He turned to face her and Lizzy fought the urge to touch her hair to make sure it was still meticulously arranged.
‘And you are?’
His accent gave away that he was from the north and, if she had to guess, she thought perhaps the Lincolnshire area.
‘I’m Elizabeth, the Duchess of Skeffington,’ she replied before Mr Nesbit could step in.
‘You are his wife?’ His deep smooth voice almost had a hint of surprise in it.
‘If you are referring to your predecessor, then the answer is yes.’
He tilted his head slightly and appeared to be studying her more intently, and Lizzy forced her hands to remain lightly folded on her lap.
‘You are not what I was expecting.’
‘And I was expecting a gentleman who would arrive promptly to attend the reading of a will.’
‘I had a matter that needed attending to first. You could have started reading it without me.’
It was taking considerable effort not to raise her voice. ‘No, we couldn’t. If we were able to do that we would have done so months ago when you were gallivanting wherever it was you’ve been.’
‘Gallivanting?’ There was a quirk to his slightly full lips.
‘Yes, gallivanting. Now could we please finally have a reading of this will so we all can go forward with our lives? I’m assuming, Mr Nesbit, we are all here now and there is no one else we need to wait for?’
‘There is no one else mentioned in the will. Everyone is present.’
He introduced the new Duke, who Lizzy was having a hard time thinking of as Skeffington, to Lord Liverpool and Mr Mix. The man nodded a greeting to Rimsby and Mrs Thacker, before taking a seat beside Lizzy at the table.
Sitting this close to him was far more distracting than it should be. Lizzy skirted a glance at him with the intention of studying him a bit more, but when he turned his head and caught her eye, she quickly shifted her gaze and prayed she wouldn’t start blushing.
Lizzy settled into her seat and redirected her attention to Mr Nesbit. Now she would finally find out which of the four Skeffington estates would be hers and she could begin setting up her own independent household where she would never have to live with another man again. She had been praying it was Stonehaven in Dorset. It had been her private sanctuary outside London throughout her marriage and, most of all, it was the only Skeffington residence that felt like home to her. Her husband knew it was the one property, aside from the London town house, that she had spent the most amount of time in over the years and, since it wasn’t his ducal seat, it was logical that he would bequeath it to her to live in. Although, knowing her husband, he could be unpredictable at times.
Placing her hands under the table, Lizzy crossed her fingers as Mr Nesbit read the particulars of the introduction to the will. Skeffington’s snuffbox collection would go to Mr Mix, the chess set in their London drawing room was to go to Rimsby since they played the game together quite often, and a painting that belonged to Skeffington’s first wife was given to Mrs Thacker, who had been her lady’s maid when the woman was alive.
Finally, Mr Nesbit glanced at Lizzy. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief before he continued to read from the will. ‘And for my wife, Elizabeth, since she failed to produce any heirs during our marriage, I bequeath to her the sum of eight thousand pounds.’
The amount given to her floated past without any knowledge of what it was. All Lizzy was able to focus on was the fact that the wretched man was publicly shaming her for her inability to conceive a child with him. As if it were all her fault that he had no direct heirs to take over the ducal seat. As if all the people sitting in the room couldn’t tell they had no children together and she had failed in her duty to bear him an heir. The presence of Mr Alexander was a clear reminder. The nails of her right hand were digging painfully into her palm as she tried her hardest to appear unaffected by her late husband’s intentional barb.
But then the words Mr Nesbit had read came back to her and she shook her head, convinced she hadn’t heard correctly. ‘That can’t be right. I was to have twenty thousand pounds as per my marriage agreement.’
Mr Nesbit wiped his sweaty brow once more and shifted his gaze between Lizzy and the paper in his hand. ‘That was if you bore him an heir.’
‘I was never told that. My father agreed to that?’
‘Apparently he did, Your Grace. It was in the marriage agreement. I have a copy in my files if you would care to see it.’
‘My father told me I was to get twenty thousand upon my husband’s death.’
‘That is correct. If there was a child. If you did not produce any children, then you were to receive eight thousand pounds, the amount of your dowry upon your marriage to him.’
There was a sharp familiar ache in her chest. How could her father have not thought to tell her about that clause in the agreement? How could he possibly think that was fair? They had to have agreed upon this at Skeffington’s urging, but now she had additional proof that her father was only interested in furthering his own connections through her marriage and would agree to anything to make sure he had the privilege of having a family connection to a duke.
She was the Duchess of Skeffington! How was she supposed to live on less than ten thousand? She employed an extensive staff, had three carriages, hosted the most extravagant balls and wore the finest clothes. Eight thousand pounds would never do. She had a reputation to maintain. Her only consolation was that hopefully she would be able to live in Stonehaven and retain the income from that estate which would help pay for her expenses.
Mr Nesbit caught her eye and looked as if he expected her to throw her chair across the room. ‘There is more, Your Grace.’
‘Yes, well, I imagine there is. But I think we all can agree that if he references my childless state again there is no need to read it. It will just be redundant.’
He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. ‘She also is to have the use of Clivemoore House until she dies or remarries.’
Dear God, no. The remainder of her life would now be spent in a house of his choosing, in a remote area of the country far away from her sisters and her aunt and where she had no friends. Even in death, that horrid man was going to make her life miserable.
She prayed that this time she truly had not heard Mr Nesbit correctly.
* * *
It was obvious to Simon, as he sat next to the woman who had been married to the old Duke of Skeffington, that she was someone who was very much taken with the finer things in life. She sat beside him with her thick black hair meticulously styled, the emeralds she wore about her long, slender neck and matching earrings were very expensive and he knew her capped-sleeve black gown with the thin band of fine white lace grazing the swell of her shapely breasts must be in the latest London style.
When he had entered the room and she cast a critical gaze at his wardrobe, he knew every rumour he had heard last night about the haughty Duchess of Skeffington had to be true. What he hadn’t expected to find was an attractive woman who was only slightly younger than himself. It was apparent she was a fortune hunter who had married the Duke of Skeffington because he was a wealthy old man and she had probably assumed he would die shortly after they were married. The eight thousand pounds was a substantial amount of money in his view and could set her up with very sound investments. And yet by the furrow of her brow he saw she was not pleased.
She rubbed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. ‘Would you repeat that please, Mr Nesbit? Not all of it. Just the last part.’
‘Certainly.’ The poor man gave a small cough and shifted his gaze nervously between the papers lying in front of him and the widow across from him. ‘The will states you are to live in Clivemoore