*   *   *

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.

“I regret that you were obliged to witness the unfortunate incident. Farnham has been dealt with. You’ll understand I am obliged to ask you all to leave at first light tomorrow morning.”

Turning his back on the silent group he stalked out. He would not demean himself by asking for their discretion knowing the incident would be all over Town whatever he said. Over the years his real friends had dropped him. He was married to a barren wife. But the one thing he could rely on was the family name. Tonight Isobel had bought it into disrepute and this could not let this pass. He returned to the study to allow his guests to retire for the night. Whilst he waited he finished a decanter of brandy.

The house wasn’t silent until after midnight. Time for a reckoning. He could not blame his wife for being childless. The least she could do was behave with decorum. He paused, heartsick and lonely. Even in his befuddled state he understood the fault was not hers—but his. He was a pitiful specimen and it was hardly surprising he had failed to father further children.

He punched the wall, the pain sending shockwaves up his arm. He was master here and whatever the provocation Isobel must pay. His anger grew with each step he took. He had been too lenient with her and allowed her to run wild when he was absent and to ignore her duties as chatelaine. She had become impertinent, not at all the submissive wife he thought he’d married.

From tonight everything changed. He’d lavished money and gifts on her, had not overburdened her with his demands in the bedroom, and what had she done? She had thrown it all back in his face by behaving like a slut. A lady would have fainted, run weeping to fetch him, or possibly slapped the bastard across the face. But no, she must pick up a candlestick and brain the man in full view of a dozen people.

Having left the butler to supervise the departure of those three men he was free to take the necessary action that would ensure no further breaches of etiquette occurred. His valet was hovering nervously. Alexander smiled grimly. When his evening coat had gone, his cravat, boots and waistcoat also, he held up his hand. “Leave me, Duncan, I can do the rest myself. I shan’t require you until the morning.”

“Your grace, allow me to help you into bed. You’re trifle unsteady.”

“Silence. Know your place or lose it.” What was it about tonight that all about him were defying his every order?

He glared and his valet collected the discarded garments and retreated into the dressing-room. The door clicked shut. What was going to take place in the adjoining apartment needed no eavesdroppers.

*   *   *

Isobel tensed at every passing footstep, but so far he had not burst in through her sitting room door to berate her. The house was quiet, even the most recalcitrant of the guests had retired to their bed chambers. He was not coming tonight. Thank God for that, he had been drinking steadily for hours. With luck he had passed out in his study and would wake with a sore head in the morning and no recollection of what had transpired.

She turned, plumping the pillows and finally relaxing. On the verge of sleep she heard the distinctive click of the door that led from his bed chamber. He entered quietly, pushing the door closed behind him. She held her breath. If she feigned sleep would he retreat? Her heart was hammering—a wave of nausea engulfed her.

Through the slit of her eyelids a flickering light showed he was in his shirt sleeves and pantaloons. When he came to her in the usual way he wore only his silk bed-robe, was naked underneath. She could not welcome him into her bed when he was angry and in his cups. Here was the only place she could still cling to the faint hope that one day he would learn to love her and this marriage would become like his first. If he took her in anger, it would be over— with no children to keep them together she would have nothing to hope for. The rest of her life would be lonely and miserable, trapped in a marriage that had failed them both.

Perhaps he was not angry about had come to check she was unharmed from the unpleasant experience. She dare not raise her head to look at him for this would reveal she was awake. The sound of further candles being lit could mean only one thing. She could no longer dissemble. He had not come to make love to her or to check if she was distressed— he had come to punish her for besmirching his precious name in public.