Lady Saves the Duke Page 13

  She was too pure, which was ironic.

  The duke’s words swirled around inside her head. He would be so specific so as to leave her with no uncertainty as to his expectations.

  It took her a moment to process them.

  She was thrilled that he wanted children, for that was part of why she had agreed to marry. She was, however, terrified by the part about having dignity and poise. Could any amount of education make her into a woman who could pass for a duchess? And again her mind was caught on the word expiation. She thought she knew the meaning but was surprised he had used it in terms of his reason for marriage.

  This man standing before her was the Duke of Ice. That person Penelope described when she’d first pointed him out.

  He had impressed upon her a warmth while with his sister, and then protection when he’d offered to escort her to her room. But now he spoke in precise clipped tones. Although he was leaning against the door and ought to have looked at ease, his muscles remained tense. His eyes distant, impersonal.

  But he had been kind.

  “I will do my best to uphold your wishes, Your Grace,” she said demurely. “I, too, want children.”

  He raised his brows at her last statement. “It is not something you fear?”

  Did he mean childbirth or did he mean the procreation process? Heat suffused her face. “I do not fear childbirth.” He did understand that she had already experienced it, didn’t he? “I did not suffer any complications…before.” She blushed even more hotly. When she looked back up at the duke, she saw that his eyes had become slightly hooded. Although he hadn’t changed his expression, his eyes were no longer impassive.

  The longer he stared at her, the more uncomfortable he made her.

  “And the begetting part? Do you not fear it either?” His voice was low. He did not seem to be mocking her.

  She turned her entire body away from him. This was all very personal. “I…” she began unsuccessfully. “I…must admit that I do fear it…But I will do my duty by you. I will not be ruled by my fears. You need not worry on that account, Your Grace.” And then she felt his body behind her. Close to her. If she were to tilt her head back, it would rest against his chest. Which she found oddly inviting.

  The duke placed one hand upon her shoulder and turned her around to face him. “Do you fear me?” he asked, surprising her. The warmth of his hand seeped through the material of her dress. He smelled musky and spicy—expensive—and yet it was subtle. When they’d walked together in the grass—what felt like ages ago—at Raven’s Park, he had not acted nearly so ducal. Today he was dressed impeccably—his cravat tied perfectly, his superfine green jacket pressed and crisp, and an exquisite lace at his wrists. He was rather glorious in all of his ducal finery.

  And he was eyeing her closely.

  “I am not afraid of you, Your Grace,” she answered honestly while looking at a golden button on his jacket. “I do not really know you all that well, but I trust you. I could not marry you if I did not. In spite of everything else, I don’t consider myself a fool.”

  “But I frightened you, that night,” he reminded her. And then his hand moved from her shoulder to her chin, and he tilted her face back so that she was looking into his eyes. “You were so frightened that you fainted.”

  The memory caused a tremor to run through her. She did her best to suppress it, but the duke released her and stepped backward anyway. He had felt it.

  “I tend to faint sometimes.” She grimaced and then she shrugged. “I wasn’t afraid the entire time. When you kissed me at first I was fine, it was more…”

  “When I groped at you,” the duke finished for her. He looked disgusted. With himself? Or with her?

  Abigail sighed. “Yes.” Was this to be a deal breaker? Was he now going to request that she cry off? Suddenly she did not want this challenge to be taken away from her. She wanted to accomplish this task successfully. “But I was taken by surprise. I did not expect any of it. I will have plenty of time to get used to the idea by the time we are actually wed.” She spoke firmly.

  A dry chuckle escaped the duke’s mouth as he shook his head. “You think you will be able to refrain from fainting then, upon our wedding night?”

  “I will not faint, Your Grace.” She spoke with conviction. She would not.

  Again that wry chuckle. He had the odd ability to do so with no signs of amusement whatsoever. “And how can you be so certain of this?”

  Abigail sought to be convincing. “I shall know you better. I will know that I have your protection. It will be done with my consent. I will not be left to cope with any complications alone. In fact, complications shall be the purpose of it. And it will be undertaken in the safety and privacy of a bedchamber. I will have no reason to be afraid.”

  Alex was stunned by her words. She was fiercely determined to perform this aspect of marriage in spite of having been raped. For she had confirmed that, just now. The bastard who had left her with child had raped her. Could she overcome such an experience?

  She had said she trusted him. She had said she enjoyed it when he’d first kissed her. “You are not afraid of me, then?” he asked again, feeling the need to confirm this.

  She shook her head side to side. “No.” But her voice sounded slightly breathless.

  Alex reached forward again and held her chin. Without moving any closer, he bent forward and touched his lips softly to hers.

  At first she did not move, remaining passive.

  Alex raised his other hand and rubbed his thumb along the seam of her lips. As his mouth hovered tentatively, he coaxed them open with the pad of his thumb.

  She was a quick learner. When he angled his head to deepen the kiss, her mouth opened and she pulled at him with a shy sucking motion. A surge of lust rolled through him.

  He released her and stepped backward.

