The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel, #3)

by Sarah MacLean

She hadn’t been in France or in Spain, where he’d spent the summer prior, chasing down Englishwomen in search of excitement. She hadn’t been any of the false widows he’d found in Scotland, nor the governess at the imposing manor in Wales, nor the woman he’d tracked in Constantinople the month after she’d left, who had been a charlatan, playing at being an aristocrat. And then there’d been the woman in Boston—the one he’d been so sure of—the one they called The Dove. Not Sera. Never Sera.

That was the secret, of course. If one did not fear ruin, one could not be threatened with it. As Sera had seen ruin in all its forms, had faced it and survived it, she did not fear it, and so he could not harm her. She’d been gone from London for nearly three years, her reputation in tatters long before she’d set foot in the carriage that had carried her away from the Haven estate on that long ago winter’s day.

It was remarkable, the power one held when one had nothing to lose. At least, when one was thought to have nothing to lose.

Surprise flared. There were only three ways to dissolve a marriage. Hers was one. The others—“Annulment is not possible,” she said, hating the thread of sadness that threatened at the words. At the idea that he might have pushed for it. There had been a— There had been a child. He met her gaze then. “Not annulment.”

“Malcolm,” she said, the handle already turning in her grasp. He stilled at the use of his given name, but did not look to her, not even when she said, proud and clear, “I feel I should point out that, while a husband’s infidelities may not be grounds for divorce, a wife’s are quite a different thing altogether.” And with her closing salvo, the Duchess of Haven left the Houses of Parliament, scandal in her wake. Scandal, and a husband so irate, she imagined her divorce would come swift and without hesitation.

“It could ruin me. If we were found.” He stepped closer, close enough that he could pull her into his arms. “I would never ruin you.” It should have been a flirt. An empty, teasing trifle. Something men said to women to lure them into danger. But it wasn’t. It was a promise. And more than that, it was the truth. He would never ruin her. It wouldn’t be ruin when he married her. He stilled. Christ. He would marry her. He was going to marry this woman. The realization should have filled

She sighed as he closed the distance, and he heard his thoughts on her lips. “Just a taste.” She was perfect. He set his lips to hers, fire spreading through him as she caught her breath, then sighed, low and sweet, as he gently licked over that full bottom lip, soft and sweet enough to make him ache. “Just a taste,” he promised himself. Her. “Open for me, love.”

“The bastards who spout shit about it being better to have loved and lost have either never loved or never lost.”

“Shall we drink to that?” “With pleasure.” He dropped his hands to her waist and lifted her from the stage. Her feet had barely touched the floor when the main door to the tavern opened, letting in a flood of late-afternoon sunlight. Caleb’s gaze flickered past her to the imposing figure in the doorway. “You owe me fifty dollars, Duchess.” She caught her breath as the looming shadow growled, “Get your hands off my wife.”

“The duke arrives.” “The husband arrives,” Haven replied, unable to bank the anger in his tone. And then, to his wife, “We are yet married, Seraphina.” How was she so utterly calm? “Not in any way that matters.”

“I shan’t be cuckolded,” he said. Her spine straightened. “If only I had been able to say the same.” Shame came, hot and unpleasant. He resisted it, redoubled his conviction, directing his attention to the American. “Remove your hands.”

She’d been unfaithful. He shouldn’t mind it. Shouldn’t have been surprised by it. After all, it had been years. And he had been unfaithful, too. Once. And not like this. Not with emotion. Lie. There had been emotion. The action had been full of anger. Full of punishment. All for Sera. Sera was the only woman who had ever had his emotions. Not that she would believe it. Not that she would care. “Don’t worry, Caleb,” she was saying, “Malcolm doesn’t believe himself scorned. For that to be the case, he would have had to have wanted the marriage from the start.” He had wanted it. He’d wanted her. He stayed silent as she moved around the bar to place a small glass on the counter and pour a healthy drink into it. “How did you find us?” Malcolm hated that us. The way it cleaved her to another man. Instead of answering her, he asked a question of his own. “What in hell are you doing here?” She raised a brow. “Here, London?”

“We are, as a matter of fact. We were through two years and seven months ago. Before that. Or do you not remember turning your back on me the moment our vows were spoken? Shall I remind you? Shall I remind you of the way you did it again, in front of an entire garden party? Of what you did after that? With another?” Of course he remembered. He remembered it every night, struggling to sleep, desperate to reverse time and stop himself. To tell her the truth instead of the lie his pride insisted upon. If he had, would everything have been different? If he had, would they be happy now? “How did you know where to find me, Haven?” “I didn’t,” he said.

