had Isobel never played for him like this? He’d no idea she was so talented; in fact, if he was honest, he barely knew the woman he’d married so precipitously. This was another serious omission in his part.
He positioned himself against the wall where he could see her face and watch her hands moving confidently up and down the keys. Her eyes were closed; she was lost in a world of her own— somewhere he could not reach her. Her glorious hair had grown and now curled around her face in a russet cap emphasizing the beauty of her magnificent green eyes. Her face was thinner than he remembered. Despite the growing mound of her pregnancy she was obviously losing weight elsewhere.
This was his fault as was everything else that had befallen her. Whatever she wanted from now on he would not quibble, would make no demands on her of any sort and let her find happiness where she could. She had loved him once and maybe in a year or two, when she saw he was completely reformed, she might love him again.
Isobel finished the sonata and slowly came back to her surroundings. A slight sound beside her made her turn her head but there was no one there - she must have been mistaken. With a sigh she closed the piano. Her room must be ready by now.
Alexander was standing by the fire his eyes alight with admiration. “I had no idea you could play so brilliantly, my dear. You’re a virtuoso; I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that piece played so well.”
“Thank you, it’s a great favourite of mine. Music has always been a solace; I can lose myself, forget the world around me when I’m playing.”
Mary appeared at the door looking somewhat flustered. “Your chamber is ready, my lady. Shall I send up a supper tray?”
“No, thank you, I need nothing else tonight. Have you found somewhere for his grace to sleep?”
