The Duchess's Next Husband. Terri Brisbin
her husband. One look at the intensity on her friend’s face told her that it was too late for evasive maneuvers.
“What happened with Windmere?” Sophie’s voice was soft with concern.
“He got drunk and missed dinner….” Miranda stopped herself before revealing the more private appointment he’d missed.
“Men always drink. I’ve seen Windmere drink a fair amount before. That is really not surprising.”
Miranda looked at her friend. “He was completely foxed. Carrying on in his chambers, using vulgar language and throwing things. Even his valet tried to shield me from it. I do not remember him ever in this condition.”
Frowning, she thought back to the words he’d yelled, but his efficient servant’s coughing had covered most of them. She smoothed her skirts over her legs before looking back at Sophie. Skipping over the more personal details, she went on. “Then this morning he unexpectedly announced that he was leaving for Windmere Park and would be gone for some days.”
Sophie stood and walked over to her chair. Pulling a small stool alongside, she sat down on it and took her hand.
“Did he harm you, Miranda? You may tell me not to inquire, but did he hurt you during his attentions?”
“Sophie! How can you ask such a question?” Miranda tugged her hand free and moved back from the viscountess. “Windmere would never raise a hand to me.”
“I wasn’t speaking of his hands, Miranda. If he were drunk when he visited you for…conjugal intimacies, he could have done much harm. Are you well?”
She could feel the heat of embarrassment enter her cheeks. They had never spoken this candidly about such a topic, and Miranda was not certain how Sophie even knew.
“Come, Miranda. I know what your life is like since your husband became Duke of Windmere,” Sophie whispered more softly. “You both take the responsibilities and duties to the limit of serious, and your days, as set out by the dowager’s designs, are ruled by conformity and regularity. You once let it slip that he visited your bed on Thursdays, so it is not so unusual to expect it would be every Thursday.”
“He did not visit last evening.”
“Did he visit her?”
“The dowager?” Sophie’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. Miranda then realized of whom she spoke: Windmere’s mistress. “Of that, I have no idea.”
“Have you told him that you care?” Sophie asked.
“I do not know what you mean. I care not that he has a mistress. ’Tis the way of things.”
“John does not have one.”
Miranda glanced at Sophie and met her direct gaze. The dowager had made it quite clear that men of Windmere’s rank were expected to have a woman available to satisfy their baser needs. And that it was no concern of Miranda’s. Although their marriage had started out differently, Adrian’s move to the title had changed many, many things, including the physical side of their marriage.
“It is unseemly for a wife to…” Miranda began, quoting one of the dowager’s favorite admonitions.
“It is unseemly for a wife to ignore these signs of which you speak and act as though nothing is wrong. Miranda…” Sophie took her hand once more “…I would not encourage you to investigate this unless I was convinced that you are interested in your husband’s well-being and that of your marriage. You were so filled with life and anticipation when you first married. You had such a joie de vivre, and I thought that Windmere returned your feelings.”
“That was so long ago, Sophie, and so much has changed between us,” she said with resignation.
Any hopes she’d had had been eroded by each new responsibility and new duty of being a duchess married to an important peer of the realm. So many depended on him that she’d learned to stand back and become what he needed the most: a wife who understood her place. Now, they were both so changed from the man and woman who’d stood before the rector at Windmere House and exchanged marriage vows. And she was not certain that either of them could go back to the people they had been, even if they wanted to.
“If that were true, you would not be in the least bit perturbed by anything he did or said or did not do.”
Sighing, Miranda stood and walked toward the door of the drawing room. If nothing else, she was curious. Surely it was only that? Gathering up her bonnet from where she had tossed it, she placed it back on her head, securing the ribbons beneath her chin, and tugged on her gloves.
“I will return home and see if he has left yet.”
“A fair beginning. Call upon me if you need any assistance. Anything,” Sophie called out to her as the door was opened.
Sophie had done enough already, Miranda suspected. As her carriage moved through the streets of Mayfair toward home, she began to silently practice the words she would use to inquire as to any difficulties the duke might be facing. It had been so long since she’d permitted herself to ask personal questions of him that she feared even knowing how to phrase them.
And what if the problem involved Windmere’s mistress? Should Miranda simply turn away and let it be? How could she overcome the embarrassment and humiliation of having brought up such a personal concern?
News from the butler, however, gave her all the time in the world. Adrian had left word that he was out for the remainder of the day, would return very late this evening—no need to wait for him—and that he and his valet would leave for Windmere Park at dawn. She could send word of any problems to him there, through his secretary.
How exactly did one ask one’s husband through an intermediary the types of questions she was considering? Miranda spent most of that and the next few days pondering her next move and then decided that, in the proper way of things, a wife did not ask. But she also decided that she would. If there was any chance, no matter how slight, of peeling back the layers and reclaiming the man she’d married, it was worth the risks.
Three days after the duke left London for their estates in the north of England, the duchess received a note from her friend that caused her to send her own polite regrets to Lady Crispin and to the dowager. It would appear that neither the Duke nor Duchess of Windmere would be present for the ball on Saturday next, after all.
Chapter Four
Adrian watched out the window of his study as work on the estate continued as usual. His breathing had eased now, but he’d suffered two attacks during his travel here. Usually, the air felt easier to breathe in the country than in London, where the ash and dust and fog could make it rather uncomfortable. So long as he stayed away from the stables and the gardens, he remained free of those attacks the physicians and apothecaries called “hay fever.” It was the others, the more virulent, breath-stealing ones, that seemed to be on the increase.
The last seven days had been grueling for him—first traveling north to Windmere Park and then the extensive review of all his estate and family documents. If his steward here thought it strange that he should appear and demand to see all the records, he would never say so. They’d ridden to outlying farms, visited the rector in the village that lay on his property, and spoken to many of his tenants. Repairs and some changes to the summer and autumn crops were planned where needed. A larger selection of books was ordered for use by the rector’s wife to teach the children of the village.
The most difficult task yet lay ahead of him. His solicitor should be arriving either this day or the next, and Adrian would review and update his will. Although his title and most of the accompanying estates were entailed, he still had some discretionary properties and funds. He would feel better once those decisions and arrangements were made for everyone who depended on him for support or a living.
Turning from the window, Adrian picked up the glass of wine and drank from it. He’d learned the hard lesson of overimbibing the night he’d discovered his fate. His stomach had remained