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Authors: Brenda Joyce
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Duchess was there?" Martha moaned. "She saw you at his house? Nicole,
you didn't have a chaperone with you, did you?" The question was hopeful.
Nicole shook her head.
"Yesterday I went back to Chapman Hall—he had invited me to return.
Somehow he had found out I was unwed, and everything changed. The bastard! He
was as cold as ice, apologizing for his mistake, and telling me I must never
come again. As if I would!"
"Oh, God!"
Martha said, causing Nicole to widen her eyes.
"He thought I was
some married trollop he would amuse himself with," Nicole whispered
urgently. "Oh, I hate him!"
"Oh, Nicole,"
Martha took her hand, squeezing it. He didn't—he only kissed you—didn't
he?"
Nicole flushed. She
remembered how his body had pressed hers into the grass, how he had unfastened
her jacket, how his hands had stroked up intimately along the length of her
inner thighs. Her body began to throb in response to her vivid mental
rampaging. "I'm still a virgin, if that's what you're asking."
"Then no harm is
done," Martha said, patting her hand and sighing in relief. "Oh, you
poor dear! Clayborough is a terrible rake, you know, and quite ruthless. No
woman holds his interest for very long, it's said, not even his mistresses. And
supposedly his mistresses are the most beautiful women in the realm."
"He has more than
one?" Nicole asked, feeling hurt all over again.
"No, he keeps one
at a time." Martha saw her expression and added, "But so do most
men."
"Robert doesn't,
does he?" Suddenly Nicole wished she had bitten off her tongue, for the
question was too intimate to ask, even of her best friend.
But Martha smiled, her
expression soft. "No, Robert doesn't, and I am very lucky."
Nicole knew how much
Martha loved her husband and how he adored her. "You are very lucky,"
she agreed.
Martha looked at her.
"I think Clayborough was taken with you, Nicole."
"He thought I was
married."
"I still think he
was taken with you. I see him from time to time in London, and he never shows
any interest in any lady; they are always throwing themselves at him. Except,
of course, for Lady Elizabeth Martindale."
"Lady Elizabeth
Martindale?"
"The Marquess of
Stafford's daughter." Martha made a face. "I do think he was taken
with you. Oh, it's too bad they are engaged!"
Nicole froze. "He
is engaged to her?"
"You didn't
know?"
"I know nothing
about him," Nicole said, the room suddenly very still around her.
"They have been
engaged a very long time, since she was two—and she is just eighteen,"
Martha said gently, as if
to soften the blow. "Tis always been a fact that the Duke of Clayborough
is unavailable, much to every young lady's dismay. She is to have her season,
and they are to be wed this summer."
"I see,"
Nicole said stiffly, standing up. Her pulse began to roar, deafening her. A
betrothal made between two such powerful families, one that had been sustained
for sixteen years, was written in stone. He was as good as married.
Nicole saw red.
So he had not just
thought her married, he was betrothed to another, and in seven or eight months
he would be wed. He was more despicable than she had ever dreamed!
"Nicole,"
Martha stood, too, looking worried. "Sit down and drink some tea.
Please."
Nicole looked at her,
her eyes blazing. "I thought he wanted to marry me! Me!"
"Oh, Nicole!"
Nicole turned and strode
toward the door, rage in every single one of her long strides.
"Nicole, where are
you going?" Martha cried frantically. "Don't do something you shall
regret! Please, don't!"
If Nicole heard her, she
gave no sign. Moments later Martha saw her on her blood red thorougbred, riding
astride, her nose almost buried in the stallion's black mane, galloping from
the stables in the direction of Chapman Hall.
The Duke left the
stable, the sounds of hammers pounding on wood following him. He was replacing
the two back walls of the barn, which were sadly in need of repair. So far, he
was satisfied with the progress the laborers he had
Duchess was there?" Martha moaned. "She saw you at his house? Nicole,
you didn't have a chaperone with you, did you?" The question was hopeful.
Nicole shook her head.
"Yesterday I went back to Chapman Hall—he had invited me to return.
Somehow he had found out I was unwed, and everything changed. The bastard! He
was as cold as ice, apologizing for his mistake, and telling me I must never
come again. As if I would!"
"Oh, God!"
Martha said, causing Nicole to widen her eyes.
"He thought I was
some married trollop he would amuse himself with," Nicole whispered
urgently. "Oh, I hate him!"
"Oh, Nicole,"
Martha took her hand, squeezing it. He didn't—he only kissed you—didn't
he?"
Nicole flushed. She
remembered how his body had pressed hers into the grass, how he had unfastened
her jacket, how his hands had stroked up intimately along the length of her
inner thighs. Her body began to throb in response to her vivid mental
rampaging. "I'm still a virgin, if that's what you're asking."
"Then no harm is
done," Martha said, patting her hand and sighing in relief. "Oh, you
poor dear! Clayborough is a terrible rake, you know, and quite ruthless. No
woman holds his interest for very long, it's said, not even his mistresses. And
supposedly his mistresses are the most beautiful women in the realm."
"He has more than
one?" Nicole asked, feeling hurt all over again.
"No, he keeps one
at a time." Martha saw her expression and added, "But so do most
men."
"Robert doesn't,
does he?" Suddenly Nicole wished she had bitten off her tongue, for the
question was too intimate to ask, even of her best friend.
But Martha smiled, her
expression soft. "No, Robert doesn't, and I am very lucky."
Nicole knew how much
Martha loved her husband and how he adored her. "You are very lucky,"
she agreed.
Martha looked at her.
"I think Clayborough was taken with you, Nicole."
"He thought I was
married."
"I still think he
was taken with you. I see him from time to time in London, and he never shows
any interest in any lady; they are always throwing themselves at him. Except,
of course, for Lady Elizabeth Martindale."
"Lady Elizabeth
Martindale?"
"The Marquess of
Stafford's daughter." Martha made a face. "I do think he was taken
with you. Oh, it's too bad they are engaged!"
Nicole froze. "He
is engaged to her?"
"You didn't
know?"
"I know nothing
about him," Nicole said, the room suddenly very still around her.
"They have been
engaged a very long time, since she was two—and she is just eighteen,"
Martha said gently, as if
to soften the blow. "Tis always been a fact that the Duke of Clayborough
is unavailable, much to every young lady's dismay. She is to have her season,
and they are to be wed this summer."
"I see,"
Nicole said stiffly, standing up. Her pulse began to roar, deafening her. A
betrothal made between two such powerful families, one that had been sustained
for sixteen years, was written in stone. He was as good as married.
Nicole saw red.
So he had not just
thought her married, he was betrothed to another, and in seven or eight months
he would be wed. He was more despicable than she had ever dreamed!
"Nicole,"
Martha stood, too, looking worried. "Sit down and drink some tea.
Please."
Nicole looked at her,
her eyes blazing. "I thought he wanted to marry me! Me!"
"Oh, Nicole!"
Nicole turned and strode
toward the door, rage in every single one of her long strides.
"Nicole, where are
you going?" Martha cried frantically. "Don't do something you shall
regret! Please, don't!"
If Nicole heard her, she
gave no sign. Moments later Martha saw her on her blood red thorougbred, riding
astride, her nose almost buried in the stallion's black mane, galloping from
the stables in the direction of Chapman Hall.
The Duke left the
stable, the sounds of hammers pounding on wood following him. He was replacing
the two back walls of the barn, which were sadly in need of repair. So far, he
was satisfied with the progress the laborers he had
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