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“Adrian, I can put up with all of this.
“I am willing to live in this marriage with nothing more from you than your polite regard. I am even willing to let go of my dreams of having a husband who loves me. But I will not lie beneath you and pretend that I am happy. I will not lie still in my bed and act as though I do not want more.”
“You do not mind the liberties I took? You would welcome them?”
She could not admit to more embarrassing truths to him. She could not…
He lifted her chin and she thought she saw mirth glittering in his hazel-colored eyes. How could a woman not enjoy being naked with a man like this?
Miranda reached up and slid her fingers through his hair. Pulling his head down, she kissed him, tasting the brandy on his tongue and letting him taste her. Out of breath, she nodded to him in answer to the question that still circled inside her thoughts.
“I would welcome them, Adrian. I would.”
He kissed her this time, and she grabbed the lapels of his evening coat to keep her balance…!
The Duchess’s Next Husband
Harlequin Historical #751
Praise for Terri Brisbin
“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”
—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden
The Countess Bride
“Brisbin woos her readers with laughter and tears in this delightful and interesting tale of love.”
—Romantic Times
The Norman’s Bride
“A quick-paced story with engaging characters and a tender love story.”
—Romantic Times
The Dumont Bride
“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”
—Affaire de Coeur
The Duchess’s Next Husband
Terri Brisbin
Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN
The Dumont Bride #634
The Norman’s Bride #696
The Countess Bride #707
The Christmas Visit #727
“Love at First Step”
The King’s Mistress #735
The Betrothal #749
“The Claiming of Lady Joanna”
The Duchess’s Next Husband #751
To Mary Lou Frank, Susan Stevenson, Jennifer Wagner Schmidt, Lyn Wagner, Mary Stella and Colleen Admirand—wonderful women, talented writers and extraordinary friends and colleagues.
Thank you for being there through the ups and downs and everywhere in between, and especially for getting me through 2003 and 2004.
Huzzah!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
He slipped inside her body with a practiced ease from their many joinings. Although she softened beneath him, she gave no outward sign that she enjoyed this now as she had in the early days of their marriage. Judging from her reactions to his movements, it was most likely less now than then.
Adrian moved them efficiently toward completion and, even as she let out a soft sigh, he offered a silent prayer that this time they might be successful in creating the heir he needed so much. For the dukedom, he prayed, as he filled her once more and felt his seed begin to release. For his family name and honor, he urged silently, as he thrust deeper within her again. For the continuation of his name, he implored, to whatever power controlled these matters.
Without a word, he withdrew from his wife. Climbing from her bed, he tugged on his robe and ran his fingers through his hair. When he heard the telltale sound of her shifting, and the rustling of the bedcovers, he turned toward the bed and nodded.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. He always said the same thing, since he appreciated his wife’s cooperation and efforts to gain an heir.
“Windmere,” she replied softly, without ever meeting his gaze.
He nodded at her and returned to his dressing room. Within the hour, the Duke of Windmere was at his club enjoying a particularly good port. And he realized, as the butler served him without him saying a word, that his life was nothing if not predictable.
Chapter One
“Turn your head, if you please, Your Grace.”
Adrian Warfield, Duke of Windmere, suffered the poking and prodding in silence. His name and position had brought three of England’s leading physicians to his home, and his inbred manners prevented him from allowing the escape of the oaths he wanted to speak. If these three men could give him no answers, his future and that of his family and dukedom looked increasingly bleak. Allowing each of them in turn a chance to examine him, Adrian grew impatient when it seemed that the appointment dragged on for too long.
Finally, finally, they stepped away and he adjusted his shirt and waistcoat. Leaving the ends of his linen cravat hanging down on his chest, Adrian waited for their pronouncement. They stood in a cluster by his desk, whispering among themselves and glancing at him as they consulted on his condition.
“Well, Doctors. What is your diagnosis?” He liked none of the expressions that met his gaze. The silence grew until it made his skin itch, and he spat out one of the curses he’d held in until that moment. “Bloody hell! Just get on with it.”
