Duchess Decadence (7 page)

“Never alone?” Harrison asked.

“Rarely. I have not kept any spirits in the house for some time.” Not after he realized he reached for a draught—or five—whenever he had the urge to reach for his missing wife. “I overindulged in the Armagnac you sent over the night of the Soiree. Anticipation of meeting my duchess had made me,” he grimaced, “immoderate.”

“Ah,” Harrison said. “A terrible waste of good drink!”

All three men laughed. In the silence that followed, he heard footsteps in the hall.

“Dear sister,” Eustace’s voice boomed. “Eavesdropping is not exactly the most auspicious way to begin a night of triumphant return.”

Wynchester smiled ruefully. He lifted his empty glass in a mock toast to her portrait. It was time to face his wife.

“Shall we,” he said, “join the Furies?”

Randolph opened the door, revealing the neat half-circle formed by Eustace and the ladies. To Wynchester, everyone but Thea Marie fell away.

Her blue eyes, looking near-violet tonight, left him breathless.

When they’d met, he would have described her eyes as elfin. Her gaze was harder now, deep and shadowed, but the childish softness in her cheeks had given way to fine form. One could no longer simply admire the duchess; she commanded one’s respect.

“Your Grace,” Lord Randolph stepped forward and made a proper bow. “You will be the talk of the town.”

Thea Marie broke the gaze that had stilled Wynchester. She turned her eyes on Randolph and smiled. As always, her smile—even turned on another man—cut through him like haberdasher shears.

“As you should know, Lord Randolph,” she said, husky and low, “we Furies strive to remain foremost on the lips of London’s greatest gossips.”

Sophia laughed. “Our gift to the young ladies less able to recover from their venom.”

The assembled party continued to exchange the kind of pleasantries one would expect. Pleasantries Wynchester had always prided himself on being able to perfectly execute—until now. As it was, he barely followed the conversation.

Thea’s gaze returned to his. “Have you no opinion, Wynchester?”

“Vulgar displays,” Eustace said, “offend my brother.”

“Do you find the Worthington crest vulgar, Eustace?” Thea smiled, stepped back, and angled her leg. “I do not.”

Wynchester’s gaze dropped to Thea’s petticoat, specifically to the Wynchester crest and motto,
Duty and Fidelity
, stitched into black linen and accented by skirts of the most stunning of color. Tyrian purple—the color of the ancient priestesses, the color of the gods. The costly dye, in Queen Elizabeth’s time, had been reserved for members of the royal family.

A vulgar display, perhaps, but her efforts warmed. She was heralding to their guests that she was every inch a duchess. Every inch
his
duchess, and proud to stand by his side.

Oh yes
, there would be whispers. Duchess Decadence would rise above those whispers. A goddess swathed in silk. Utterly untouchable.

“Lord Eustace,” Lady Sophia said, “a duchess sets fashion, she does not have to follow its strictures.”

Eustace’s smile froze. “The use of a crest is taxed, is it not? Do you suppose Wynchester will be charged per dance partner?”

For the first time since Eustace’s return, Wynchester felt a modicum of annoyance toward his brother.

“Your Grace,” Wynchester bowed to his wife, “you do me great honor.”

Eustace harrumphed. “If she believes her sartorial flair will wipe away the years she ignored your consequence and blackened the family’s reputation, I think she will find herself mistaken.”

Wynchester straightened. “Enough, Eustace.” He looked back to Thea, and away from his brother’s darkening features. He’d done plenty for Eustace in the past few weeks. He was finished neglecting his wife.

“Duchess, you have never looked lovelier.”

To his disappointment, her look of triumph was directed, not at him, but at Eustace.

…

Wynchester gave her his arm, and she placed her gloved hand on the crook of his elbow. The warm look in his eyes had vanished. His arm was muscled and firm.

First Wyn was cold—then inviting—then, with no warning, back to cold. He was a confounding devil.

No
—not devil. Devils were hot. He was ice. Not white ice, but the kind that filled the cracks between cobblestones, smooth as Wyn’s chestnut hair, now cropped and hidden beneath his wig.
Dark ice
—treacherous beyond one’s awareness until after one fell and was blinking into the winter sky.

She set her lips in a straight line. Outward perfection had always come easy to Wynchester. Perfect posture. Perfect address. Perfect standing…except she could not forget he was not
all
perfection. And his imperfections made up the part of him she wanted to know.

She rather regretted forbidding his tipple.

