The Fall of a Saint Read online

  * * *

  They stopped again in midafternoon, in a spot just as green and beautiful as the place where she had taken lunch. At supper, they found an inn where she was rushed to a private sitting room, and offered the best that the humble place could offer. The innkeeper and his daughter were scraping and bowing, as though her presence was their greatest possible honour.

  She thought to ask whether they had met the duke. Surely they must have, for it seemed this was a regular stop on the way to the manor and the most logical place to sup.

  At mention of her husband, the man grinned as though it were possible to see such a great man as friend, pronouncing him kind, gallant and good-humoured.

  His daughter produced what was quite obviously a virginal blush and sighed.

  So he was a hero in Aldricshire, as well. It was only she who hated him and only she who had been treated with anything less than total respect.

  Once again, there was that strange sensation in her stomach. It was probably just the upset of travel against the child forming in her. She had grown used to blaming any discomfort on the baby. But when she analysed the feelings, she was surprised to find that, after a single day of food and sleep, she felt worlds better than she had.

  The troubles she was experiencing now were not digestive. They were emotional. Was it envy of the innkeeper and his daughter? Jealousy that they were so obviously happy with the duke? Was this sadness that she was not part of the happy throng surrounding him? He was uniformly kind to friends, servants and strangers, even from the first moment of their acquaintance. But her interactions with him were permanently tainted. And though he gave the same treatment to her, she knew it was given grudgingly.

  * * *

  She had brooded on this for a time, until eventually they arrived at the manor. It was very nearly full dark and the carriage lamps had been lit for some time. But in expectation of their arrival, servants had lit similar lanterns on posts at the sides of the long drive, so that they would know that they were at last home and welcome to be so.

  Home. This massive edifice of grey stone was to be her home, for as long as she remained with the duke. Still, there was no sign of the master of the house.

  The coachman helped her down and ordered the unloading of her chests. And, when he thought she would not notice, he stepped to the woman waiting at the doorstep and gave her a quick hug and a kiss. Then he was all business again and she was straightening her housekeeper’s apron as though wishing to look pin perfect for the new lady of the house.

  Maddie shot a quick, questioning look to her maid.

  ‘They are brother and sister,’ Peg whispered back. ‘But they see each other so rarely, what with her bound to the house here and him being always in London.’

  ‘Surely Blake drives his Grace when he comes home.’ Even if he liked to ride, it made no sense that he would not at least send the carriage down as well when he came to Aldricshire.

  ‘But his Grace does not—’ Peg stopped as though unsure how much it was her business to tell, then decided the news must be harmless. ‘His Grace rarely stays in the country. He handles as much of the estate business as he can from London and leaves the rest to Mr Upton, who is his manager.’

  ‘But when Parliament is not in session?’ Maddie prompted.

  ‘He stays in London.’

  ‘Even in the heat of summer?’

  ‘Sometimes he goes to Bath,’ the maid said and then assured her, ‘The rooms he has there are quite the finest ones on the Crescent. I am sure, should he take you, that the house he will choose will be even nicer.’

  ‘And at Christmas?’ Maddie glanced at the house, imagining it decked with greens and ablaze with lights.

  ‘He is at some house party or other,’ the maid said. ‘His friends fight for the chance to host him, for he is most diverting company. Many of them have unattached daughters...’ The maid realised that she had spoken too freely, to hint to a new bride what a catch her husband had been. ‘He always says it would be quite unfair to Mrs Harker to force her to plan entertainments in a house that has no lady, no matter how eager she is to show the dandies from London what true hospitality might look like.’ The maid brightened. ‘But that will all be changed now you are here.’

  Because she was here. Peg was imagining exotic decorations, laughter, music and full guest rooms. For a moment, Maddie was struck by true terror of the change in her position. Arranging for the bridal breakfast had been a lark and she had taken pleasure in planning the most extreme party imaginable.

  But it had created an expectation amongst the ton. She would be expected to take the reins of a manor and to dress it lavishly, but in good taste. In six months, she would be great with child, or a new mother, and the house would be stacked to the rafters with friends of St Aldric, all expecting her to be the woman who had charmed a duke with her wit and novelty.

  If her husband could be forced into her company at all. Which she was beginning to expect he could not.

  Then she heard the distant hoofbeats and the trembling in the earth from an approaching horse coming hell for leather up the drive. The black beast seemed to materialise out of the darkness, covering the last yards at a full gallop, only to be brought to a sudden stop in a scattering of stone chips, just in front of the door.

  St Aldric came out of the saddle as easily as he had taken it, as though a day’s ride ending in a mad dash had been nothing at all to him. As he came forward, he looked at her in the same disapproving, accusatory way he had been doing before turning to look towards the house.

  Then she saw the true reason for his displeasure. This time, his expression did not change to his usual benign smile. He glared up at Aldric House—at turrets and wings, at the majestic stone griffons that flanked the entrance and at the perfection of windows, glittering like oil in the darkness about them—and mere disapproval became loathing.

