Alexander was going to be so angry. She huddled under the coverlet dreading the moment when his footsteps approached her bedchamber. She clenched her fists, her heart pounding, going over the horrible incident which had occurred in full view of many of his cronies.
Should she have brazened it out? Remained in the room and not fled to her apartment in disarray? Maybe she was overreacting— perhaps when he heard of her appalling behaviour he would laugh and continue his game of billiards. She might as well be invisible to him nowadays. Was it possible he might choose to ignore her this time as well?
Her failure to conceive was a bitter disappointment to them both. He had selected her for her breeding qualities in exactly the same way he would chose a mare to put to his stallion. She no longer had any illusions about her marriage. Her family had been saved from financial ruin by the settlement, The Duke of Rochester had bought himself a duchess. Her immature fantasies that one day he would love her had long since been trampled under his indifference.
How wrong, how naïve, she had been to believe she was anything more than an object, and one that did not live up to expectations at that. Thank God he spent his time in Town, leaving her to our own devices in the country.
She should be satisfied with her lot. After all, wasn’t she a duchess, dressed in the first stare of fashion, given as much pin-money as she wanted? For many women being left alone at night would be a bonus. He had not repeated his invitation that she join him at Grosvenor Square and she would not have gone if he had.
The mantel clock struck midnight. Alexander rarely retired until the small hours when he had acquaintances with him. The shooting season was well established and cub hunting was about to start. There was nothing these gentlemen liked better than to be shooting and chasing defenseless animals about the countryside.
Her stomach curdled. Why didn’t he come and get it over with? She closed her eyes, but the tears spilled anyway. She bit her lip—she would cry no more. She’d done enough these past months. Indeed, she couldn’t even recall the name of the obnoxious man who’d waylaid her in the drawing-room after dinner.
However justified her actions, she was the Duchess of Rochester. One thing her husband had made abundantly clear was that he would not tolerate her behaving in anything but the most seemly of manners. She shuddered as she remembered what he’d said when she’d thrown a glass of wine over that other gentleman. She was going to cast up her accounts. Her face was drenched with sweat. He had never raised a hand to her. Tonight would he extract a physical retribution?
Alexander downed his brandy before chalking his cue and preparing to take the shot. A hush fell on the billiard room— this was a crucial moment. A thousand guineas had been staked on the outcome of this pot. As he drew back his arm just as someone cleared his throat loudly and he miscued. The resulting screech of delight from the cronies of the man who stood to gain fuelled his anger. With clenched fists he turned to find Foster standing rigidly behind him. His butler knew better than to interrupt unless it was a matter of extreme urgency.
“What is it, man? It had better be good or you’ll be leaving Newcomb this very night.”
Foster’s whispered words were barely discernible in the hubbub. “If I could be permitted to have a word with you, your grace, in private.”
Alexander tossed his cue to one of the gentlemen still celebrating the wager and stepped out of earshot. “Well?” His head thumped like the very devil. He’d been drinking heavily since early afternoon which did nothing to improve his digestion or his temper. Even in his befuddled state he saw his servant stiffen as if expecting a blow.
“There has been an incident in the drawing-room, involving her grace. Your presence is required immediately.”
He had been angry before. Now he was incandescent. The only kind of incident he could imagine that could involve Isobel was that some bastard had made advances to her. If that was the case, he’d put a bullet through the man’s heart after he had beaten him to a pulp.
He strode out and the cold air all but flattened him after the fug of the billiard room. The long passageways in this barrack were never heated. Although not yet winter the nights were cold and the prodigious amount of glass along this side of the house did not help. He was obliged to stop for a moment, resting his hand against the wall until his head stopped swimming.
When his stomach settled and his eyes cleared he continued, his fury building at every step. He was about to turn to the grand drawing-room when Foster spoke from behind him. The man was slightly out of breath.
“I beg your pardon, your grace, but Sir John is in an ante-room. I thought it best to remove him immediately.”
One thing he could rely on was the loyalty of his staff. Opening the door to a room he couldn’t remember entering before, he saw a man, slumped in an upright chair, Sir John Farnham—his head was encircled by a clean white bandage and judging by the amount of blood on his garments he had received a serious head wound.
His sharp features were not enhanced by the blood. The man glared at him. “No-one treats me with disrespect. Be very sure every house in Town will hear of this.”
Two gentlemen were hovering behind their friend. The shorter one, he misremembered his name, stepped forward.
“It’s a disgrace, Rochester. Sir John did no more than exchange pleasantries with your wife and she struck him down with a candlestick. He will demand substantial reparation for this outrage.”
Without hesitation Alexander grabbed the speaker by his cravat, lifting him bodily and shaking him like a rat. “If my wife was obliged to strike Farnham then it can be for only one reason. He made improper advances.” He tossed the man aside and he fell like an empty coat to the boards.
The second man instantly dodged behind the chair in which the bastard sat. Alexander wanted to throttle Farnham. He loomed over the seated man and Farnham flinched. Isobel would never encourage a gentleman to take liberties; she kept herself apart from his friends and hated every moment he forced her to act as his hostess.
Farnham shrank against the chair back. Alexander decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. “You and your associates will depart from here immediately. If I discover you when I rise tomorrow I shan’t hesitate to kill you.”
As he left the room he heard Farnham call after him. “You will pay for this, Rochester. I never forget a slight.”
Alexander ignored the comment. The man was of no account. The matter here was dealt with, but there were still his other guests. Before he entered the grand drawing-room he needed more brandy to steady his nerves. He detoured to his study, his private sanctum where no one ventured without invitation. He was shocked to find his hands were trembling— another drink should settle him down.
This incident would take more than diplomacy to defuse. His anger turned towards Isobel. Hadn’t he warned her that this kind of behaviour was unacceptable, would not be tolerated or excused a second time? Whatever the provocation the family name was sacrosanct, it must never be besmirched. Striking a man with a candlestick in front of his guests was going to send ripples throughout the ton. The people he’d gathered around him would not hesitate to gossip about what had happened.
He stepped into the drawing-room and viewed the assembly through narrowed eyes. There was not a person among them he would wish to call a friend—they were sycophants and hangers on. Some, like him, aristocrats, but others merely on the fringe of Society there to lap up what largesse he was prepared to throw their way. He shook his head and regretted it as he almost lost his balance. He cared not what this assortment of scroungers thought about his family. They could all depart the following morning. The shooting party was over. His icy stare sent shockwaves around the chamber and gradually the chatter stopped and every head turned his way.