Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

‘You demanded my attendance, Miranda?’ He sketched a mocking bow to her.

‘Not demanded. I requested that Wilkins find you and bring you back for our wedding breakfast.’

‘I ordered no breakfast.’

‘I did.’ She glared at him in frustration. ‘Perhaps you see no need to celebrate the day, and I could do without a continuation of this … this … melodrama, but the Winslows expect it of us and will not leave until the niceties are performed.’

‘Damn the Winslows!’

‘Damn them indeed, sir,’ she whispered, ‘but do it quietly. They are probably listening at the door.’

‘I do not care what they hear. If they lack the sense to clear off—’

‘Very well, then there will be no breakfast. And since I am to have no authority in this house I will leave it to you to step into the drawing room and request that they leave. Order them from the house. You seem to be good at that.’

‘Ahh, we come to the crux, finally. This is about St John, is it? I told him this morning that he is no longer welcome here and my decision stands.’

‘St John? Don’t be ridiculous. This is about your unwillingness to live by the proprieties for more than a few minutes at a time.’

‘I followed them when I offered for you. And I married you, didn’t I?’

She forced a smile and muttered through her gritted teeth, ‘And now you must pretend to celebrate the fact, as I am doing. Choke down a piece of cake and a glass of wine. We both must eat something, and it will not kill us to eat it together. Then thank the vicar for performing the ceremony. Pay him. Make him go away.’

The door to the drawing room swung open and the vicar’s head appeared in the opening. ‘And how are you two managing together?’

Her husband smiled with such ferociousness that the vicar retreated behind the protection of the door. ‘As well as can be expected, Reverend. I understand my wife has arranged a feast for us. Let us retire to the dining room and see what the servants have prepared.’

He led the way, Miranda noted in relief, since the dining room was not a place she had had need to visit since coming to the house. It was about as she had expected: dirty and dusty, but with lurid painted silk on the walls, depicting poorly drawn shepherds and shepherdesses bullying sheep up and down the hills.

The breakfast was also as she expected. Weak tea, runny eggs, a passable ham accompanied by another serving from the endless supply of dry bread. She wondered how the cook managed it. Had she found a way to dry it before baking? The wedding cake itself was the most frightening part of the meal. There had been no time to prepare a true cake, and cook had made do with something that had been leftover from another meal. Whose, she was not sure—she certainly had not seen it during her brief stay. The cut edge had been trimmed away and the whole thing heavily iced and scattered with candied violets that were unable to conceal the lopsided nature of the whole.

And Marcus ruled over the table without saying a word, maintaining the same horrible smile he’d shone in the hallway. The vicar offered a brief prayer of thanks, to which Marcus blinked in response, and they all ate.

To her relief, Wilkins had followed her instructions and provided the best champagne that the cellars had to offer. She had never tasted it before and was surprised at how light and easily drinkable it was. And equally surprised, twenty minutes later, that she had downed three glasses of it, and barely touched the food on her plate. She opened her mouth to speak and hiccupped, making the Winslows jump in their seats and bringing a critical glare from her husband. She offered a quiet apology and shielded her glass from any further attempt of the eager footman to fill it.

Shortly thereafter the duke removed his napkin from his lap and threw it on his plate with a note of finality. He stood and advanced slowly on the vicar with an evil grin and such a deliberate pace that all at the table were convinced that they were about to see the poor man murdered and perhaps eaten. The duke reached into the front pocket of his jacket and the vicar cringed against the oncoming blow.

The duke merely produced an envelope thick with bank notes and dropped it on the plate in front of the vicar. ‘Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Reverend, Mrs Winslow. Good day.’

And then he stood there, stock still, above the vicar. And waited. All in all, Miranda decided she much preferred it when he was yelling. But the effect was impressive and it took less than a minute before the vicar’s composure cracked and he was making his apologies and wishing them well before hustling his wife to the door.

She saw them off with an artificial courtesy that she hoped was not too obvious and turned to find that her husband had followed them to the door as well.

‘I trust that was sufficient, madam?’ He stared at her with only the barest trace of the annoyance he’d shown for the last hour.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She looked up at him and wondered what was actually going through his mind. He was capable of so many emotions, and able to exchange them so quickly.

‘Very well.’ He continued to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

She gazed down and clasped her hands together and remembered the ring he had given her and the kiss, and blushed, running her finger over the surface of the gold and feeling safe and warm.

He glanced down. ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten that. May I have my ring back, please?’