  Perhaps it was a trick of the lantern light. When he stepped closer to the butler, the housekeeper and the rest of the waiting servants, his usual grin returned. It seemed so sincere most times. But it was nothing more than a role he was used to playing. He seemed truly to enjoy the company of his servants, enquiring after their health and their children and agreeing that it was, indeed, a very long time since he had seen them all. When he chanced to look away from their faces and at the house he was to enter, there was a tightness to his smile and a darkness in his blue eyes.

  He might like the people and hold a diplomatic dislike for her. But was she the only one to see the truth? He hated every last stone of his family home.

  Chapter Seven

  He was home.

  Or so the servants thought, at least. Michael was in no mood to enjoy their eager greetings and their good humour about the visit. He had been forced into this. It was yet another punishment for the mistake in Dover and for underestimating the damage he had done to the woman at his side.

  Perhaps he deserved to suffer. But it was too much to expect him to enjoy it. When they were through the doors, Madeline was given the briefest possible introduction to the assembled staff. Then he announced that they were ‘ready to retire’.

  He saw her glancing around at the inlaid marble floor of the entry, the paintings, the mirrors and the width and length of corridors that led off to an impressive number of well-appointed receiving rooms. When she saw the extent of her new home, she would gawk at it like a housemaid on a tour of Chatsworth. If he was kind to her, he’d admit that it was a common response. Even the most jaded aristocrats could not manage to be blasé about Aldric House.

  Only one who had lived here could learn to hate it.

  The worst was yet to come. He turned to the housekeeper. ‘I trust the rooms above are prepared for us?’

  She smiled sympathetically back at him. ‘They have been opened and aired, but are just as they were left, your
Grace.’

  ‘I see.’ He had done nothing with the floor above since his parents had died. The memories were too painful. In marrying Evelyn or someone like her, he’d hoped that he might have found a woman capable of taking on the job of renovation. But the wife he had chosen, though she seemed to enjoy spending his money, would likely think the arrangement a fitting punishment and refuse to touch a thing.

  He stared down at her, not bothering to disguise his feelings for her, or the situation she had landed him in. ‘It is late. Please allow me to show you to your chambers.’ Then he set out for the first floor, not bothering to see if she followed.

  The last thing he wished was to give further evidence of the man who dragged his heels on these trips and avoided his bed, drinking too long in the library and sleeping before the fire then staggering to his bed only when he was too tired to care. She would confuse weakness for debauchery and think it further evidence of his base character.

  He had dodged the trip in a closed carriage, the awkward questions, and even more awkward silences. He had dawdled along the way and been forced to gallop the last miles to avoid arriving so very much later than the new duchess. In truth, the burst of speed at the end had made it easier. The feeling of the wind in his face was like a cold slap, temporarily banishing imagined demons.

  Now he continued the speed and heard her laboured breathing. Judging by the cadence of her heels, she had to take two steps for each one of his. ‘You do not have to bother, if you do not wish to,’ she said, scampering on the mahogany steps as she hurried to catch up. But he refused to slow for her.

  ‘You were the one who was not content in London.’ They had reached the upper hall and he wheeled on her, causing her to draw up short and run into his body. Without thinking, he reached to steady her, then damned himself for his weakness and damned himself again for punishing the mother of his child, who must be tired from the ride. Whatever their differences, his feelings for this place were not her fault. Even without her complaints about the town house, he’d have taken her here eventually. One could not avoid one’s family seat for ever.

  He smiled down at her, hoping that she could feel the irony of it. ‘I had thought you would be interested in your new home. It is quite the grandest you are likely to see in all of England, short of the Colton House and the Grand Pavilion.’ After her behaviour in London, he expected her to covet it. To put a price tag on it and think of how many gowns the disposal of it might bring her. But there was no disposing of the prime symbol of his dukedom. If it had been possible, he’d have sold the place years ago.

  ‘Of course I am interested,’ she said, her voice small. ‘But surely the housekeeper might have helped me to my room. You needn’t have bothered,’ she repeated. Her eyes were large and round in her white face, as though she feared him again and feared being alone above stairs.

  He could understand that, at least, even if he could raise no sympathy. ‘The housekeeper does not know it as well as I do.’ It was only a house to her. Yet each room held a memory to him, especially the suites. ‘She may show you the downstairs tomorrow and give you a formal tour of the grounds. But tonight I will show you your sleeping quarters.’

  As he watched, she retreated from him, as though she was expecting a cell with a staple for manacles. Did she think this was some sort of prison?

  If so, it was not for her.

  He gestured to the left wing as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘My rooms. You have made it quite clear that you have no interest in them, so a tour is hardly necessary.’

  Then he gestured before him to the darkened alcove at the head of the stairs. ‘Behind that door is the nursery wing. There is a schoolroom, a playroom, rooms for children and bedrooms for nurse and governess or tutor. I doubt they have been aired. We will not bother with them tonight.’

  He had no doubt that the rooms were not just aired, but immaculate. His staff would allow nothing less. If there was a rumour that the new duchess might be enceinte, there would be fresh flowers, fires laid and candles lit tonight, so that the young couple could dote on the future.