They looked to each other before facing him.
“Your Grace, we have nothing new to offer you regarding your condition,” Dr. Penworthy said. His bushy eyebrows twitched, giving him a vaguely squirrel-like appearance.
“But it has worsened?” Adrian prepared himself for the worst.
“It has, Your Grace, but not so much that we are overly concerned by the changes you presented.” Dr. Lloyd pulled out a small notebook and nodded at the desk. “An adjustment or two to the tonics you are using should be just the thing to deal with the symptoms.”
Adrian stepped aside and allowed Dr. Lloyd to sit in his chair and write out instructions to the apothecary. Although Drs. Penworthy and Wilkins exchanged glances again, neither had any other recommendations and allowed Dr. Lloyd to speak for them.
“Your Grace, do not let these changes affect you so much. We know that a nervous personality will exacerbate your lung condition.” All three nodded in agreement and Adrian scowled in response at each of them individually. Dr. Lloyd held out the paper to him with the scrawled instructions. “Take the waters a few times this summer and you will feel like a new man.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Adrian fought for control over his frustration. No need to give the impression that he had the nervous personality they’d spoken of. No need to let on that he would like to strangle them all. Anger pulsed within him, alive, potent and growing. With an astuteness that surprised him, the three older men met his gaze directly. They knew how helpless he felt in the face of his condition. And helpless was not how a man wanted to feel.
“We will see ourselves out, Your Grace,” Dr. Wilkins said softly. “We are at your service if the need arises.”
Adrian accepted their bows and watched wordlessly as they opened the door and left. Realizing that he was crumbling the paper in his fist, he smoothed it open and tossed it on his desk. Walking to the other end of his study, he looked out the window at the bright, clear day before him. Dropping into the high-backed chair near the window, he tried to release the tension that spiraled inside him. They were correct about that—allowing the anger and frustration free rein did increase the number and severity of the attacks.
Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds outside his house. The clip-clop of horses. The rustling of the branches of the trees in the spring breeze. The gentle calls of birds. The doctors’ voices.
The doctors’ voices?
Adrian got to his feet and positioned himself next to the open window where he could see and not be seen. The three doctors stood a few yards from him and, though they lowered their voices in a discreet fashion, he heard their every word.
“A terrible pity, really.” Lloyd?
“And nothing to be done?” That was certainly Wilkins. Adrian shifted to hear better. Who were they discussing?
“And in the prime of his life. Sad case.” He could almost picture Penworthy’s eyebrows twitching as he spoke.
“Shouldn’t he be told? I do worry about that,” Lloyd admitted in a fretful voice. “There are preparations to be made, arrangements to be handled, and so many rely on his oversight and condescension.”
An icy shiver slid down Adrian’s back and he straightened away from the aperture. Beads of sweat gathered on his own brow and trickled down his face and neck. The room had not grown hotter. Fear, plain and clear, caused his body to react to the horrible news, a sense of foreboding that grew within him.
It could not be….
It simply could not be…him.
“With his titles and lands, all the crucial details are already handled.” Penworthy continued, “A man with his status and responsibilities, and especially one with no heirs-of-his-body, has everything in order at all times. No, I think it best not to reveal the direness of his true situation.”
There was a pause, as though they were considering Penworthy’s recommendation to keep him unadvised of his perilous condition.
His condition?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, for he must be hearing their words incorrectly. They had just assured him to his face that he was only a slight bit worse. Change his decoctions. Take the waters. They’d not warned him of his impending death.
“How long, do you think?” Wilkins asked. “Such a marked deterioration cannot be a good sign.”
“A half year? Perhaps through the winter? I cannot be more specific than that without an unacceptable amount of conjecture on my part,” Lloyd declared. “We will watch his condition and do what we can to relieve his symptoms. Especially as they worsen.”
They paused then and Adrian wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. As their words began to sink into his mind, he shook his head again. It could not be. It simply could not be.
