Duchess Decadence (4 page)

Unfortunately, that had been just the start of his current trouble.

Later—after he’d called a militia and rushed with them to disburse an angry crowd trapping Thea Marie in her friend’s home—he had found Thea as coolly aloof as ever and he’d snapped. He’d demanded she come home and then he’d kissed her like no lady should ever be kissed—savage and raw, displaying an utterly contemptible lack of restraint. He’d poured everything they’d lost into that kiss. And to his shock, she’d kissed him back, every bit as angry and demanding.

When they’d broken apart, they’d barely been able to look at one another.

He had agreed to let the Furies stay with the dowager duchess and thought that after such a show, chances of her return were low indeed.

Then, he’d received her wager.

He’d been enraged.
He?
Go to her den of libertines and dandies so she could openly mock their marriage? He’d downed a drink.
He?
Decide between a summer-long reunion and divorce—over a toss of dice? He’d been scandalized. He’d had another drink. Then, he’d realized her elegant, fine fingers had actually written the word
divorce
. He’d been desolate. He’d downed a third. By the time Harrison had arrived, his outrage had muddied to desperate need.

…Need only Thea Marie could answer.

He’d lost control of his sentiments and, right now, the libertines and dandies who frequented her den were snickering at him over their afternoon tipple. He had no one but himself to blame for the outrageous scene sure to be sketched and hung in printer’s windows, preserved for all time like the sketches poking fun at his father’s hasty second marriage.

He rubbed his forehead and returned to his seat. Using the still-feathered tip of his quill, he dusted away the pounce and then he closed his now-dry ledger.

He’d been overcome, that was all. Overcome by lust, and need, and sentiment. Overcome when he should have met her challenge with the single command:
enough.
Instead, he’d trotted to her side and accepted her wager. He was still uncertain exactly how he had won, but he had and Thea Marie was due to arrive home within the hour.

Before she arrived, he resolved to do away with the sentiment lurking in his heart’s shadowy corners, licking its bloody paws with satisfied glee. If he meant to maintain his dignity—not to mention his reason—they would both have to abide by guidelines. He took a deep breath, withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, dipped quill into inkwell, and began to write.

One, she would treat him with respect.

Two, she would defer to his rules.

Three—he squinted at the portrait until inspiration dawned—she would not speak unless spoken to.
That
would ensure she could not twist his wor—

“Ah, the crisp scratch of your quill.” The smooth, feminine voice that interrupted his thoughts was thick with something he could not define. “Dare I ask who you are adding to your list of enemies?”

“Perhaps,” he crumpled up his rules and tossed them into his drawer, “I was crossing off a name.”

He slipped his quill into the sand well. Internally, he brushed away the dark edges of his thoughts in much the same way the sand absorbed the excess ink.

“Indeed?” Her gaze met his, and then flicked to the portrait and back. “I hadn’t thought you capable of reversal.”

“I am glad my talents are not confined to those you imagine.”

A ghost smile hovered on her lips. She sauntered past his desk and to the portrait, studying herself eye-to-eye.

“The painter was in love with me, you know.”

Yes
. He remembered.

“Weren’t they all?”

She eyed him askance. “Not
all
.” She turned back to the portrait. “He was a young man, I believe. Belgian. No, Swiss.”

Dutch. The painter had been lowland Dutch. With delicate features that caused the maids to giggle, a nasal but compelling voice, and an all-too-familiar way of speaking to his duchess.

Breathe
.

He watered down the memory of the painter. Instead, he focused on the woman within reach. Thea’s black hair had been coiled into glossy ropes and pinned in piles atop her head. How many pins had it taken to tame her unruly hair? One hundred, maybe? He imagined pulling them out, one by one, and watching those ropes fall well past her slender waist.

“He was
so
athletic and fine,” she said, “and, she, so very young.”

“Duchess,” he spoke with a rough edge, “can we stop discussing the painter?”

She swiveled. “I had.”

She stood side by side with her younger self. The disparity was a blow to his gut. For the first time, he truly understood just how young she’d been. All it had taken was three years with him and three days alone, in the midst of the riot that had decimated London, to stamp out the innocence depicted in the portrait. He swallowed. Roughly.

Sentiment was once again on the prowl.

“Last night,” she said, “you vowed you would
show
me. I’ve been puzzling over that remark all morning.” Ever so slightly, she tilted her head. “What do you want, Wyn?”

He looked up at his own portrait and into the eyes of his younger self, with a vague remembrance of what he’d expected from the cheeky child raised to be his duteous bride. Modesty, of course. Obedience, naturally. A woman content to occupy her own sphere and enter his on cue, as needed, to assist him as he set about repairing the Wynchester name. His lips turned down in a wry frown. He may not have been as young as she when they married, but he’d been naive.

…And
stupid
.

He’d had a prize he had not understood. His expectations had been as absurd as his ill-thought-out list of rules but she hadn’t asked him of his former expectations. She’d asked him what he wanted.

The ache from the night before stretched through his body. His gaze traveled over her impossibly complex coils of hair, down her pinked cheeks to her powdered breasts.

The ache turned animal. Panther-like, to be exact.

He wanted to force open the mystery she embodied. He—the man, not the duke—wanted to command her allegiance and force from her alabaster heart some measure of affection.

