Chapter Eighteen
After she returned from breakfast, Nellie sorted through the pile of beads, silk flowers, feathers, bits of net to trim hats, and gloves in her dressing room. She planned to send a note around to invite her mother to shop with her this morning. She wanted to purchase a toy for Marian and Gerald’s son, Frederick, who was turning three. And she needed a new pair of riding gloves. Charles had suggested riding in the park later in the afternoon.
As she settled her hat in place before the mirror, Lilly entered, carrying a package. “This just arrived for you, Your Grace.”
There was no name on the brown-paper package. Curious as to who sent it, Nellie placed it on her desk and cut the string with her scissors. Inside was a folded square of exquisitely hemmed linen and a note with the ducal monogram. It belonged to Charles. Nellie’s chest squeezed, and she reached for the note.
Your Grace, please return the duke’s handkerchief to him with my heartfelt thanks. He was such a comfort. Yours sincerely, Lady Drusilla, Marchioness of Thorburn.
She could smell the woman’s perfume, and it almost choked her. The words on the page seemed to blur before Nellie’s eyes.
She dragged in a breath.
“Listen to what Charles has to say,” Marian had instructed her. “Don’t leap to conclusions.”
But this was too much! Nellie clenched her fists and stalked the carpet. Arabella Forrester had fawned over Charles at dinner last evening, while Nellie attempted to remind herself that harmless flirting went on amongst the ton. But she was tired. The constant upset was a weight on her chest that pulled her down.
Snatching up the handkerchief, she descended the stairs to Charles’s study. A footman in the corridor hastily stepped forward to open the door for her.
She unceremoniously entered.
Alone, seated at his desk, Charles looked at her in surprise. “What is it, Nellie?”
She crossed the carpet into his orderly world. He had said something only yesterday about the untidy state of her desk, an innocuous comment, but for some obscure reason, outrage now bubbled up inside her like a torrent. “This!” She tossed the handkerchief down onto the leather desktop.
Charles eyed her, then picked it up. “It’s my handkerchief, so?”
“It was sent to me. Here is the letter.” She thrust it at him.
He pushed back his chair and took the note from her, scanned it, then tossed it aside. “I lent my handkerchief to the marchioness at the ball. Is that an offense? What are you accusing me of, Nellie?”
Did he look a little discomforted? “You left the ballroom to meet her. I saw you!”
He sighed. “Drusilla asked to speak to me on an urgent matter. I thought she was in trouble. She was upset, and I offered her my handkerchief. As there was nothing I could do to assist her, I left.” He frowned. “Is it necessary for me to account for everything I do?”
Nellie snorted. “I am tired of these mistresses of yours. You should keep better control over them.”
He eyed her coolly. “And just what mistresses would they be?”
She hated that he sounded so cold. He seemed like a stranger. Did she know him at all? She curled her hands at her sides. “I won’t be treated like a fool.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Arabella Forrester flirted shamelessly with you at dinner last night.”
He threw up his hands and gazed at her with disbelief. “And did I flirt back?”
Nelly feared she was losing the argument. “You laughed at something she said.”
“So laughing is no longer acceptable?” He smiled and rested a hip against the desk. “I can see you’re angry. I’m sorry this note has upset you, Nellie, but you are making a fuss over nothing.”
“Nothing!” she said through her teeth. Now she’d begun, she couldn’t hold back. The blood began to pound in her temples. “What about your French mistress, Mademoiselle Girard? She approached me in Bond Street.”
“What!” He slipped off the desk. “She spoke to you?”
Nellie nodded. “She said I could not hold on to you. A small dark-haired boy was with her. He has blue eyes. Is he your son, Charles?”
He scowled. “No, he isn’t.”
“I thought that he might be after she threw a red rose at your feet at the cathedral right after our wedding. And then the bunches of red roses have arrived every morning.”
Charles muttered under his breath. He turned, and with a sweep of his arm, sent everything on his desk flying: inkwell, pens, ledgers, a stack of files. Ink spilled over the carpet, the pounce pot spilled its contents, and the quills rolled about on the floor.
Shocked, Nellie stood stock still. She trembled. The controlled, calm man she had married made no attempt to pick them up again. He leaned forward and placed his palms flat on his desktop, not looking at her. “He is not my son,” he said in a cold voice. “And my association with Mademoiselle Girard ended months before I married you.”
“I saw the article in the gossip column of a newspaper.”
Charles straightened and faced her. “What article? It mentioned my name?”
“Of course the journalist didn’t mention your name. But it could only have been you. He described how he witnessed you leaving a burning building with the Frenchwoman in your arms.”
“This is not something I wish to discuss with my wife.” He frowned. “I see I shall have to, however. I visited the lady to end our association long before we met. Mademoiselle threw a lantern at me. Started a fire.” He sighed. “The child isn’t mine, Nellie. I can’t give you proof. You’ll have to take me at my word.”
“Perhaps you ask too much.” Nellie swiveled and left the room.
She heard him call her name as she ran down