“That poor man,” Penworthy said. “The noblest of blood cannot protect you once Death has you marked as his own.”
A moment of silence was all they spared him then. The clattering of wheels on cobblestones and the familiar sound of Adrian’s coachman calling out to his team told him that his carriage had pulled in front of the house to take them back to their respective offices. The vehicle rolled away down the street and he was left with the awful truth.
Adrian Warfield, Duke of Windmere, would be dead by the year’s end.
Time had stopped for him, but his death sentence still echoed through the chamber. Stunned by the words spoken by his physicians, Adrian could not think rationally. Scattered thoughts and memories flooded his mind as he tried to grab on to something that would make sense of this insanity.
Long ago, when discussing with his older brother the bravery of soldiers facing death, he had thought in a fleeting way of how he would handle himself if ever in that situation. Now, the courage and daring spoken of then disappeared, and a raw, gut-wrenching fear tore at him, making his legs quiver and his stomach churn.
He did not know how long the inertia of shock held him prisoner in the chair, simply breathing in and out to keep the prophesy of his death at bay. Dust motes floated before him and the sounds of the street outside his windows faded away. Aware of only the growing turmoil within, he stared off into the distance and waited for it to hit.
And, like an unprovoked punch in the gut, it did.
As the news began to settle in, Adrian stumbled to the cabinet, grabbed the crystal decanter of port and lurched from his study. Ignoring the startled looks of his man-of-business and his butler, he strode to the stairs and climbed to the second floor, where his rooms were located. Bolting past his valet, he slammed the door and locked it behind him.
He put the port down on the table next to his bed and pulled his cravat from around his neck. Tugging at the buttons, he ripped his waistcoat off and then threw it across the room. Loosening his shirt, he tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths. The coughing spasms he feared were on him instantly and he doubled over from the strength of them.
Minutes went by as hours while the very breath was squeezed from his lungs, but finally he could feel the spasms lessen. Collapsing on his bed, he pulled air into his body, fighting not to lose consciousness. The banging on the door drew his attention and he heard his valet’s loud whisper through the door.
“Your Grace? Your Grace?” Thompson’s voice was filled with concern, a concern that Adrian did not want at this moment.
“Leave me be, Thompson. I am well,” he called out.
Coughing again, he lay back on the bed’s cool surface and waited for the attack to end. A few more spasms and a number of coughs and then it ceased. Adrian pushed himself up, shrugged off his waistcoat and reached for the port. In a move that he knew would horrify his servants and his wife if they ever witnessed it, he brought the decanter to his mouth and swallowed several mouthfuls of the fortified wine.
Leaning back against the mahogany headboard, he listened to the sounds of whispering outside his door. Two—no, three—people were out there trying to decide what to do about him, and he guessed the group included Thompson, his valet, Sherman, his butler, and perhaps even Webb, his secretary and man-of-business, whose meeting had been cut short with the arrival of the physicians.
No matter. Adrian could not face them until he faced himself and accepted what the doctors had told him. And that called for the consumption of as much distilled spirits as he could handle. Or not handle. He looked at the bottle in his hand and wondered if there was enough port there for his needs. There was always the twenty-five-year-old whisky in the locked cabinet—that would more than meet his requirements.
Adrian lifted the bottle again to his mouth and drank deeply. The warmth settled his stomach and began to spread out to his limbs. Unable to face the reality of his all-too-short future, he decided to drink until the news was blotted from his thoughts.
Smiling grimly, he realized he would need to break into his late father’s private stock for something stronger to deaden the shock of the news of his own impending demise. Facing death was not as easy as he had imagined all those years ago.
Chapter Two
Miranda Warfield, the Duchess of Windmere, stood silently while her maid opened her dressing room door. Allowing a final smoothing of fabric and tucking of loosened strands of hair by her maid, she hesitated for a moment. Then, setting her feet on the well-worn path down the hall, she began the walk that would lead from His Grace’s room down to the dining room for a late supper.
