The Seduction of a Duke (14 page)

“I’m sorry I wasn’t available to assist you on the ferry, but do not fear,” Hodgins offered. “I won’t leave your side this time.”

William turned and scowled.

“Unless, of course, you require it of me,” Hodgins quickly added.

“I’m not a child, Hodgins,” William muttered, heading for the door. He was too old for such nonsense as hangovers and mal de mer. Damn it, he would simply force his stomach into compliance. That was all there was to it.

At least, until he opened the door and saw coddled eggs and greasy sausage. His stomach turned. “I think just the fruit and toast this morning.”

“Excellent choice, Your Grace.”

Before he could be seated, the door to his wife’s room opened. He straightened, then turned toward the door. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he managed, before he fully assimilated the vision before him.

Her face radiated such elegance and beauty, he thought the confounded morning light was playing tricks. A bit of pride of possession shimmered through him. A man could do worse than greet that face every morning.

She nodded in response. The hint of a mischievous grin barely noticeable on her lips reminded him of her comparable youth that blasted through his morning haze to mock him. Lord, she had been up as late as he writing that blasted letter to her lover. Why didn’t she look as tired as he felt? That thought managed to intensify the pounding at his temples.

His gaze traveled downward from her pert chin and froze on her chest.

“Did your maid not return in time to assist you with your attire?”

Her coquettish smile disappeared the moment her glance caught Hodgins. Strange. Hodgins would shrivel away and die if his actions ever upset a lady. Why would she react in such a manner? He hadn’t much opportunity to contemplate that as she accepted the offered seat immediately across from him.

“Mary arrived early this morning,” she said. “She has such a delightful family. They are bound to miss her while she’s in England.” Her lashes fluttered with forced innocence. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it appears you’ve forgotten part of your wardrobe.”

He waited as his wife refused the cup of coffee offered by Hodgins. She spoke in such a formal tone, one would think she was addressing the Queen. Frosty Franny, she was to be then. That was a relief. It was easier to keep one’s distance from a rose when the thorns exceeded the length of the petals. “We have sufficient time before departure to remedy the situation.”

She glanced down as if to examine herself. “Really?” Her gaze returned to his. “What part?”

He sputtered; surely she couldn’t be serious? “The part that covers your”—he placed his hand on his chest—“virtues.” Confound it! Surely the girl knew the proper way to dress. “As my duchess, there are certain standards of dress—”

She leaned forward slightly, as if to give him a better view.

“My virtues, as you call them, will be even more prominently displayed when I dress for dinner. Why does the sight of them now disturb you so?”

“They don’t disturb me,” he protested, but it was a lie. They disturbed him so that his throat held all the moisture of dry toast. They disturbed him in that they flaunted what he longed to have but was denied. They disturbed him in the thought that other men could appreciate what should be his alone. He took a sip of coffee and felt it burn a path down his gullet. “Perhaps in this country, it is acceptable to flaunt one’s . . . virtues . . . in public. However, in England the standards are higher.”

“We’re not in public, Your Grace.” She took a delicate bite from a piece of toast slathered with butter. The oil cast a sheen on her lips that offered a new temptation—a temptation he felt all the way to his groin.

“This is true, but we soon shall be. We need to travel to the railcar and there’s every possibility that the roads will be lined with well-wishers much as they were yesterday. Trust me, you will want to adjust your attire.”
If only so I can keep my gaze off the attractive cleft between your breasts
, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

She grew quiet, pensive, and pushed her eggs about the plate. The silence added tension to the room rather than detracted. He supposed it was a bit much to expect her to thank him for his advice, but she really did need to understand about the rules of the society she was about to enter. Thank heavens his aunt would be waiting at the abbey to help mold her into an acceptable English lady. He’d have to keep his suspicions of the duchess’s pregnancy to himself, of course. He doubted his aunt would be as generous as he in accepting the bastard child.

The sudden thunderous sound of rain striking the roof overhead pulled both their gazes upward. The storm that had been threatening all morning had arrived.

Francesca’s brows raised, a victorious glint shone in her eyes. “Even if well-wishers wait in the rain, they’ll see a closed carriage roll by.”

His eyes narrowed. Confound the woman, the rain, and all of this unrefined country. Why did everything have to be a battle? It wasn’t that he was asking for some grand sacrifice, just a little show of decency on her part.

“I say this for your own good.” His voice sounded stern to his own ears, but she needed to understand—the sooner, the better. “It is unacceptable for a duchess to be inappropriately attired. If your maid does not know this, I shall secure one for you that is more attuned to the mores of society.”

She gasped. “You’d remove Mary?”

Thunder roared overhead, and he found it necessary to raise his voice to be heard. “If she cannot dress you in a decent and mature fashion, and address you properly as your position deserves, then yes, we’ll leave her behind with her delightful family who won’t have to miss her leaving them after all.”

His head still throbbed from last night’s excesses, and the blasted thunder did nothing to alleviate the pain, nor did this confrontation first thing in the morning. He sipped his coffee, then attempted to modulate his voice in something less than a shout.

“There are many young women, educated in the dictates of the polite world, who would be more than willing to serve in Mary’s stead. A good many indeed. We would have no difficulty in finding a replacement.”

She stilled, and in that moment he could actually see her spirit wither. The mischievous glint in her eyes withdrew. The radiant spark that so impressed him with its freshness and youthful intensity faded.

A three-stone weight dropped in his gut. He’d been too harsh. He wished he could take back the words, modify their impact. He didn’t mean to browbeat the girl, just prepare her for the road ahead, provide her with the necessary resources.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite,” she said, patting her lips with her napkin.