Dammit, he didn’t want another future. He wanted the one that had tempted him all those years ago. Her future. Theirs. He’d sought it, dammit, the world over. He wanted to scream the truth at her. That he’d been in Boston. That he’d searched the Continent. That he hadn’t slept in two years, seven months. That he’d only ever wanted her. And he might have, if it hadn’t seemed that she wanted nothing to do with him. “You wish your adultery to be made public?” He was riveted to her grace as she began to light the candles on the stage. “The House of Lords certainly won’t allow the dissolution of our marriage to be on your actions, and I would not be the first wife to bear such a brunt in order to get what she wishes.” But it was not what he wished. He wished the opposite. A marriage in truth. “The powerful collude, Duke. They connive and they scheme to get what they want.” She looked to him, inscrutable. “And the proof of it is how well they suspect it in others.” He didn’t care if she’d schemed. Not anymore.

“I want my divorce,” she said. “I’ve a future before me.” “With your American?”

“Come to the country. You give me six weeks. Until Parliament is back in session.” She turned back to the candles. “What is this, some grand plan to woo me again? As though we are in some kind of romantic novel?” Yes. He was smart enough to stay quiet. “We’re not in a romantic novel, Haven. This is not a love story.” “Because you are in one with your American?” “Because I’ve no desire to be in one. Ever again.” Again. He would think on that word another time. Cling to it. “Fine,” he replied. “But you are in a marriage with me, and you vowed to obey.” She leveled him with a look. “And you vowed to honor.” “This is my offer. Six weeks, and you get your divorce.” It was a lie, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Her gaze narrowed. “What do you intend to do with six weeks of my company?”

“Remind me again why we are all in this carriage when we all have husbands and carriages of our own?” When Sophie, Seline, and Sesily spoke, it was in unison. “For Sera.” Seleste nodded and sighed. “The things we do for sisters.” Sera looked to the window, unable to speak for the knot that formed in her throat at the words. She had been gone for three years. She’d left without a word, without stopping to tell her family—whom she had always loved beyond reason—what had happened. She’d dashed a note through her tears on the Bristol docks, telling them only, She did not live. I’m for America.

Because they’d conspired to trap him. “No.” He looked to Seraphina. To the woman he loved. Willed her to deny it. “No.” He resisted the truth even as he knew it to be true. And then she nodded, and it crashed around him. He wasn’t the catcher. He was the rat.

“Little do they know that in a matter of weeks, your attention will wander elsewhere.” She hated herself for the bitterness in the words. After all that had happened, how was it that stumbling upon him with another woman was the only thing that seemed to matter? Hated him even more when he said, “You left me—” “You sent me away!” she said, unable to keep her voice from rising. “You stood in the house where we might have built a home, our wedding breakfast barely over, and you told me to leave you.” When he opened his mouth to reply, she found she was not through. “And do you know what is the great irony of it? The whole world thinks you ruined me before you married me, when the truth is that I was not ruined until after the fact. You ruined my hopes. My dreams. My future. You ruined my life. And I’ve had enough of that. I am here for one reason only, Your Grace. I want my life back. The one you stole.” She was breathing heavily, full of anger that she rarely allowed release. And damned if it didn’t feel good. Even as she met his gaze and recognized his frustration. His anger. Good. She preferred him angry. Preferred to see her enemy. And they were enemies, were they not? “If I stole your life, what did you do to mine? You disappeared, leaving all the world wondering where you’d gone. Imagining that I might have driven you away.” She turned away again. “You did drive me away.” It was a lie, but she said it anyway, hoping it would hurt him. Silence fell, and she ignored it, ...

“You never came with things.” She stilled. She hadn’t come with things. Not with a trousseau, or a maid, or anything, really. None of those things mattered when she married him. But he’d been too angry to notice. “I was different.” She hoped he’d let the answer stand without reply. He didn’t. “Because you came for me.” Every time. She could have lied, but she didn’t wish to. She didn’t want to be someone she was not ever again. “Yes.” He nodded and crossed over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Only then did Sera say the rest. “I came for you. Just as I left for you.” She smoothed her skirts and went to meet the women who hoped to marry her husband.