  “Then we will proceed as planned.” He made a quick bow and took his leave hastily. This entire betrothal was becoming far more complicated than he had foreseen. Could one not simply take a wife and have the matter done with?

  ****

  The duke did not attend supper that evening, leaving the ladies alone to partake of the excellent cuisine provided by his staff. Penelope, Margaret, and Abigail were joined, nonetheless, by Lady Cecily Cross, also referred to as Aunt Cecily. A grand old dame, she had a way of looking at Abigail that made her wish she could disappear. Critical and judgmental, she nonetheless had apparently resigned herself to the situation. The proud woman corrected Abigail throughout dinner and even as they walked through to the parlor. Abigail had a great deal to learn but was feeling quite determined.

  The duke had been quite clear that they would have a real marriage. She would have a child, possibly more than one. That was her true heart’s desire.

  And he had kissed her.

  It had been unlike any kiss she’d ever experienced up until that point. He’d not touched her body at all except for his hand upon her face and his mouth upon her lips. Without worrying about protecting her body, she had been intensely aware of the feel of his lips and tongue.

  He had tasted warm and comforting.

  She had enjoyed it.

  The mere thought brought a blush up her chest and onto her face.

  “What is it, gel?” Aunt Cecily inquired rudely. “You need not dissemble with us about your history. Believe me, we are well aware of all that we must overcome with you. No need to turn up shy. But I must know, is there anything else of which we ought to be aware? Is your mother sane? Does your father drink? Any other skeletons we will need to skirt over the next few weeks?”

  Dear God, but Aunt Cecily was forthright. Abigail thought to answer in the negative, but the memory of her father passed out in the mews flashed through her mind rather ominously. And then the thought of her mother remaining in her room for weeks on end took up residence…

  “My parents have been rather troubled by my situation. It has put both of them under considerable strain…” She tried to answe
r honestly.

  Aunt Cecily tilted her head back as though to examine the ornate ceiling before once again pinning her gaze on Abigail. “So, your father drinks and your mother is unstable?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Abigail winced and then raised one shoulder apologetically. “Well, I suppose…”

  The older lady raised her brows and lifted her quizzing glass.

  “A little, yes, to both of your questions. But I am hoping those matters right themselves now that I no longer live under their roof. The entire village has ostracized them, and what with my marriage, hopefully this will no longer be the case. I am quite optimistic, as a matter of fact.”

  Margaret waved one hand toward her aunt and nodded in agreement. “Of course, such matters will right themselves. What parent would not find satisfaction in their daughter marrying a duke?”

  At this point, Penelope carefully set down her utensil and came to Abigail’s aid. “Aunt Edna and Uncle Bernard have had hard times but most assuredly looked fit and well when we collected Abigail yesterday. There shall be no trouble from those quarters.” Then her brows drew together in a worrisome frown. “What I am concerned about is how Abigail is to deal with the people in London who remember her. For most certainly, the gossips will dust off the scandal and happily air it again.”

  Margaret waited while her plate was removed before addressing the servants present. “Smithy, Fredrick, would you be so kind as to leave us alone until we remove ourselves to the drawing room?”

  “Of course, my lady,” one of them answered before they silently disappeared without so much as blinking.

  And then Margaret returned her attention to Penelope. “I have a plan. But, ladies, firstly I must instruct all of you—including you, Aunt Cecily”—this was said with a stern look in her aunt’s direction—“that it is crucial for private matters to remain private. Especially when it comes to speaking in front of servants. Although Monfort places a great deal of trust in his staff, it only takes one of them to overhear gossip to share it with their counterparts working in other society homes.”

  Abigail nodded, and Penelope dropped her hands into her lap and looked down. Aunt Cecily shrugged arrogantly and pinched her lips together. After a few moments of silence, in which Margaret apparently accepted their acquiescence, she spoke again. “I have made arrangements for my modiste, Madame Chantel, to attend to us tomorrow in order to begin working on Miss Wright’s wardrobe and for my hairdresser to arrive later in the day. The following day, we shall begin comportment, etiquette, and dance lessons. We have just a few weeks to prepare you to be presented, once again, to society, and so we mustn’t waste a moment. I presume you have no objections, Miss Wright?” she continued in determined tones all the while looking directly at Abigail.

  “Abby.” Abigail spoke softly. “As we are going to be sisters, I’d like it if we could speak informally with each other. But no, I have no objections.” She sat up straighter and eyed the duke’s sister with conviction. She would do this. She must do this. And she must succeed!

  ****

  Alex intentionally did not spend the evening at home. As the ladies discussed his betrothed’s preparations over the next few weeks, he sat comfortably ensconced in a deep leather chair holding a snifter of brandy in his hand at White’s.

  Brandy; her eyes perfectly matched the color of brandy. He swirled the contents in his glass for a few moments before turning back to his reading, irritated with himself. He was holding a book and appeared to be reading, but had failed to comprehend even a single page.

  He was feeling unsettled.

  This marriage. Not at all similar to his first trip to the altar. He wondered if he ought to be worried.