Each of her days was filled with just such repetitive behavior. Rising from sleep, eating meals, dressing for engagements and going to sleep again all fit neatly into a narrowly defined schedule for the Duchess of Windmere. Pausing in front of her husband’s door, she realized that since today was Thursday, the night would end with Windmere’s weekly visit to her bed. And on the morrow, when faced with the dowager duchess’s thinly disguised question about the condition of her health, at their ritual Friday morning breakfast, Miranda could smile demurely and simply nod, saying without words that she was doing her duty to the duke in all facets of their life.
She arrived at the duke’s door and waited for his valet to open it. The slight pause expanded to several seconds and then to nearly a full minute. Startled by this change, she cocked her head and listened for any activity within. It was a regrettable habit from her past, but one that was useful at times. Loud whispers and scuffling feet were evident, but she did not hear His Grace’s deep voice. She had just decided to knock when Fisk rushed to her side.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” her efficient maid said, stepping around her and knocking on the door.
Miranda was reminded once more that she had servants to do her bidding and that something as innocuous as knocking on a door was beneath her now. Standing quietly as they awaited a response, she thought on how strange this was. It was at times like this that she longed to be the squire’s daughter once more, with little or none of the pretense needed to live this life. Shaking her head, she banished the thoughts before they could take hold.
The door swung open and, instead of Windmere, Thompson the valet stepped forward. This, too, was very strange.
“Your Grace,” he said as he bowed deeply to her.
“Thompson.”
“His Grace will be unavailable to join you for dinner, but he bids you to enjoy your outings this evening.” The strain in his voice told her that this was not usual. She swore his left eye was twitching as he spoke. Another sign of this upheaval in the normal decorum?
The two servants turned to her, obviously awaiting her reaction. Before she could speak, a loud crash and a string of rather earthy curses came from Windmere’s bedchamber. Thompson coughed loudly, an obvious yet unsuccessful attempt to disguise the words not meant for a lady’s ears. It was definitely Windmere’s voice, but she had not heard it raised in anger, as it was now, for many years.
“Your pardon, Your Grace. His Grace is indisposed.”
Decorum is more important than anything else in a duke or duchess’s life.
The dowager’s words rang in her thoughts, and Miranda knew what was expected of her. She nodded to Thompson and turned from the door. Walking down the hall and then down the stairs to the dining room, she was pleased that no one who watched her would be able to see the turmoil filling her thoughts as she contemplated her husband’s remarkable condition.
She sat in the chair, held out by the butler, and realized that the last time she’d heard Windmere yelling in anger was before he’d ascended to the title, when he was still Adrian and she was only slightly less suitable for him as a second son. Since he’d become the duke, he never raised his voice to her or expressed anything other than polite enthusiasm during conversations or engagements. This was extraordinary.
The first dish was placed before her and she took no notice of what it was. How could she when something so different had drawn her attention? Sherman repeated its ingredients, but it could have been dirt laced with arsenic for all she heard. Slicing into it and lifting the fork to her mouth, Miranda finally realized what the true surprise was.
Her husband, the Duke of Windmere, was drunk.
The food in her mouth turned to dust as she took in this insight. He had never, not in all the years she’d known him, before or after their marriage, before or since accepting the title, been drunk in her presence or within her hearing. But he was now. Miranda took a sip of the wine in her goblet to ease the food’s way.
“Is something wrong with the scallops, Your Grace?” Sherman leaned in closer to whisper the question to her. It would be unseemly if she were to complain too loudly.
“It is fine, Sherman. Please continue with the next course.”
Drifting back to her thoughts over the duke’s condition, she knew that he was extremely angry about something, angry enough to drink to excess. So angry that he was purposely breaking items in his chamber. What could have him so upset?
It is inappropriate and unacceptable for a wife to inquire about or to meddle in the affairs of her husband or his interests.
Miranda blinked as she heard once more the dowager’s voice issuing another warning about her behavior. The words were as clear as if the woman sat at table with her. Miranda sat up straighter and tried to focus on the food being placed before her; that was surely something appropriate for her attention.