“What does that mean?” Malcolm’s question came harsh and quick. Sera did not have time to elaborate when a dark head popped up above the carriage door, followed by wide shoulders in a perfectly tailored navy blue coat. Those assembled seemed to hold their breath at the appearance of this brash intruder. What was he doing here? “Ding-dong,” said Sesily, at which point Sera was fairly certain she heard Haven growl. This was not the plan. Something had gone wrong. “That had better not be—” Haven left the sentence unfinished when the man turned, revealing a face battered and bruised with what Sera could only imagine was wicked skill. Caleb Calhoun smiled, revealing his teeth, somehow still unscathed, and closing the door with a single, smooth movement. He approached as though this was all perfectly normal. She was already moving toward him. “What are you doing here?” “Good morning to you.” Removing his tall hat, he said, “I say, this place is busier than Faneuil Hall fish market at half past five.” The women assembled gave a little gasp at the words. Well, most of the women assembled. Sesily gave a little squeal of glee. “The American is coming!” Sera slid a look to Haven, only to discover he was glaring at her, without even an attempt at subtlety.

“Fine. Then I shall spend days here.” It was such a terrible idea she laughed. “No, you will not.” “For once, we agree, wife.” Haven stepped into the room as though he owned it. Which she supposed he did. Irritating man. “I’d thank you not to eavesdrop on my conversations,” she said. “As we remain married, conversations you have with unmarried gentlemen are my business, pet.” Men were insufferable. “Call me ‘pet’ again, and see what happens.” He did not flinch. “What? You do to me what your American scoundrel had done to him?” He looked to Caleb. “Bad luck. I only wish I could have done it myself.” “If it had been you, Duke, you’d be looking a fright, not me.” Haven grinned at that. As though it was funny. “History would suggest otherwise, Yank.” Sera paused. What did that mean?

“There are a dozen rooms for him.” “They are under construction,” he said. She smirked. “Then he may share my room.” Sera might have considered the twitch in Haven’s jaw signaling his fury a proper win in their battle, but she could not celebrate it, because it was punctuated by a collective gasp from the hallway beyond. When she turned to the sound, it was to discover a collection of wide eyes watching from several feet away.

“Sesily, please see Caleb to a room in the family quarters.” “No,” Haven negotiated, strong and firm, all ducal power. “Fourth floor. West wing. On the end.” As far from her chambers as possible. She smirked. “I am able to both climb stairs and traverse corridors, husband.” He ignored the words, instead repeating himself. “Leave us.” Sesily and Caleb looked to her, and Haven’s irritation came on a growl. “Call off your dogs, wife.”

They both groaned at the sensation, and when Malcolm began to move, to wring pleasure from her most secret places, she was unable to keep her eyes open. He stopped. “No.” She opened her eyes. Fairly begged. “Mal.” “I’ll give you everything you want, love. But you give me what I want.” He moved again, and she lifted toward him. “Yes.” “You keep your eyes open,” he said. “I want to watch. I want a new memory.” He was close enough that she could feel his words on her, where she was open and aching. She wasn’t even certain that there was sound to match sensation, but she understood him nonetheless. She’d give him anything he wanted as long as he didn’t stop. And he didn’t. He blew a long stream of air where she wanted him most, teasing and tempting and making promises on which she knew he could deliver. Deliciously.

Haven— As it is, I’m less than thrilled that my wife has decided to spend the summer with you and her sisters instead of with me, but I am loath to argue with her when she is in her condition, and what she wishes, she gets. Haven looked up to find Sophie, hands over her expanding midsection, serene smile upon her face. He returned to the note. So, I shall settle for this, knowing that there is little love lost between you. Upset her, and you shall answer to me. I shall take pleasure in it. And then, below, parenthetically: (Upset your own wife and answer to her sisters, who are—en masse—as fearsome as I could ever be.) Eversley

“Oh, yes. Poor unmarried men, weak-willed, doughy boys with neither control nor intelligence. So easily marked and ruined by women—ever more powerful. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were all descended of witches.”

“And if I told you it wasn’t a trap? Not at the start? Not in any of the days leading up to the end? Because it wasn’t a trap, Malcolm.” Christ, he wanted to believe her. “It was all real. I was me and you were you and everyone said it couldn’t be—”

“Tell me precisely what it was. Was it the trap that was your mistake? Or the fact you were caught setting it? Would you do it again if you could be certain I’d never know what you’d planned? How you orchestrated it? How you lured me in?” Her gaze flew to his and he saw the pain in her eyes the instant before she confessed. “Of course I would.”