They stopped by the pianoforte while the others collected in the far side of the room. She tugged at the edges of her gloves and laced her spine with steel. She had known returning to the duke was not going to be easy.

Wynchester cast a sideways glance. “Are you steady?”

“Quite.” She shined her enameled smile.
I can do this.

“Tonight,” he said low, “we
must
show unity—the Worthington family, as one.”

“You’ve made your wishes,” her eyes flashed, “
and
your priorities, clear.”

“Good,” his response was clipped. His gaze searched hers for an extended breath. He lowered his voice. “If you had spoken to Eustace the way he spoke to you, I would have answered in the same way.”

Her enameled smile turned brittle. “You are very talented at lecture.”

“At the very least,” anger flashed across his features, “you have acknowledged my talent for
something
.”

“Many things.” She put up her gloved fingers one by one. “Set-downs, cuts direct, efficient marshalling of your sycophants…”

He frowned. Then, his anger melted away into an ironic smirk. “At least I can coerce
someone
to listen to direction.”

She squinted. “I am not a sycophant.”

“No.” He made a leg—a brief bow that mocked more than it paid tribute. “My non-sycophant, duchess, I ask of you a boon.”

Despite herself she nodded.

“Be good, Thea Marie.” His eyes held no command—just uncertain apprehension. “
Please
.”

Please
was not something one heard often from a Worthington.
Her
anger transformed into another, just as visceral response:
challenge
. She decided she’d like very much to hear him say
please
again. Her gaze traveled over his face and then followed the line of his jacket to his breeches. His finely fitted breeches.

Yes. Another
please
would be more than acceptable.

“Ah, Wyn.” She reached up and cupped the hard angle of his ever-so-perfectly shaved cheek. “I will
behave
…” she made her voice low and husky and leaned forward, “if that is what you
really
wish.”

Wynchester’s eyes grew entirely black. She sent him a warm smile, and then turned. As she walked away toward the solace promised by the Furies, she felt his gaze on her back with every step.

She’d always had a penchant to notice little things. Like the way Wynchester’s eyes grew dark when surprise cut through his armor. Odd such perception should quell her anger and save her tonight. When she was small, it had been her downfall.

Grandmother, there are small clouds trapped in the diamonds on your bracelet. Is that why you have to sell it?
There’d been clouds in her grandmother’s eyes, too, as she responded.
Silly child. Sit down.

Since then, she’d kept most of her insights to herself.

Her gaze flicked to the far corner and she noticed Eustace’s smile. It enveloped his cheeks and wrinkled his forehead, but his eyes remained largely unaffected, like the eyes of someone far away. Those eyes turned on her and a chill passed through her veins.

She held his gaze for a moment, sending her own silent message.

I will protect Wynchester at all cost.

Eustace gave her a mocking bow.

Challenge
.

Chapter Five

The doors to the afternoon sitting room had been folded back so the room appeared as one with the gallery. On the outskirts, beplumed women spoke in low conversation with men in snugly tailored waistcoats. A small orchestra was seated to the far side of the Broadfield, awaiting direction. The air, if Wynchester was not mistaken, was lifted with a sense of excited expectation, even more so than at most soirees. He counted the people lining the closest wall.
Twenty
. A respectable crush, when you multiplied that number by the other walls flanked by chattering
ton
.

The evening, so far, had been a success.

He, Thea Marie, and Eustace had greeted every aristocrat of influence in London residence. Ensconced between himself and his brother, the duchess had behaved with perfect grace then, and later, while the two of them led the opening dance.

He had no reason to believe that she would not behave, of course. She had given her word. But she’d not taken his request with equanimity.

In fact, he could have sworn she had responded by
flirting
with him.

I will behave…if that is what you really wish.

Her gaze met his from across the room. She spread her black fan and cooled her cheek’s slight flush.

Oh yes, Thea Marie. Misbehave for me
.

Two warring thoughts immediately reared in response.
Where the hell did that come from?
And,
capitol idea
. The second was accompanied of a vision of her black curls, tangled and damp around her temples and then cascading in waves across his white linen pillows.

He blinked to clear his head and motioned to the conductor. As the violins struck up the next dance, Thea took the arm of a man in her group—the MP of something-or-other, Tory, of course—and joined a group of three other couples. The feathers in her hair wafted as she stepped in time to the strains of a cotillion. The sight of her smiling at the MP was enough to make him consider rotten-borough reform.

His lips formed a thin, grim line.