  The thought made him sick. Better to bring a child up in his bachelor’s quarters in Bath than to keep the poor thing here. He tested the door to make sure it was properly locked.

  He turned from it and gave a casual gesture to his right. ‘These are your rooms. Lest you fear otherwise, this is the last time I will pass through this door.’ The hall was not precisely gloomy, but it was long enough that the ensconced candles had to struggle to fight back the darkness.

  She peered down the corridor as though afraid to advance.

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Why, all of them, of course.’ It gave him a small, bitter feeling of satisfaction to see the shock on her face. ‘If you wished to sleep apart from me, then your wish is granted.’ He pushed open doors as he passed them, barely looking at the interiors. ‘Rooms for your maids here and here. There is another closer to the bedroom, so that there will be no delay should you wish to summon her at night.’

  ‘Maids?’ The plural surprised her. Very good. The shock was satisfying. Let her see what it truly meant to be the Duchess of St Aldric.

  She was staring into the tiny rooms as though any one of them would content her.

  ‘The first guest room.’ Far from the duchess, his mother had reserved that as a sort of punishment for those swains who had fallen out of favour.

  ‘The box room for the trunks that will hold your wardrobe, when you travel. It saves the time of the servants hauling the things down from the attic whenever you take a whim to go to London.’ It had been another guest room, at one time, before his parents had ceased entertaining in a normal way. He could see Madeline wondering at it. Let the question answer itself. They had reached the end of the main hall and he pushed open doors on either side. ‘The guest suites, here, here and here. Each has a dressing room with space for a servant’s cot, should they wish to keep valets handy.’

  ‘Or maids,’ she added, naive creature that she was.

  He led her through the guest room on the left, opening a door on the far wall. ‘And here is your salon.’

  She was staring into the room, slack jawed with amazement. It had been long enough since he’d seen the room that he felt much the same. While the guest rooms had been similar in design to the elegant rooms of his town house, the salon walls were hung with Oriental silks. A large fireplace warmed it. The crystal chandeliers and sconces were fully lit and sparkling. A dining table and chairs took the middle of the room. At the end, there were armchairs, and in a place of honour, a chaise longue, covered in the same decadent fabric as the walls. He pushed through another door behind it to show her the dressing rooms and the maid’s cot. ‘And here is the corridor that leads to your bedroom.’

  If the salon had surprised her, the bedroom left her mute with shock. The exotic decor carried into the bedchamber, with thick rugs from Persia and a floor and bed strewn with cushions. Michael had often thanked God that, as a child, he had been barred from the wing. It saved him the pain of imagining his mother in residence here.

  Instead, he glanced down at his petite wife and wondered if she understood the meaning of what she was seeing. ‘Do you find this sufficiently remote?’

  ‘It’s huge.’ She could not manage anything else.

  ‘It is yours,’ he said, in blunt response to her amazement. ‘There are any number of doors between your room and mine. Each one has a lock, with only a single set of keys. You may open or close doors between the guest rooms and yours as you choose and entertain without fear of interruption. Do with it as you will. Take chocolate, or breakfast in bed. Have suppers in the salon. Entertain here any guests you choose, male or female. It does not matter to the staff, any more than it would to me. This is your sanctum: your refuge from the obviously onerous task of being my wife. It is fully equipped so that you needn�
��t come downstairs at all. Now, if you will excuse me...’

  He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he exited through the door on the far wall, which led him into another embarrassingly convenient guest suite, and eventually back into the main hall.

  Then he went back towards the master wing, disgusted with his own behaviour. It had given him a sort of sick pleasure to see Madeline stunned to silence by the opulence of her surroundings. But in this house, what other kind of pleasure could there ever be but an unhealthy one? With her trunks full of satins, and her horrible screeching birds and sad wastes of horseflesh, she had thought it possible that he could be shamed, or shocked, or even annoyed. What a silly little girl she was.

  It was a pity she had not met his mother. The woman had been a master of that game even before little Madeline was born. And that, too, had been in response to a husband who had earned his punishment.

  As he passed the nursery wing, his steps dragged a little. Was it still so cold there, as he remembered it? Now was not the time to investigate, if he wanted an untroubled night’s sleep. It would be difficult enough to get any rest here without brandy as an anaesthetic.

  Crossing the threshold on his side of the house was almost as difficult as coming to the house in the first place. Card rooms, billiards and a smoking room, all quite nice, if a bit gaudy. But they belonged on the ground floor and not tucked in amongst the bedrooms. Then there were the guest rooms. The staff had not bothered with the candles there, knowing how he detested the sight of their tasteless design. He had seen brothels in London with less of a sense of debauchery than the red-velvet hangings and excessive mirrors of his father’s guest chambers.

  At least his father had not bothered with the labyrinth of connecting rooms. While his mother had pretended to have favourites, his father had felt no embarrassment for the comings and goings from his bed. In fact, he often kept his door open to incite jealousy amongst the ladies who visited him. If one wanted his attention while he was occupied with another, she had but to enter the room and join in the fun.