Perhaps it was because in passion, they saw the truth—that they were perfectly matched in strength and power and desire. Perhaps it was because, in those moments, there was a tiny thread of hope that they might find each other again, when their anger had passed and there was space for something else. Or perhaps it was because he loved her, and she loved him in return.

“It’s decided, then! If I win, I get the American.” “And if someone else wins?” Caleb said with a laugh, “Not that I do not expect you to trounce them, Lady Sesily.” Sesily smiled wide. “Of course you do, future husband. I don’t know . . . if someone else wins, they can have Haven. Isn’t that what they’re all here for?”

“You’re wearing lavender.” The change of topic threw her. “I am.” The words came out more like a question, as though she did not have eyes in her head and a grasp of the color spectrum. “Yesterday was amethyst. The day before, a grey like heather in winter.” She went cold. “I like purple.” He shook his head, his eyes dark with secrets. She knew it, because hers held the same. “No, I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to discuss it. Not then. Not as they stood there with what seemed like half the women in London watching. She didn’t want to discuss it. Ever. And she hated him for pointing out her clothing. Purples and greys. The colors of mourning.

“Apologies, Your Grace.” Mal shook his head. “No offense taken.” “I’m sure you won’t understand, but I don’t care that you are a duke. And I don’t care that he is a solicitor. I’d have him however he came.” Malcolm’s gaze flickered past Mary to Sera. “Rat catcher.” Sera stopped breathing. Mary smiled. “You understand.” “I do, rather,”

“He’s not my American, and you know it.” He did. Sera would never have allowed him to touch her if she were committed to Calhoun. But it did not mean that— Before he could stop himself, Malcolm asked, “Has he ever been?” “Does it matter?” she asked, watching their feet moving through the grass. “Does it matter if there were a dozen?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Of course it would. This is the world in which we live, where I am required to remain chaste as a nun, and you . . . you are welcome to the wide world.” She paused, regaining her reserve. Then, softly, “He was never mine. Even if I could have loved him, he deserves children.” Mal didn’t hesitate. “Your love would be enough.” She was silent for a long time, while he searched for the right words, to no avail. And then she lifted the bottle and drank. “It doesn’t matter.” It did matter. It mattered more than anything, and somehow, like all things that matter a great deal, he could not find the words to say so.

“And you?” she asked. “How many Americans have you had?” He told her the truth. “One. The one you witnessed.” She laughed then, hollow and so different from her earlier happiness that he felt the sound like a blow. “I am to believe that?” “I don’t expect you to,” he said. “But it is the truth.”

“That is the problem with truth; so often you must rely on faith to embrace it.” “And you’ve no faith in me.” He regretted the words the moment they were out, wishing immediately that he could take them back. He did not want her to answer. The silence that stretched out between them in the wake of the words was clear enough without her answer. Not to mention unsurprising. And then she said, so soft that it almost seemed she w...

Regret and shame flared. How many times had he felt them? How many times had they consumed him in the darkness as he searched for her? But they had never felt like this. Without her, they’d been a vague, rolling emotion, present, but never truly there. And now, faced with her, with her tacit acceptance of their past, of his actions, of his mistakes, they were a wicked, angry blow. What a fucking ass he had been. “I cannot take it back. If there were anything in the world I could take back . . .” The breath left her in a stream of frustration then. “Tell me, is it the act for which you lack pride? Or the consequences of it?” He turned to her then, unable to find the proper words to reply. “The consequences?” “My sister landed you on your backside in front of all London, Malcolm. You did not care for it. You meted out punishment on the whole family after that.” Shame again, hot and angry, along with a keen instinct to protect himself. To defend his actions. But there was no defense. None worthy of the blow he’d dealt. None that had ever dismissed his regret for it. I’m sorry. The words were cheap escape.