She looked up at him in shock.

‘I have need of it. And it would not do for you to lose it.’

‘Lose it? It’s just that … I thought …’ She stared down at it, unsure what to say. She thought that the gift had meant something. Perhaps not.

And her eyes met his, and she was lost in them. Her fingers relaxed and the heavy ring slipped off and bounced on the marble floor.

He stooped and caught it, before it had rolled too far, nodding as if this confirmed what he had suspected about her negligent care of it. ‘Thank you. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m sure I will see you in our rooms, later.’

Chapter Six

She stared up into the canopy of the bed, watching a spider spinning in the gloom of a corner. Her husband would come soon, and do what he would do, and it would be over. She tried not to review in her mind the detailed explanation that Cici had given her of marital relations. It would hurt the first time, but she was not to be afraid.

She mentally cursed Cici for explaining it so. It must not hurt so very much or women would never allow a second time. She was not unfamiliar with pain. It could not hurt her body as much as leaving home had wounded her heart. She would survive.

Cici had said that with some men it was not painful, but actually quite pleasant. When the man was loving and gentle, there was nowhere else you’d rather be than joined with them. Cici had known many men and had a chance for comparison.

Since she was to know only one, whether it might be pleasant somewhere else need not concern her. As a matter of fact, it was annoying to think that things could be better in a different bed. Hadn’t she always known that there were better places to be than the circumstances she’d been given? And wasn’t the foolish quest for better circumstances the thing that had led her here?

She remembered her last job, helping in the kitchen of one of the great houses near her home. She’d been carrying strawberries from the garden for the cook, when an unnamed lord had spotted her in a secluded hallway. He’d blocked her way, and smiled, wishing her a good morning.

And she’d smiled back, and made to go around him.

And he’d asked her name.

She’d responded politely and continued her progress towards the kitchen.

He was upon her before she realised and her back was against the wall. He’d reached into the bowl of berries she was still holding in front of her and brought one to his lips, biting and letting the juice trickle on to his chin. And he’d taken another, and brought it very deliberately to her lips and bade her bite. She’d been hungry and unable to resist the temptation to have just one. And she’d eaten from his hand like a tamed animal. Then he’d thrust a hand down the front of her dress and seized her breast.

She stood there, frozen in shock as he felt the slight weight of it, then rolled the nipple between his fingers.

Her mind had screamed that she must run. But her traitorous legs would not move. And he’d leaned closer, nipping her earlobe and whispering that, Miranda, there were many easier ways to earn a shilling than fetching and carrying for the cook. And, Miranda, there could be pretty dresses and baubles for a pretty girl, a quiet girl, if she were to bring her bowl of berries and come with him now.

And, to her shame, she’d been tempted. The part of her that was weak and tired and frightened told her that he was right. It would be easier just to lie back and give up. But he’d begun to describe what he wanted in whispering gasps, and anger had broken through the fear in her mind. She’d dropped the bowl and run from the house. She’d saved her honour, but lost her position. And considered herself lucky that he hadn’t taken what he wanted without benefit of discussion.

Cici had warned her, if a man turned out to be a brute, it was better not to resist, but to lie still and let him finish.

Which brought her mind back to her new husband. The kiss in the church had been strange enough. It had been pleasant at first, but overwhelming and inescapable. She imagined being trapped beneath him tonight as he grunted and rutted like some stallion in a stable yard. She’d be still, let him take what he wanted and perhaps he’d lose interest and return to his own rooms. She must look on the bright side, such as it was. He kept himself cleaner than the servants kept his house. His face had been shaven smooth and his body smelled of cologne and not sweat. His breath was fresh enough. His teeth were good. The advantages of wealth, she thought. The improved circumstances that Cici said her father had wanted for her. It was inevitable that she would marry and have some man in her bed. At least a rich man would be clean and the bed would be large.

And the result would be the same, whether she’d married a beggar or a peer. A swollen belly, the pain of childbed and a baby. At least her new husband could afford to keep his children. She never need worry about food or a roof over her head or the clothing on her back. That was the gift that her father had wanted for her and she should be grateful that he had been sensible enough to look to her future.

She listened for sounds from the other room, and her nerves ratcheted still tighter. How long was he planning to wait? It was past midnight and still there was no sign.

Her stomach growled, and the hollow ache in it drove the acid up and into her throat. She should have choked down a meal. She should have partaken of that miserable wedding breakfast. Now she was starving as well as scared and could feel a faint pounding beginning behind her temple.