Why was it he could look into the eyes of any man present and know exactly what he must do to bend them to his will, and yet know nothing of her thoughts?

He read men’s needs on their features with the ease others read newspapers. Never had he tainted his discernment with compassion, nor had he used his gift to acquire friendship. A duke’s business was to perceive, to know, and to direct,
not
to understand. And definitely not—his gaze briefly flit over Randolph and Harrison—to make friends.

…Or—he warmed—lovers.

Thea Marie
. He concentrated, but she remained a blank page. The inner nudge that told him how to proceed was missing. Every night he stood outside her door while his conscience warred with his need. There were worse things than being uncertain whether or not your wife would welcome you into her bed, but such uncertainty was enough to drive one mad.

Well—he folded his hands behind his back—absent direction, he would focus on the main…a united front. Their collective consequence restored.

But even as his duchess played—or in this case, danced—her part with precision, he knew restored consequence would not be enough.

He wanted
more
.

St. Swithin
. Sentiment was not only a hungry panther, it was one of those irritating crank toys—crank the needs inside your heart and suddenly a white-faced devil bursts out to play. The partners changed and Thea Marie twirled in Harrison’s arms. Her smile in that moment was genuine—rare and precious. Another surge of jealousy, directed at the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend.

Then, at the start of the next dance, she joined Lord Randolph.

…And pop goes the weasel
.

Air
. He needed air. He started moving.

The mansion’s inner courtyard was a place of peace and beauty—even if the strains of music and conversation could be heard rising and falling in distant waves. The garden was not well-lit, but he knew his way. He wandered from plant to plant, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Absently, he wondered if Thea Marie had noticed the roses since her return. And if she had noticed, had she perceived their significance?

“You are not alone, Your Grace.”

Thea’s friend Lady Randolph spoke from a perched position on the bench. He was suddenly glad of the gray darkness—it hid the depth of his feeling.

“A duke is never alone, is he?” he mused.
…and yet he is always so.

She made a sound he identified as feminine sympathy. “I imagine not—not a duke who employs a staff the size of yours, anyway. Is this where you come to escape?”

“An absurd question,” he said. “A duke is never away from his duties.”

“Master of ducal behavior, are you?” A smile thread through her voice.

He sensed a verbal quagmire. “I had better leave you to your reflections.”

“You need not go. I”—Lady Randolph paused—“I would enjoy a moment more of your company.”

The idea their meeting had been no accident took hold in his mind, and he had the fleeting sensation Lord and Lady Randolph were playing nursemaid to both himself and the duchess this evening—but why ever would that be?

“Com-pan-y,” she enunciated, “you do know the word, do you not? It refers to the pleasure of another’s conversation.”

Her silk skirts made the sound of leaves in a wind-gust as she stood. Her personal rose-scent joined that of the flowers as she stepped by his side.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she continued, “let us begin again.”

He eyed her at an angle. Moonlight lit a mischievous grin. “You would like the pleasure of my company.” He snorted. “No one has ever desired the
pleasure
of my company. An audience, yes. My company, no.”

“Perhaps if you worked on your conversational skill…?”

He turned away and ran his gloved fingers over the petals of a rose. Polite pleasantries he had mastered. In leadership, he thrived. But
conversation
? “Conversation is not
this
duke’s strength.”

“You are not without hope,” she said brightly. “Let us practice together.”

“You just said you found me tedious.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“Not in so many words…”

She made a frustrated sound through her teeth. He hid his smile.

“My,” she said, “you
are
stubborn. Then again, you are a Worthington. And every Worthington back to the Doomsday Book is known to have been a goat.”

“You wound me.” He raised his brow. “You’ve been speaking to my wife, yes?”

“No. Thea has words other than goat for you.” The impish grin. “I have, however, spoken to your stepmother. Now
there
is a woman who knows how to hold an entertaining conversation.”

The muscles in his neck tightened—a habitual response to the mention of the dowager duchess.

“I have said something wrong, I see,” Lady Randolph said quickly. “Emma is a friend and a fine woman, but perhaps we should seek a more amenable topic.”

He nearly gaped. Her Grace, Dowager Duchess was
Emma
to Lady Randolph? Of course, the Furies had lived for a time with the woman. A permission he’d granted while his head still swam with the after-effects of his duchess’s lips.

“Simplicity,” Lady Randolph continued, oblivious, “is best for practice. Why don’t we attempt the most tried-and-true of topics?” She angled herself away from the bush and touched his arm. When she spoke again her voice had the lacquered polish of a practiced flirt, “Good evening, Your Grace. The night is rather fine, don’t you agree?”

