Page 8 of A Virgin to Tempt the Duke

Jonathan’s jaw tightened to a thin line. “That is not?—”

“I’m not asking for your account of it, nor do I care. You have made it my business.” Frederick held his gaze and clicked his tongue. “You are not a stupid man. You know what you’ve done. Which means you are also aware that you are standing in my entrance hall before nine o’clock asking to search my house, and that there is very little I am obliged to extend to you beyond the door.” He paused. “I am still extending it. I suggest you take it. This is your problem, not mine.”

Edgeware turned and said something low to Birchall. Frederick couldn’t make out the words, but he knew the shape of them.

Leave it. Not here. Not today.

Birchall held Frederick’s gaze for one moment longer and then nodded.

“We mean no offense, Your Grace. You must understand our position.”

“No offense has been taken,” Frederick replied pleasantly. “I will inform you immediately if I receive any word of Lady Birchall’s whereabouts. Allow me to see you out.”

He did not wait to see whether they would follow; he knew that they would. Their footsteps moved out of the morning room, and from the foyer they were escorted by the butler.

Frederick did not move until he heard the entrance hall, and then the front door, and then nothing. He paced back to the morning room and shut the door.

He crossed to the window and looked down at the London street. He needed a moment. In the window’s glass, he could see the vague reflection of the morning room behind him, and then the door to the library opened.

Rachel came in first and softly touched his arm. “Frederick,” she said softly, a statement in itself.

“Yes,” he said as he looked to the door, his eyes drawn to Miss Anna Cartwell.

He had seen her once, briefly, the previous year. He recalled some party or opera he had accompanied Rachel to. He remembered finding her pleasant-looking, in a passing way. She was his sister’s friend, and his preferences had always runtoward women who could not be ruined, never debutantes or married women.

Yet, a dark part of him let himself stare for a moment.

She was composed. That was the first thing that hit him, more than her beauty, more than the honey-blonde ringlets curling loose around her delicate face, or her bright hazel eyes. More than anything, the ruined dress that held her curves, and suggested the morning she had survived. Composed in a way he recognized without being able to name, the stance of a person who had not allowed herself the relief of coming apart.

It was a stance he knew well.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his.

He heard the weight in it, that she was not simply being polite. Miss Cartwell was desperate and grateful and at his mercy. The woman in front of him knew what he had done for her, and was not minimizing it.

He gave her the nod that the thanks required. “Rachel, give us a moment, please,” he said.

“Frederick,” she said as she looked between them. “She has had a very difficult?—”

“I know.” He looked at his sister. “One moment.”

Rachel pressed her lips together and left, pulling the door behind her.

The room went quiet. Frederick looked at her wrist once more. He had noticed it before her sleeve had shown the bruises. It was the way she was holding her hand just fractionally different from the other.

The way Mother had done…

“Your wrist.” He said it without preamble; she deserved more than that for all she endured.

She glanced down at it, then back up. “It’s nothing serious.”

“I’m not asking whether it’s serious.” He kept his voice even. “I’m asking when.”

A beat. She met his gaze with the directness he had begun to admire. “Outside the church. I tried to run.” A pause. “But Birchall caught me. Then there was a moment, my back, at the altar. I do not think that bruised…”

“Did he…” He stopped and closed his eyes tight, afraid of how she may answer. He had a lifetime of practiced responses but could not predict the outrage that would pour forth if she was to say yes now. “Did he… force himself on you?”

“No more than would be expected of one’s husband at the marriage altar I suppose,” she said, holding his gaze withoutflinching. “He… kissed me. Without my consent, once we were formally declared man and wife.”