He swallowed again.

What he wanted was dangerous, if not impossible.

“You aren’t the only one.” He despised the lurch in his voice.

“The only one?” she asked with a subtle lift of her right brow.

“With sentiment.” An
excess
of damnable sentiment. He cleared his throat. “That is to say, you are not the only one affected by sentiment.” A funny sensation rasped in his lungs. “I want…” he spoke more harshly than he’d intended, “I want our life as it should have been.”

She opened her mouth without a sound and blinked. Twice. Subtly, she leaned in his direction—or was he imagining that?

Of course, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was likely mortified. Who was it who claimed confession good for the soul?
Poppycock
. The funny sensation hardened.

“I already know,” he continued, “that my sins are such that cannot be forgiven.” He swallowed the thick wad. “I
know
I am to blame for our terrible loss.” He kicked back his chair and stood. “I cannot—
I will not
—hear you say it again.”

Before she could repudiate him, he strode into the hall.

…

I want our life, as it should have been
.

For a fleeting moment, Wynchester’s quiet longing had echoed in Thea’s heart while the words
I want that, too
had danced on her tongue.

His retreating heels clicked on the marble floor. She closed the lips unspoken words had parted. Beyond her impulsive answer, her body chanted a demanding refrain.
Run
.
Run.

For God’s sake, run.

No
. She set her shoulders back, and walked with calm determination into the hall. Wynchester had disappeared. Well, she would find him. She would call for help and…

She looked around for a bell pull and saw none. A teetering panic wobbled in her ankles. She was a stranger in a home more mausoleum than house.
Goodness
. She did not even know how to call a goddamned servant.

She placed her fingers over her lips and felt them tremble.
Run.

She took a step toward the door.
Run
.

She reached for the handle.
Run.

The long case clock in the corner clicked as its chain inched downward, ticking away the seconds. She closed her eyes. The image of Wynchester’s face materialized beneath her lids.

She sucked in and held her breath.
I want our life
. She exhaled and a dizzy sensation swayed in her limbs.

Our
. Wyn had said
our
.

Our
life.
Our
terrible loss.

She
could
run. That was the option she understood best. Safe darkness beckoned—a patchwork quilt of self-protection.

…Or, she could stay.

Stay and rip open still-tender wounds in the slim hope she could save her husband from Eustace and maybe, just maybe, make some sense of the box of mismatched dreams and longings in her heart. If she stayed, she could find out what he’d meant when he’d said
our
…

She pressed palms against heated cheeks.

“Your Grace,” young Bates spoke from somewhere behind, “would you like me to order a carriage?”

Yes
. She bit her bottom lip hard, preventing the wrong answer. She pasted a smile on her lips and turned. “Bates, would you be so kind as to show me to…” She paused.
Where
?

“The maids have not yet prepared your rooms.” Young Bates cleared his throat. “Might I suggest the afternoon sitting room? Your Grace will find the light excellent this time of day.”

“Thank you, Bates.” Her heart softened and her smile turned wistfully-genuine. “I believe that would be just the thing.”

Young Bates was every bit as discreet as his father, the man who continued to act as butler in the London home she had once shared with Wynchester.

She followed the butler, first through the marble hall, up some stairs and then through a two story gallery. Wynchester’s Worthington ancestors dating back to the Tudor court gazed out of their frames in secure condescension.

She frowned. If she recalled correctly, these same portraits had graced the gallery at Wynterhill, a converted Abbey that was the largest and oldest of the Wynchester Duchy holdings. Why had they been moved? Surely Wynchester continued to take up residence at the primary duchy in the late summer months. The ancient pile of stone had always been his pride—a pride she’d shared.

At the end of the gallery, they passed through arched doors into a beautiful room with an equally soaring ceiling. Windowed doors overlooked a courtyard awash in blooms. The farthest door stood open.

She turned from flowers and light and rested her gaze on a pianoforte with a shape reminiscent of a harpsichord. Her breath quickened, high and light in her chest—this time in an excited, wonderful way. Could this be one of the Broadfield creations she’d heard praised for their unique tone?

“Oh, Bates,” she said in awe as the urge to flee disintegrated. “How lovely.”

“His Grace had it delivered this morning.”

Had he
? The beautiful instrument called out to her in an intimate fashion.

“I would like,” she spoke more to herself than to Bates, “to play.”

“Allow me.” Bates lifted and set the top.

“Thank you,” she said.

He bowed and retreated from the room, understanding, somehow, she needed seclusion.

The pianoforte she’d brought to the marriage—a lovely Cristofori with large feet and jeweled keys—had been destroyed during the riots. She had thought it without equal, but this…

She admired the instrument’s simple, elegant design for a moment longer. Then, she pressed a single key. The note sounded in perfect resonance, not with double-string softness but with bold, triple-string clarity.
Exquisite
.

…This creation must have cost Wynchester dear, and he had groused often enough about the expense of maintaining the Cristofori.

She sat down on the bench and placed her fingers on the keys, testing the two pedals at her feet. After some experimentation she realized one raised the dampers, thus increasing the sound, and the other made the hammer strike a single string.

Oh, how fascinating
.

He’d bought the pianoforte on the day she was to return—no doubt it was a gift for her. He could not beat out a tune with a single finger.

Our
terrible loss.
Our
life.