But the surprising behavior of the duke had rattled her. Not that he was drunk, for she knew men drank and sometimes drank to excess. Not that he was angry, although it was out of character with His Grace’s deportment of the last several years.
No, what rattled her and made her thoughts drift into inappropriate directions was that, for the first time in such a very long time, their lives were not following the ritual and regimented schedule that had been established. For the first time, she had been surprised and a bit shocked, something that had not happened between her and her husband in too many years. For the first time in too long, the duke showed himself to be a simple man with faults and weaknesses.
Miranda shivered with a completely inappropriate measure of anticipation that there might be a real person existing within the shell of the duke. For one moment, she let herself remember the promising beginning to their marriage and to wish for a real life instead of this sham and ritual and politeness. Although she regretted whatever it was that caused the duke such upset, part of her was extremely pleased. There was life in Adrian, after all.
The morning dawned bright and clear, and the aroma of chocolate awakened her from her sleep. Sliding up in bed, she leaned against the cushions a maid arranged behind her, and watched as the morning tray of chocolate and toast was placed over her lap. Taking a sip of the thick, hot beverage, Miranda realized she still wore her dressing gown over her night rail.
Her husband had missed their weekly appointment!
In spite of his absence at dinner, she’d thought he would visit as usual, and so she’d gone to bed as she did every Thursday evening—in her night rail with her dressing gown on. Adrian would put out the bedside candle, slip under the covers, slide the gown from her shoulders and go about his business. When he’d left, she would go to her dressing room, wash, leave the gown at the foot of the bed and fall to sleep.
Shaking her head, she realized he’d not visited for the first time in months, years perhaps.
“Your Grace?” the maid whispered, curtsying as she approached the bedside. “Is something wrong with your chocolate? Should I bring you another cup?”
“No, Betsy,” she replied, shaking her head on purpose this time. “Is His Grace…still…?”
“Indisposed, Your Grace?” The young maid added the correct polite term for her husband’s condition last evening.
“Indisposed. Or has he left for his morning ride?” Miranda shifted on the bed as she asked, and placed the porcelain cup back on the tray. “The weather certainly looks favorable for a ride in the park.”
Did the maid comprehend her curiosity? Miranda tried to keep just the right tone of disinterest in her voice, but feared her underlying questions were being betrayed…to a maid.
Before Betsy could answer her questions, the door opened and Fisk stepped in. With a look at her first, her competent lady’s maid dismissed the young girl with a nod and waited for Betsy to leave before speaking.
“His Grace is still abed and did not leave the house last night after he missed dinner.”
“How very strange.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, but if Fisk thought them unusual or unseemly, she did not, would not, say so. It was amazing that the change in the duke’s behavior for one evening could throw the whole household into disarray so easily.
Motioning that she was finished with the half-eaten toast and chocolate, Miranda waited for it to be removed and then slid from her bed. Walking into her dressing room, she found her clothes laid out and ready for her. Fisk stepped into the room and, with her usual efficiency, soon had Miranda dressed, with her hair arranged, and ready to face her weekly interview by the duke’s mother.
As the door to her chambers was opened for her, Miranda realized she would never be ready to face this particular ritual in the Warfield family. At least not until she could bring the news that she carried Windmere’s heir. And with each passing month and year, that declaration seemed more and more unlikely.
The drive to the dowager’s residence a few blocks away did not take long enough for her to banish completely the questions that pushed forward into her thoughts. As she entered the drawing room and took a seat on the couch nearest the windows overlooking the gardens, she breathed deeply, trying to regain a sense of calm, a sense of her true self, before she was confronted by her dragonlike mother-by-marriage.
“Miranda.”
At the very sound of the commanding voice, Miranda stood and nodded. One did not remain seated when Cordelia Masters Warfield, dowager Duchess of Windmere, entered a room. No matter whose precedence was higher. No matter the age of those waiting or their position in society. Everyone stood when Her Grace entered. Miranda had it on good authority that even the Regent himself reacted so in the dowager’s presence.
