He should have taken her in his arms and reassured her, insisted that what she feared wasn’t true. But he’d been shocked to the core by the distrust and accusation in her eyes. The lack of affection. As if she just didn’t know him. It crippled him, stopped him from reaching out to her. He heard her flee along the corridor, then her feet on the stairs, but struggled to compose himself. What could he say in his defense when she was clearly determined not to believe him?
The deuce! All he wanted was a peaceful life. Might that be impossible? Would Nellie now go off half-cocked every time he looked at another woman? Angelique’s behavior was, and he hoped he’d impressed on her that it must stop. He’d grown to depend on Nellie’s affection. He had no wish to take another mistress. He and Nellie must work out their differences, for he did not intend to live like a monk.
But she’d eyed him as if he was the worst kind of rake. Damn Drusilla! That note had been nothing short of combustible. As she had intended. A woman spurned? Might he have handled it more tactfully? He seemed to be failing on all counts.
Charles straightened his study. He refused to leave the mess to Barlow. On his knees, he ordered the sheets of paper, then dabbed ineffectually at the rug with the despised handkerchief. Then tossed it into the bin. His housekeeper would take care of the carpet stain. While he worked, he questioned why Nellie had not trusted him enough to come to him when all this began. He’d sensed an element of distrust in him almost from the moment they met, in fact. Unfathomable. And then he thought of the article she’d mentioned describing that business with Angelique. When had Nellie first seen it? Was it before they met?
He groaned as he regained his chair and clasped his head in his hands. He and Nellie had been together such a short time. He’d been content with his marriage, admiring Nellie, falling under her spell. Delighting in the passion they shared. How could he ever get that back? Convince her that he wasn’t guilty of adultery? He racked his brain for ways to put his case to her.
Finally calmer, he went upstairs with the hope she might at least listen to him.
“The duchess isn’t here, Your Grace,” Lilly told him when he entered her bedchamber.
As he made his way to his suite, his gaze settled on the mantel clock. They were to ride this afternoon. That was out. Nellie would be with Marian. It was a wonder his ears weren’t burning. No sense going there. But Marian was a wise soul. He could only hope she would present an alternate view, and not damn him to hell. Maybe she should for his blinkered short-sightedness. He had seen Angelique toss that rose at his feet outside the cathedral and chose to ignore it. He should have gone straight to her. Had it out with her. But he didn’t want to think of her while his head was filled with Nellie.
He entered his suite, where his valet brushed his riding coat. He sighed deeply. “I shan’t ride this afternoon, Feeley. My plans appear to have changed.”
“Right ye are, Your Grace.” Feeley put down the brush with that familiar expression, the one which matched his opinion of all women—more trouble than a barrel full of monkeys but worth every bit of it. It usually annoyed Charles, who thought the Irishman brought trouble on himself, but he didn’t have the energy to reprove him, not when he found himself in agreement.
“I’ll visit Jackson’s. I will return in two hours and require a bath.”
Leaving Feeley surprisingly silent, Charles, a tick in his jaw, stalked out of the house.
Chapter Nineteen
Nellie stayed some hours with Marian before she summoned the courage to go home. She finally entered the house with a fluttery feeling in her chest. “Is His Grace at home, Grove?”
“He returned an hour ago, Your Grace.”
Where had Charles been? Visiting his rose-loving mistress, or was it Drusilla? Nellie climbed the stairs slowly, trying to think what best to say to him. Marian cautioned her to be calm and reasonable, but she feared it was beyond her capabilities.
In her bedchamber, as she removed her bonnet and tidied her hair, Charles knocked and entered. She glanced at him with what she hoped was a cool expression. “I have been visiting Marian, in case you wondered.”
“I guessed as much.” He leaned against the bedpost, his legs crossed in a casual pose, which didn’t fool her. There was a troubling light in his eyes, the atmosphere in the room laden with tension. Her pulse beating fast, she put down her hairbrush.
He straightened and moved away from the bed.
She was relieved. Charles and beds brought too many memories to mind. And she would never win an argument there. The closeness and tenderness they had shared, could it be that way again?
“I don’t expect there’s much I can say to alter your low opinion of me, Nellie,” he said in a low voice. “You are determined to think the worst.”
Nellie longed for him to come and put his arms around her, but he kept his distance. She put a hand to her aching head and bit her lip. “The mistress, I might have been able to understand, Charles, if you swore she was in your past. But the marchioness, too? Or was Arabella Forrester about to be added to the list?”
He folded his arms with a frown. “That’s not worthy of an answer.”
Her throat was horribly tight. “Isn’t it? Then let’s not discuss it. It will get us nowhere.”
“I see that.” He bowed his head. “If you’ll excuse me, madame, I will be tied up until dinner.” He opened the door and strode out, shutting it quietly behind