William gained his feet while Hodgins rushed to assist the Duchess. The servant was trained to repress his opinions of his employer, but William felt his unspoken censure just the same. Once the Duchess was on her feet, William signaled Hodgins with a swift glance to the door and the servant wisely took his leave. Francesca turned away.

“No, wait,” he said, quickly rounding the small table to reach her before she found the sanctuary of her room. He grasped her arm so she couldn’t escape. Not that he’d blame her if she tried. “I’m sorry. It was not my intent to hurt you. I’m . . . I’m just concerned that you’re not prepared for the road that lies ahead.”

He wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but he wasn’t sure he’d earned the right.

“Mary wanted me to wear a fichu.” He had to strain to hear her thin voice over the rain. She wouldn’t look at him, she probably couldn’t bear to look at such a monster. He felt lower than the muck at the bottom of the Thames.

“She said to present myself without it was improper. She’s my closest . . . my only . . . I should have listened to her.” She raised her glance up to him, and he promptly decided even the muck was too lofty for him. Unshed tears glimmered in her beautiful eyes, clumping her lush fringe of sooty lashes into spikes that stabbed at his heart. “It was my fault. Please don’t send her away.”

He couldn’t help it. He drew her tight to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She was like a crumpled bird, one that had fallen from its mother’s nest. Was that what he had done? Robbed the nest before this fledgling was ready? He hoped not. Pressing his lips to the delicate shell of her ear, he inhaled the sweet essence of her, the freshness of sun, and wind, and—a smile slipped to his lips—rain. He nuzzled a bit closer and murmured, “Of course, Mary can stay.”

She pushed back, her hands on his forearms. Her gaze urgently searched his face. “She can stay? You won’t change your mind?”

His smile broadened to see the glint return to her eyes. “Yes, she can stay.”

By God, he’d bring her whole bloody family along if it would keep that glow in her cheeks. In fact, he was about to suggest that very thing, when his downward glance got lost in the beckoning valley between her breasts. He cleared his throat and slipped his hands to span her trim waist fortressed by satin and stays. There was safety in knowing so many layers protected him from succumbing to the welcoming flesh beneath. However, the rise and fall of her chest so readily exposed by her lack of covering teased a similar stirring from another part of his anatomy. He cleared his throat, hoping the action would clear his thoughts as well. “Why didn’t you listen to her?” .

She tilted her head, nibbling on her lower lip in consideration. “Is there nothing you find attractive about my person?”

He almost laughed, but she looked so serious. Silly girl! He found far too many attractive diversions about her person. That was the crux of his difficulty.

“I find your eyes most attractive,” he said, pleased to see she responded with a timid smile. “And the elegant shape of your cheekbones will be the envy of all who see you.”

She lifted her gaze, the fire returning to her eyes. “Is that all?”

“I like the pert tip of your nose,” he said with a quick kiss to mark the spot. Which in hindsight might not have been wise, for now she was close, intimately close. He nuzzled his nose down the length of hers, drowning in her sweet, honeyed scent. “And there’s this.”

She must have felt the magnetic attraction that brought him close as she parted her moist lips in anticipation of his kiss. He was tentative, at first, not wishing to frighten her with demands as he had earlier. However, she shifted against him, pressing the length of her close. She met the pressure of his kiss with her own, timid, almost innocent in nature—which he knew without doubt she was not.

A name reared in his head.
My Dearest Randolph.
She was kissing him and thinking of another man. With a groan, he took what was rightfully his. He tightened his hold about her and plundered her mouth with his tongue, seeking to eradicate the taste of another man from her memory. He kissed her again and again, not aware of her response, just the need to rub out any thoughts of another and mark this territory as his own.

He suckled on her lower lip when she pushed hard against his chest, breaking his hold, then stepped back. Her eyes were wide, rounded. She held the back of her hand in front of her lips.

“Wait,” he said, still drugged from the taste of her. He wanted more, needed more. He reached for her, but she stepped back.

“I . . . I must change,” she said, slipping quietly into her room.

The door closed. She was gone.

What the bloody hell did he just do? He banged his fist on the door frame in abject frustration, knocking loose several paint chips. The sound brought Hodgins to the opposite door, but he waved him away.

He knew better. Didn’t he spend hours last night reminding himself of the logic of his plan? Didn’t he determine to stay away from the chit until the proof of his suspicions presented himself? Yet an inexplicable frenzy grabbed control of his mind once he tasted her lips—complete loss of his senses. How could such a thing happen? It certainly had never occurred with Lily, his current mistress, or with any of the other women with whom he’d enjoyed the occasional dalliance.

Randolph. The name burned a path through his brain like one of those acids they’d experimented with at Eton. He was the only explanation for this sudden need of absolute possession. William rubbed his fist and gazed out the window at the slowing rain.

Certainly, it was no secret he was competitive. He had to be. His father had driven him hard to be the best. To be second was to fail. He had accepted that Randolph had left his mark on Francesca before him—unfortunate, but true. Francesca didn’t strike him as overly impetuous but she was, after all, American. He would have been content to treat her as his wife with gentle kindness. But that was before he saw that cursed letter. He could tolerate what had occurred before him, but now that Francesca had joined her name to his, he would not tolerate divided loyalties. He would eradicate Randolph from her thoughts, from her dreams, from her very consciousness, but first he had to gain her trust.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass pane. He’d done a bloody good job of mucking that up as well. He’d terrified the girl with his need to possess. Her rounded panic-filled eyes would haunt his dreams. He’d be lucky if she deigned to speak to him again.

He took a deep breath, letting it calm his racing pulse. Control. It was the only recourse. He was the experienced one. He would guide them safely through this passage. He’d need to rein in his jealousy, of course. Give the girl some distance. Let cooler heads prevail. Let her learn to trust him, especially once the babe in her belly made its presence known.

Patience, control, and especially distance—that would be the plan.