With a posture and gait that any governess or tutor in the womanly arts would be proud of, the older woman crossed the expansive room to the large chair across from where Miranda had chosen to sit.
On another woman, the soft white of her hair and the clear blue gaze would have been inviting and warm. On the dowager, however, it only accented the harsh lines of dissatisfaction around her mouth and the coldness of that gaze.
Lowering herself to the seat, Cordelia placed herself exactly six inches from the back of the chair and laid her hands on her lap. Miranda knew it was six inches because Cordelia always reminded her of the correct posture and bearing needed by a duchess, whether in public or private.
Attempting to follow her example, Miranda sank to the couch, straightened her spine and crossed her own hands in her lap. When the dowager simply cleared her throat instead of coughing discreetly, Miranda knew she had attained the desired position. The cough was a signal to the butler to bring in the tea.
Arriving too late for a country breakfast and too early for a city one, Miranda knew not to expect more than the tea and biscuits placed before her. Cordelia hated city hours and was up at dawn, complaining liberally of the lack of fortitude in others who needed to sleep away most of their mornings. Having lived with this woman prior to her husband attaining his title, Miranda knew exactly what to expect. The dowager simply wanted a report, and then Miranda would be dismissed with as little regard as the servants were. Any pretenses of warmth and caring had dissipated as the hoped-for heir never appeared.
“How are you this morning, Miranda?” Although the dowager stirred her tea, her gaze never left Miranda’s face. She was looking for signs…of a delicate condition.
“I am well, Your Grace. And you?” Miranda looked away, giving the answer without the words. Still barren. When she turned back, the grimace still tightened the older woman’s face.
“My goddaughter will be attending Lady Crispin’s ball next week. Do you plan on attending as well?”
The subject changed neatly from a distressingly personal one to an unremarkable social one, without so much as a moment’s hesitation and without any acknowledgment of the woman’s continued disappointment. Miranda simply nodded.
“And my son?”
“Your Grace, I would not presume to know Windmere’s schedule.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed as she looked for some sign of disrespect in her words. Miranda met her intense gaze with a guileless one. “I could ask His Grace’s secretary if you wish me to?”
Miranda had aided Cordelia’s attempts to launch her goddaughter in society, and she would continue to do so. She would not hold her own anger and frustration at the dowager against an innocent girl.
“I will send word to his secretary,” Cordelia announced, standing and smoothing the elaborate morning gown as she did.
“About what, Mother?”
Miranda gave a start at the sound of her husband’s voice. Turning slowly in her seat, she watched as Adrian walked into the drawing room and greeted his mother and her with a civilized nod. One look at his gait and the way he held his head told her that he was suffering the lingering effects of his condition the evening before.
“I would appreciate your presence at the Crispins’ ball next week. It will only be Juliet’s third one since her presentation to the queen and, as family, it is appropriate for us to attend with her.” The dowager paused and passed her sharp gaze over her son.
“Are you well, Windmere?” She asked her question, but assessed her son even as she spoke. “You look rather washed out and peaked.”
Miranda examined Adrian’s appearance as well. His linen, like the rest of his garments, was immaculate as usual, and he was done up in the latest fashion. He’d recently had his longish hair clipped in a shorter style and it revealed the natural body of it as the black locks curled just above his collar. He still cut a dashing figure, as he had when they’d met, so long ago.
It was not his clothing that gave away his condition as much as the sallowness of his normally tanned complexion and the red streaks in the whites of his eyes. He looked every inch the man suffering from the aftermath of too much alcohol.
“I am fine, Mother. Just tired,” he said. Meeting Miranda’s gaze, he seemed to be waiting for her to reveal the truth. When she simply nodded, he continued, “I am not certain of my plans over these next few weeks. I must go to Windmere Park to deal with some…business, and I do not know when I will return.”
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