Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

Perhaps she should ring for Polly to bring her some tea. As if she’d want to come at this hour—Miranda had too much sympathy there to draw the servants out of their warm beds to fulfil needs that should have been dealt with earlier in the evening.

Of course, there was no law to say that she couldn’t take care of things herself. Great houses were all alike. Bedrooms were up, and kitchens were down and there were servants’ stairs between. It was possible, at this advanced hour, that the duke had no plans to visit her. And if he did, she should hurry and be back before he arrived and no one would be the wiser. She left her door open a crack and tiptoed down the hall to the place where she was sure the servants’ stairs must lie.

The duke stared down in to his brandy glass. He should be upstairs by now, waiting on his new wife, not in the library, gathering Dutch courage.

He poured another glass and drank. This was not how the day was supposed to run. He’d had no desire to take a wife and certainly not to yoke himself to the odd duck that had washed up on the doorstep yesterday. Eventually, he would have had to make a decision, but he had been enjoying the relative quiet in the house without the presence of his mother.

He would get the estate back in order first. And something would have to be done about St John. An uneasy truce at least. They’d need to work through enough of the old problem so they would not be at each other’s throats. He had no real desire to throw his only living relative from the house for good, but it might be necessary if no solution could be found.

He’d never intended to bring a wife into the mess that existed now. But one had forced her way into it and now he had another problem to deal with. And he’d done a ham-handed job of it so far, railing at her in the hall for problems that weren’t of her doing, and goaded by St John’s sneers to that kiss after the wedding. He could tell by the thin set of her lips at breakfast that she was convinced she’d married a lout.

And now, instead of apologising and getting on with the business at hand, he was hiding in the library with a brandy bottle. As if an excess of spirits would do anything but inhibit his ability to perform the new duty added to an already long list.

At the least, it would leave him careless and he imagined the deflowering of a virgin required a certain amount of finesse.

If that truly was her state. He suspected not. To be rushed unescorted out of London raised doubts. He knew nothing of her family other than it had been wronged by his, which did not narrow the field much in choice of a wife. It was how he’d gained his last wife as well. He suspected, between his mother, his brother and himself, that there was quite a list of eligible females whose families had been wronged. But he could not take a harem to assuage the family honour.

It might be best, he thought, swirling the liquor in the snifter, if the consummation were postponed, at least until he could ascertain the reason that his mother had been so eager to have him wed to this particular woman. It would be the rational course of action to proceed with caution.

And what would be the fun of that?

Marcus smiled at the thought that had crept unbidden in to his head. Throw caution to the winds? He was a brother to St John after all. While it might be sensible to save the wedding night until he was sure he had any intention of staying married to the woman in question, it was in no way satisfying. If the woman came to his home hoping to be wed, surely she must be expecting his visit.

He set down his glass and walked slowly towards his room.

If she was honourable, and this was all some horrible mistake, she deserved the protection of his name, and should be willing to submit graciously to her new husband. She’d had ample opportunity to stop this farce of a marriage at the beginning, yet she’d said nothing. She now had no reason to cry nay at the inevitable climax of the day.

But if she was some trollop foisted on him by a combination of bad fortune and his mother’s need for redemption? Then he could enjoy his wife’s favours, knowing that he was not taking any liberties that she had not given elsewhere. And when he found the truth he would throw her out into the street, bag and baggage, reputation be damned. She could scream and cry all she liked, but where there was no wedding licence, there was no wedding. He was bound by no legal contract and no amount of crying women and hand-wringing preachers would persuade him to keep her.

Besides, the quickest way to discover her honour or lack of it might be to do the deed. Seeing the wench naked, he could look for a telltale bulging belly or lack of modesty.

But if she was innocent? Then planning was required.

He arrived in his room and paused with his hand on the knob. How best to set the scene? His room or hers? Hers, he suspected. Then, when it was through, she could have the comfort of familiarity, if such could be gained by twenty-four hours’ occupancy.

Dressed or undressed? Undressed would be easier. There was certainly a pleasure in slow discovery, but, perhaps in this case, expediency might be better.

Undressed, then. But how far? Not totally. To arrive naked in her room? Certainly not. If she was a virgin, there was no telling how much information she’d received on the activities of the marriage bed. Unclothed and fully aroused was no condition in which to give anatomy lessons. Perhaps even now, she was sitting primly in her bed in her best nightrail and cap, waiting for her husband.

And the thought made him smile.