  There could not be any woman more opposite in nature or appearance to Hyacinth than Miss Wright. Whereas Hyacinth had been tall, slender, and golden haired, Miss Wright was petite and voluptuous, with mousy brown hair. And she was soft.

  Hyacinth had not been soft at all.

  Oh, God, how he’d made a hash of things with Hyacinth when they first married. She’d been the same age as Miss Wright.

  At the tender age of seventeen, Miss Wright had been raped by a cad in a garden.

  Hyacinth’s husband had forced himself upon her.

  Alex let the book fall to his lap and closed his eyes. Had it been rape? It had felt like it at the time. She’d consented, yes, at first. She’d been his wife, after all.

  She’d been rigid as a board, her hands clenched at her side on the bed when he’d raised her nightgown upward. She’d told him to please just get it over with. She had not wanted him to kiss her or fondle her.

  Alex had been a stupid fool. It was his right, he’d thought at the time. Most certainly after the first time, his wife would lose her inhibitions and allow him greater liberties.

  When he’d first gone to her, he’d been excited.

  Hyacinth was beautiful. Throughout their courtship she’d allowed a few chaste kisses which had merely stoked the fire of his desire for her. He’d wanted to anticipate their wedding night, but she’d been quite firm in her insistence that they wait.

  Hyacinth had demanded he extinguish the candles before approaching her bed.

  Alex furrowed his brows as he contemplated now that he’d never seen his wife unclothed, in spite of the near six years they’d lived together as man and wife.

  Good God, he’d already seen more of Abigail Wright’s flesh than he’d ever seen of Hyacinth’s!

  Had he raped Hyacinth that night? His blood ran cold at the thought. It might as well have been.

  She’d been dry and tight. The only wetness they’d experienced together had been from her blood and his seed.

  She’d cried and begged him to stop, but he’d been determined to complete the act.

  Which had taken longer than he would have thought. The memory tormented him. He was no better than the man who’d ruined Miss Wright.

  Alex lifted one hand and rubbed his eyes. Miss Wright would not fight him, he had no doubt of that—as long as she could remain conscious. The thought ironically lightened his heart briefly. And then he remembered how she’d kissed him this afternoon.

  She’d pulled at his mouth with her own.

  She’d experienced sexual desire. He was certain of it. And what had she said? She’s said she would not be afraid. I shall know you better, she’d said. I will know that I have your protection. It will be done with my consent. I will not be left to cope with any complications alone. In fact, complications shall be the purpose of it. And it will be undertaken in the safety and privacy of a bedchamber. I will have no reason to be afraid.

  She was not a beautiful woman by any means, but he was attracted to her.

  Although a part of him derided the lackadaisical attitude she’d taken toward her life in the past, tinges of admiration for her courage were beginning to emerge. So strong in some ways, and in others, so soft…

  Her lips—her cheek—her entire body. For some reason, her body was inviting and comfortable—to his.

  Perhaps he could find pleasure in a marriage. For a while anyway.

  But then Alex remembered again how she had fainted dead away when he’d touched her. He was annoyed with himself for giving any credence to what her damned uncle had said.

  What in the hell had he been thinking that night? He’d been thinking with his nether regions, that’s what. And he’d been foxed. For years now, he’d prided himself upon his control, on his self-imposed discipline. That night he’d let down his restraint for some reason. And now look at the consequences of that!

  He would have loved to look upon this betrothal with a semblance of optimism, but he knew better. He knew himself. Yes, he knew himself well enough to know that this would only lead to disappointment later.

  He could have a hopeful outlook for his sister, for his tenants, for his horses, hell, even for his country, but when it came to his own ability to achieve some sort of contentment, he knew it was not possible. His emo
tions had locked themselves inside a permanent prison of lethargy. Like a wounded soldier, returning from war without one of his limbs, his feelings had been amputated. He hadn’t been dubbed the Duke of Ice for no good reason, after all.

  Some sexual satisfaction and an easing of his guilt was the most he would hope for from this marriage. And an heir. God help him, he needed an heir.

  “Alex, Alex Cross? Surprised to find you in town. Thought you’d gone back to Brooke’s Abbey.”

  Alex pulled himself out of his uncomfortable musings to acknowledge the man standing before him. He’d wondered about this fellow since seeing him at Raven’s Park.

  “Danbury.” Alex set aside his drink and book to rise to his feet. Clasping the hand of the man he’d gone to school with years ago, he wondered that he’d not sought him out at Ravensdale’s house party. “No bastards trailing around behind you today?”

  Danbury shrugged sheepishly. Alex hadn’t looked closely at the man earlier this summer. The brown eyes were familiar, but small wrinkles had formed at the edges, either from too much sun or too much laughter.

  Of similar height to himself, Hugh Chesterton portrayed himself as an indolent type. It was well known amongst the ton, that he spent most of his energy chasing trouble and avoiding commitments, often both at the same time.

  “Not today,” Danbury responded. Laughter threaded Hugh’s voice, but a glint of steel cooled his eyes. Hugh had inherited at a young age, the burden of his family and title falling upon him before he’d been ready. Whereas Alex hadn’t seen a choice but to take up his duties, the viscount had rebelled.