“I would take Sophie’s attack a hundredfold. A thousand. If I could erase the rest of that afternoon.” Sera grew silent, and Mal would have given anything to know what was going through her head. And finally, she said, “As would I, ironically.” He closed his eyes in the darkness. He’d hurt her abominably. They were silent for a long while as he considered his next words. But before he could find them, she said, “And what of all the years since?” He looked to her, the darkness freeing him in some way. Making him honest. “I would erase them, too.” She turned to face him, slow and simple, as though they discussed the weather. “I wouldn’t.” The ache that came with the confession was crushing, black as the water that spread out before them, stretched forever like the silence that accompanied it. Finally, Sera looked to the starlit sky and said, “So, was this your plan? To lead me into the darkness and revisit the decline of our marriage?” He exhaled, looking to the water, black and sparkling in the moonlight. “It wasn’t, as a matter of fact.” He began to descend toward the lake, calling back, “I had planned to show you something.” Curiosity got the better of her—as it always had. “What?” Could he tempt her away from the past? Toward something more promising? It was worth the try. “Come and see.” For long moments, he did not hear her, and he steeled himself for the worst. For the possibility that there was no hope for them. And then her skirts rustled in the grass.

“Because this is what we do,” he said. “We follow each other into darkness.” And then he passed through a dark doorway and out of view.

“Orion did not fear blindness. He only feared never finding her. Never having the chance to convince her that they were for each other. That mortal or no, he could give her everything. Sun, moon, stars.” “Except he couldn’t,”

“Never cross a goddess,” she whispered. He gave a little laugh then, and the years disappeared with the upturned lines at the corners of his eyes, his smile drawing her in, making her wonder at the way those eyes saw and knew and revealed. “As though I have not learned that lesson myself.”

“What’s more, as a dove, Merope was all anguish. Doves, you see, mate for life. And so in asking for her to be saved from a lifetime with a mortal, Artemis had submitted her acolyte to the worst kind of pain—the pain of longing for her match. Orion knew this, and he did not rest, refusing to stop searching for her. He traveled to the ends of the earth to find her. To love her.” He watched her in silence, and a long moment passed before he said, “And he did.”

And beyond the glass, water, made starlit with her husband’s fire. Haven’s words cut through her astonishment. “So it is that Orion chases her. Forever.”

“I built it for you.” The confession was so soft it almost wasn’t there, followed by more, a rush of words he seemed to push out before he could stop himself. “I built it so there would be something for you when you returned. Something . . . new.” Something that was not weighted down with the past. With what had been lost. Their child. Their future. Sorrow came like a blow and she closed her eyes, letting it wash over here before she took a deep breath and looked up at the magnificent dome, hundreds of black squares of glass reflecting her. Turning her into starlight.

“Tell me, Seraphina. If there were no one—no sisters or god or goddess to protect you, no American, no aristocracy to watch and judge? What would you do if I pursued you?” His eyes darkened with his words and she could not look away. How many times had he spoken to her like this? In liquid, languid poetry? How many times had she dreamed it? He pressed on. “If I promised you sun, moon, stars? If I vowed to always hunt you, would you take flight? Or would you choose to be caught?”

“What if we could have it back, Sera?” The whisper destroyed her, the ache in the words matching the ache in her chest. “What if we could start anew?” She shook her head. “You should never have brought me here.” He took a step toward her. Ignoring the words. “Would you take it?” She swallowed, knowing she shouldn’t.

“Take it, Angel.” One time. This one time, and then she would end it. Pass him on. Let him find a new wife. Let herself pursue freedom. But this one, single time, she would take what he offered. What she desired. She would get him out of her mind forever. One time. She came up on her toes, closing the distance between them as he whispered—more breath than sound—a single devastating word, a word echoed in her heart. “Please.”

“I have ached for you for so long,” he confessed to her skin, his lips playing at the secret places to which only he had ever had access. “It has always been you, every night, Angel.” His tongue came out, swirling a little circle at the place where her neck met her shoulder, and when she gasped, he said, “I have lain awake every night, visions of you haunting me until I have no choice . . .”

“How many nights have I taken myself in hand, thinking of this,” he went on, the words echoing around them in the starlit dome, the shock of their truth setting her aflame. “How many have I spent alone, ashamed, desperate for you?”

“Not more than I,” she whispered, immediately regretting the confession. His head shot up, his eyes finding hers in the darkness. Refusing to let her go. “You have dreamed of me?” It was one night. One night of truth. One night to exorcise the past and pave the way for a future free of their demons. Her hand slid to his face, to the shadow of his beard on his strong, firm jaw. “Every day.” His eyes closed at the confession, as though it had struck him like a blow. “Sera,” he whispered.