Very well. Her room. He’d arrive in his dressing gown, and sit on the corner of her bed so as not to alarm her. They’d chat. And soon he would be sitting beside her. He would take her hand to reassure her. Then he’d take her lips.

And soon he’d take the rest of her and the business would be done.

He stripped without the help of his valet, and put on a brocade dressing gown. He pulled the knot of the robe tight and nodded in approval of himself. There. A plan was in place and things would continue to their successful conclusion.

And he opened the connecting door to her room.

They could continue, except for the absence of one important component. His wife was nowhere to be found.

She glared in to the pantry. How did the house run on such a meagre store of food? A bit of cheese and bread was all she wanted, but she’d expected to find more. The snack she was taking seemed hardly fit for the mice she’d startled when she came into the room.

Such stale bread. And such dry cheese. It was as unpalatable as the lunch and the supper. She imagined writing a plea to her family.

Dear Cici and Father,

I have come to Devon and married a duke. And I’m

more tired and hungry than I have ever been in my life.

Please let me come home.

‘What the devil are you doing in the kitchen?’

And why must everything you say to me be shouted? she wondered, rubbing her temples.

The duke was standing in the doorway, his arms folded in front of him. His words rolled over her in a torrent. ‘I came to your room, expecting to find you waiting, and had to chase through the whole of the house before I found you. And here, of all places. Did you expect to sleep next to the fire, like the kitchen cat? Was I to call the servants to locate you? Wouldn’t that be rich? To have the household know that his Grace has had a wife for less than a day and already misplaced her.’

‘Because it is all about you, isn’t it?’ she snapped. ‘And about what people think. That is why you had to marry me. That is the only reason I’m still here and I expect you’ll have cause to mention it whenever I make a mistake for the rest of my life.’

‘If you wish to stay in this house, then, yes, it is all about my wishes. And if I say that what people think is important, then you’d better believe it and act accordingly.’

‘But that’s just it,’ she retorted. ‘I don’t wish to stay in this house. What reason would I have to stay here?’

‘Many would think that a great house and a duke is reason enough,’ he growled.

And the rage and confusion broke in her and poured out. ‘Then many people have not met you. If they had, they might change their opinion. For I swear that I have never been so miserable in my life. Sir, you are foul tempered and foul mouthed.’ She sniffed the air. ‘And drunk. You do nothing but storm at me, but expect me to wait meekly in my bed for your arrival. You were eager enough to kiss me at the altar and yet show no hurry to come to my bed on our wedding night. I sat there for hours, and finally was too starved to wait longer and came to the kitchen for some food.’ She gestured around her. ‘And, lo, you keep none here. What a surprise that things should be managed more like the poorest hovel than the greatest of houses. Are you a miser as well as a bully, that the meals in this house should be so poor and the rooms so cold and filthy?’

He looked, she thought, like a dog that had been slapped across the muzzle in the moment of stunned realisation before he must choose attack or retreat. And she felt the world shift under her as she understood what she had done. The Duke of Haughleigh was unlikely to turn tail and run.

‘If you feel that way, madam—’ and his voice was ice and not fire ‘—then perhaps I should pack you off back to London.’

And she realised that she’d gone too far. She’d failed her father. She’d failed Cici. She’d enraged the duke. And she had nowhere to go. The room spun around her.

‘Damn.’ He saw her begin to crumple and lunged to catch her before her body hit the floor. Who would have thought, after such an admirable rage, that she would turn out to be a fainter? Then he pulled her body close and knew the answer. The poor thing was skin and bones. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d claimed that she was cold and tired and hungry. She was merely stating the truth of the abysmal hospitality he’d shown her.

He scooped a hand behind her knees and lifted her in his arms, surprised that, despite her height, she was so light a burden.

She roused and struck feebly at his chest, murmuring, ‘Put me down.’

‘And let you fall to the ground in a heap? Certainly not.’ He negotiated the stairs and made his way towards their rooms.

When she realised the direction, she struggled against him, but he held her tighter.

‘No. Please.’ And he felt the tremor rush through her body as they crossed the threshold to her room.

He looked in amazement at the top of her head, trying to see down into the rat’s nest that this woman must call brains, and suspected he understood. ‘Madam, fear not. Necrophilia is not among my many vices. I do not mean to drag you unconscious to bed and force myself on your lifeless body.’ He dropped her down on to the bed, and she curled up in to a ball, hands screwed in to fists and pressed to her face.