The duke glanced upward. “There’s a bit of a chill.”

She continued in the same shellacked manner. “You’ve a lovely garden.”

“I pay dearly for the privilege.”

Her shoulders dropped and she gave him a hard look. “What brings you joy, Wynchester?”

He gave her a frown that would have frightened most men. “You’ve overstepped, Lady Randolph.”

“Good gracious” she said in her own natural voice, shaking her head in admonishment. “I hope, for your sake, you never glower at Thea in such a way.” Her shawl fluttered in the night breeze as she placed a hand on her hip. “Soothe your hackles, grand duke. I was thinking, perhaps, that flowers brought you joy. Thea loves roses…”

“Yes,” he said stiffly, “she does.”

Her gaze moved far-too-knowingly between the roses and his person.

He cleared his throat. “I warned you I was not good at conversation.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Let us continue.”

Truly?
He considered summoning Bates…

“Ask me something polite,” she urged. “About the weather, perhaps?”

“We’ve already discussed the weather.”

“Then how about something concerning the monarch’s health?”

He gave her a warning look.

“Very well. Ask me about the arts, then.”

She was never going to go away unless he tried again. He sighed. His gaze traveled to the Broadfield, visible through the glass.

“Do you like music, Lady Randolph?”

“Why as a matter of fact, I do.” A brilliant smile lit her face.

He sent her an incredulous look. “Please stop. Just concede. I am hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless, Your Grace.”

“Indeed?”

She took his arm and turned him toward the window, where just beyond, Thea Marie was nodding graciously as an older woman spoke.

“Indeed,” she answered.

The Furies were trouble. They always had been. But, if he were not mistaken, Lady Randolph was trying to help him mend the rent with his wife. An unlikely ally, but he would take whatever he could get.

He glanced out the corner of his eye. “I hated you.”

“Now there’s conversation,” she said mockingly.

“You gave her a place to go.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I took Thea into my home. She was distraught.”

“I know.” A long, oscillating note of pain followed. “I am trying to thank you.”

“You are,” she paused, “
thanking
me for the thing that elicited your hatred?”

He studied the little vixen. “She is here now.”

“She is.” Lady Randolph cocked her head. “Is she so very changed?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Yet she remains everything she ever was.”

Lady Randolph sighed. “Your conversation improves.” She patted his arm. “And be grateful, Your Grace. Conversation is the first step in courtship.”

Wynchester laughed aloud. “Then God help us both.”

She returned his laugh. He smiled awkwardly.

“I never knew you to be funny, Your Grace.”

“I am not.” He rubbed his chin. “But you are the second one tonight to call me so.”

“I profess myself much relieved,” she sighed. “And now I believe my husband is looking for me.”

“I appreciate the practice, Lady Randolph.”

“Practice is all it will take.” She turned, carefully stepping back into the bright lights of the soiree.

Conversation… He imagined sitting with Thea Marie on the bench and discussing…? Parliamentary votes? Planting schedules? The merits of a morning constitutional?

Good God, he’d become a dullard.

Practice.
Very well, Lady Randolph
. He would try.

What brought Thea Marie joy…besides sending him pointed quips? Music. But he’d already bought her the Broadfield. Roses. But he’d already cultivated this garden. He closed his eyes. He heard she’d been seen driving a high-perched Phaeton through the park. Perhaps a new gig? He frowned. In his experience, women did not find new gigs quite as exciting as men. So what else?

Books, perhaps. She’d come to the marriage with trunks of books. Poetry and novels and travel memoirs. Had they survived the riots? He’d have to consult Bates. He imagined them in the same spot, only this time, he was holding aloft a book and reading. She was leaning back with a small smile playing on her lips.

…Perhaps they could find a place between ruinous sentiment and polite distance, after all.

…

Thea jumped when she felt a touch to her arm outside the upstairs ladies retiring room.

“Sophia!” She would have thrown her arms around Sophia if her stays did not physically restrict such enthusiasm. “Where have you been?”

“You and Randolph were having such a lovely dance.” Sophia’s voice was just a bit too innocent. “So I thought I would take some air.”

Thea made an
unduchess
sound of annoyance. “
I
could have used some air.”

Sophia’s lip turned up. “Is my husband difficult to entertain?”

Thea shook her head no. “Randolph was every inch the gentleman, as was Mr. Harrison. I just grow weary of the crowd.”