Free The Duke's Reform by Fenella J Miller

pin-money as she wanted? For many women being left alone at night would
be a bonus. He had not repeated his invitation that she join him at Grosvenor Square and she would not have gone if he had.
    The mantel clock struck midnight.
Alexander rarely retired until the small hours when he had acquaintances with
him. The shooting season was well established and cub hunting was about to
start. There was nothing these gentlemen liked better than to be shooting and
chasing defenceless animals about the countryside.
    Her stomach curdled. Why didn't he
come and get it over with? She closed her eyes, but tears spilled anyway. She
bit her lip—she would cry no more. She'd done enough these past months. Indeed,
she couldn't even recall the name of the obnoxious man who waylaid her in the
drawing-room after dinner.
          However
justified her actions, she was the Duchess of Rochester. One thing her husband
had made abundantly clear was that he would not tolerate her behaving in
anything but the most seemly of manners. She shuddered as she remembered what
he'd said when she'd thrown a glass
    of wine over that other gentlemen. She was going
to cast up her accounts. Her face was drenched with sweat. He had never raised
a hand to her. Tonight, would he extract a physical retribution?
    ****
    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 was staked on the outcome of this pot. As he drew back his
arm 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 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 had 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.'
          So much the
better, one thing he could always 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 gore on his person he had received a
serious head wound.
    His sharp features were not enhanced
by the blood. The man glared at him.